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North Gallery


A river runs through it

An Exhibition of oil Paintings by Stefan Rossouw

7 August 2015 to 19 August 2015

Walkabout:  Saturday 15 August 2015 at 11h00

Stefan Rossouw is an artist with a passion for the art of painting in the grand traditions of the Baroque, Renaissance and Romantic painters.  With this third solo- an exhibition of lyrical images, he dwells deeper into the mystics of light and reflection by focussing on the soft movements and gentle surge of waters.  The river running through becomes a metaphor of man’s  quest for its spirit and soul. Stefan’s works invite meditation and restful thoughts.

Moments of truth

Coming out. Coming out of me. Coming out of me are tears.
Going into the rain… going to places where the tears have always been. The places that store the memory and thoughts for the things we become:
Hold up. Hold tight.
Till the day in the rain when you have to let out.
Get out.
To find the things that we know are true.


The Dreamer

Oh me… let me dream of me in flight!
In shades of what I believe to be is white… and blue. I wish I could fly over rivers, lakes and the sea… finding the ebb that washes in me.  Oh me… let me swing through my head in the clouds.
In the shapes of my being never said thought out a loud. I wish I could hover - now thinking back – over feelings and emotions I’ll never get back.
Oh me… let me have a moment right now.
For we never realise… never realise… never realise:
What this is now.


The flower of age

In the run of time like drops down a window, through the darting of colours transforms not just a body.
Transforms a thought.
Transforms a way of being.
Transforms the possibility of the run of what has become.
A man from a child, a man from the haze
To this new world of touch-line new rules. Lines running down, down the middle, down the sides. Down like the colours of time.
Lines that marks changes… lines in the soul.
Lines that transforms things we thought we know.


Hazy days of summer

As is with water, like under a bridge, this time is gone. With ripples transformed from pictures to the story of my lexicon.
The fragile thoughts are wood from the trees, shaping the spiderweb complexities in the times that seem to be singularities.
Without a care on the inside and walking through the thick music from the box, roping arcs over rivers and spanning the moments that rush by… rushing… unnoticed to a future without answers.
This is a tune silently flowing… towards… when.


Scattered moments

There are no windows here.  No vague mirrored images in time soiled glass that reflects but ghosts.  It’s passed into what is clear.  Remembering the colours that are only black, the single direction the story flows… past. 
There are only shapes here.  Here where the light alives the filling of the feelings inside. The interpretation of bodies that dance over my thoughts, over my skin… oh my skin… inside of me.
There is but scatterlings revolting to be put to understanding.


 
Moments of truth
Scattered moments
Hazy days of summer
The Dreamer
The flower of age
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