Den bor på vor stentrappe. Når vi har gæster kommer den aldrig frem,
modsat Gomorra, naboens kat. Men når den er i godt humør, stikker den hovedet frem,
og for en sikkerheds skyld kun halvdelen af sin lange mørke krop og spiller med sin kløvede tunge.
Skinner solen og det er rigtigt varmt, lader den sig overrumple med hele kroppen slynget om en sten
eller potteplante og falder sløvt ned fra trappen med et dunst. Kan denne svenske naturs mangfoldighed
byttes med Nørrebro’s multikulti, og en dansk bronceskulptur af en dreng og hans ged udenfor døren?

De sidste 2 –3 år har jeg haft udstillinger i Oslo, Fredensborg, Karlskrona og Mumbai, Indien.
I Fredensborg er det med årene blevet til hele 4 udstillinger i Villa Bournonville og nu den tredje
i Galleri Tinghuset.

Her face
In between the layers of paint you come out to look at me. Amazingly your face so much more than a portrait,
changes colour and shape, symbols and moods exploding.
Again I can cover you. Is it you or me who is hiding? I can change form and invent new ideas,
but is it not the eyes looking that bring new life, your eyes or mine it’s all the same.
I wear a turban when I’m there and nothing when here. Seen from outside I’m both this and that and mostly nothing.
It’s good to drink tea.

Darkness covers my lost sun and weather bleached bones, her hair is an ocean all around me.
Gently caressing her face and sensuous body, I feel her red tongue playing with me. She is Kali screaming: ‘Wake up man!’
How good to lie prostrated flat on the ground nose smelling the living earth, before seeing the sun.
I can dream or cut off my head and still be alive. In your embrace I’m born again and again,
each time anew lasting only too short a time. But I know you are hidden in the paint on my canvas, always present.
It’s not a boast, as mostly I’m sleeping and like my tea with milk.