Rubien Cukier’s art pierces the outer shell of mistrust taking you to a place new and old; the inner self. Thoughts clear to seeing, a reality only we can create bending straight to reveal our own attachment to detachment. No end in sight, beginning not yet found, Art’s own importance never clearer.

Light like fire greying blue, fossilised to philosophise; who views who ? Academia as the common man hand in hand aghast, wonder weeping to beginning. A past floats on pedastalled cloud visible to those determined, high for the open eye, shadowed to reliving. Stark realisation of a world watching, our creation fixed, a mystery learnt. Lent to design, taught by technology looking back to that natural, the artist’s only call accepted. Shine in a light and see yourself in its shadow. Step one, believe.

In collective arms the greatest weight rises higher, a new dawn, good in one direction heading. The conversation turned to gold, their own not one day old, worlds fighting against beliefs sown. Above the din, incessant hum of every tongue doubting, listening, shouting, open and immune to the road crumbling. The greatest creation in awe held, unifying masses lost; one light shining on all.

Tomorrow’s dream takes us back to a world not yet born where deserts fly against yellow skies, the self creating a launch pad to the stars. Cuprous shade to beyond, horizon pale lighting white golden. In thought deep, one all giving sending positivity to a world its own, today’s deed everyday, the selfless breathing life into others.

Big sister constructed to design faulted looking down in quiet pity, the city her own, the people her pupils. Nature revealed as technology, wired to unite, the greatest illusion flawed. Built to reveal feeling to half blind believing, hidden fear golden, our own dark goddess weeping.

Silence truly is. Their world over, each shuffle everyday drudgery to another nightmare endless in beginning, talk in sleep lingering. The block’s weight to the brain increases with each forced push, the pen’s struggle consuming. Lost in direction ground by the self, blinded by the might of daily fight, thinking against feeling.

Conveying thoughts lost to trying, with feeling the answer lies.


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1 Comment

  1. Ronald Fischman June 02, at 14:54

    He certainly has perfected those shades of gold! I wonder if that idea is exhausted - his composition style certainly has room for more colors. It might be interesting if the artist develops this kind of fluency in another color, to see some twins in other colors.


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