Max Ernst
The Forest King Who Painted With Birds
I rub the world to see what ghosts emerge.
I scrape the unconscious with graphite, press chaos into bloom with glass and paint. My hands are stained, my mind ever wandering the edges of reason. Leonora and I built a world from brushstrokes and myth—our own escape from war and sense. I do not shout manifestos; I let the materials speak. Loplop watches. I listen.
What I'm Into: frottage, Loplop, bird calls at dusk, Parisian fog, decaying wood
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