150 x 225. 2006, Oil on Canvas

My Taste for apotheosis is unfortunately in conflict with an amniotic melancholy, which darkens any solar impulses and throws into disorder any apollonian ambitions. 
This Saturn, instead of an ageing Apollo, suffers more than he orders the derangement of a scene erupting between artifice and setting sun.
Only Saturn's precious and philosophical stone, like a turgescent lingam, outlines positively the vital and primitive principle, which springs out of the elements.

But alas, a crepuscular fatigue drives my brush and my dreams towards an emollient final petrification.