Fictional Fragments from Amanda Boulos
Paired with Recent Paintings
I often, somewhat jokingly, say that artists shouldn’t write about their own work. Or at least, they shouldn’t have to. The eye of the viewer is better suited to formulate ideas, theories, and didactic explanations than an artist who is too close to the work.
Amanda Boulos is an exception to this rule. The fictional fragments that accompany her paintings elevate the work into a dreamlike category, inviting the viewer into the world of Amanda’s mind. The paintings are slow and meticulous, and looking at them feels like crawling through a wormhole and getting lost. When you walk out of the gallery after viewing Amanda’s work, it’s as if a piece of you was left behind in the canvas and is still wandering around. Lost, but content.
Amanda’s writing, which you can read below, is a continuation of this sensation.
Big Eyes
I couldn’t see anything in those dark, dense woods, so I forced my eyes to grow. As they grew I noticed the ducks in the pond, they were so friggin’ cute. But with these growing eyes, I also saw things I didn’t want to see, like the sharp whites of the night and the little mites munching on dead trees and plants. I decided to make my eyes grow even bigger, and so these little disturbances became insignificant. Now I could only see the things that floated in the waters of my eyes, I was so darn distracted. Like a child watching a mobile spin, those little fluffs put me right to sleep.
My Own Hands
Change who you are. Forget your old self and be someone new. Who cares about all the hard work you put into becoming the person you are now. Your experience last night proves that all that hard work means nothing. The people around you will forgive you for changing, for being someone they disapprove of, for making them feel like you took something away from them. You are unhappy. So, tear up those to-do lists, the yearly goals, those old photos filled with memories of who you are and who you want to be and start over. I am asking…no, telling you to set me free, now.
Vision
Honestly, I need you to protect my vision: with your presence lurking in the corners, my eyesight will always be sharp. So please put me between your legs and wind me up with your web, and most importantly stay near me until darkness falls.
Painting is Dead
I want painting to be dead so we can hold a vigil for it. Some would claim that it is already, that we are admiring the dead. We try giving painting a second life by putting it in people’s palms, backlit and shiny, but still, it passes by too quickly and continues to die in the artist’s studio, in a gallery’s storage, in a collector’s closet. I think its death is healthy. We need painting to die for us to move forward and find something better. I prefer to work with painting as a carcass, so something can grow out of it and inside of me. We need to allow painting to pass peacefully, so it can become a thing of nostalgia, a constant in our lives. Like the dead mother that lingers within the child.
Right to Return
What if every member of the Palestinian Diaspora returned home suddenly on April 7, 2022? If we travelled through the Mediterranean for nine days with our pets and tote bags, would it be romantic enough for us to avoid violence? My mother would pack our ships with everything we needed for the nine-day journey: canned food, fishing rods, and fresh linen. She would make sure that everyone was well dressed, and she’d even do all of our hair. When I think about how many Palestinians live outside of Palestine I can’t help but think that we are like Jinns roaming the world: some think us evil, some think us good, but we are neither. Some think us half-animal, some think us half-ghost, but we are both. We have become such different people in our new homes. My mother would be standing there with a million pieces of luggage at the door, flipping through her Rolodex of prayers to pick out the perfect one for the journey.
The Moth
The moth knows that a spiritual Jerusalem is dead. So she follows two pulsing lights, gauging every second which to follow. The light on the left may relieve fear, the other may provide sustenance. There is no known path, just an instinct that makes her waver between these two directions.
The moth’s warm black-haired back carries everything she needs for the journey: clinging like parasites, there are a couple of gold coins with olive branch engravings, a couple of number two’s, a heart, some dates freshly picked for snacking, and some sweet syrup in a glass container. With these items she takes the road to Jordan most likely, Beirut possibly, but eventually lands on Turtle Island far to the west.
The Duck
The duck seems idle as it moves across the river, its bustling webbed feet invisible under the glistening surface. When I menstruate, I am that duck floating seemingly still and unbothered. But just under the surface my webs are swooshing and vibrating, creating a current that permeates my surroundings. It pushes and pulls everything towards and away from me, but those around me ignore its power (strength?). They’re too distracted by the water’s glistening, blinding reflections, further deceived by my still body.
