history ink

I wish someone would’ve just sat me down, five years ago, ten years ago even, and told me how much growing up would feel like digging my soul out of my body by teaspoons and burying it.
—  from an unfinished story #810

Now on display at the wonderful Antler Gallery in Portland for the “Unnatural Histories V” exhibition:

“Pigeon Gryphon”, 2016, Ballpoint Pen, Ink Pencils, Colored Pencils, Graphite and Gel Pen on Multi-media Paper, 15.5 inches by 19.25 inches (19.5 inches by 23.25 inches framed)

Please contact me or Antler Gallery at antlerpdx@gmail.com for any and all questions about this piece and this exhibiton

You make me feel like I’m worth something. But I don’t want that. I don’t want to only be able to feel okay when I’m with you. I want to be happy by myself, before I’m happy with you.
—  from an unfinished story #689

Foreign poets 
are hotter,
because we know war,
we are born with war, 
we are the war. 
Our poetry has 
the deepest roots. Perhaps, 
the ugliest, the most delicious. 
The sharpest accent. The most
heartbreaking metaphors. 

First generation, second generation, 
and you would still feel 
the agony the white men left
in our grandfathers’ skin. 

And dare me,
I lick my fingers 
and I  eat your European 
food with pride my darlings, 
for our spices made 
your countries.

—  My Grandfathers Own Europe from The Immigration Series by Royla Asghar 

Jackson Pollock, Untitled, Ink on paper, c. 1950