Red Wine

Red Wine, 2016, acrylic, Mylar, 48x72

I remember my friends, who I don't get to see too often, at a party, cradling their wine glasses. I see them so seldom that sometimes I wonder if I have invented them altogether. Why someone, who is my friend doesn't want to get in touch with me, and why do I call a friend someone who doesn't want to see me? Maybe everything, all the life outside me, is my invention, and my paintings are the only real thing. On another hand, how can I tell that my paintings are real, if they never leave the Cave, my art studio? Things can be called real only if more that one person agrees that they are, so it is easy to see why neither my friends nor my paintings are real. Reality is shared, and what is not shared is called fantasy.