Cataractopolis

The first painting completed this year: Cataractopolis, oil on board, 90 x 90 cm.
The trail stretched for kilometers through empty hills, covered with dry grass swaying in the wind. I walked alongside a rushing stream, its waves crashing violently against the boulders jutting out above the water. Only when I heard a growing, bass roar and the ground began to tremble underfoot did I realize I was approaching a waterfall. Rocks slowly emerged from the thick fog poured by a foaming cascade. As I drew closer, I noticed buildings, towers, and palaces carved into the rock. Then I understood: this city wasn't built by the waterfall. It was built for it.

The elements rolled through monumental gates, flooded the stone steps, and burst into the empty sockets of windows, washing over the walls without anger, but also without mercy. In the sunlight, above a cloud of watery mist, a rainbow appeared—pale, uncertain, like a sign given only to those who had made it here. I thought of the people who had built this city: small against the rocky blocks, even smaller against the element of water, yet brave enough to call this place their home. I didn't know if the city was inhabited, or if it merely preserved the memory of its inhabitants in its cornices, bay windows, and portals. I only knew that I had arrived in a city in constant need of cleansing, even if that meant partial destruction, the flooding of rooms, the subsidence of waterlogged floors, and the smoothing of ornate facades by falling water.