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"Cut Bodies" A series of hyperrealistic paintings by Fabio Magalhães. Magalhães wants his works to be on the borderline of picture and painting, which creates a parallel, distorted reality that makes viewers question what is real and what is not.
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PARK SEONGHWA WAS a man who did not need grace, for he had created his own archetype of languid movements and tasteful gestures. He was a man who smelt like the sun, those who met him reveled in the warmth of his phosphorescent refinement much like the star that he was; it was in his name, after all.
Seonghwa looked to the Han River and watched glitter dance on its translucent dermis. He came here often during high school — a troubled youth he was — but the memories tasted like dementia on his tongue when he tried to recall his days of lemon spills in the eyes as his wails fell upon the water-clogged ears of Hangang. Sometimes, he felt like the river still called out to him, saying, "When your stream of consciousness is flooded with the plague of your minds thoughts, dive into me."
Seonghwa had his first confession at his church earlier today, but, in the bitter start, he realized pleading for remission wouldn't suffice for his misdeeds (and it's not like God didn't know what he did; he was his witness). So, at the end of yet another Sunday ritual, Seonghwa went home and opened his phone book so he could call Choi San and settle these out-dated matters. The aforementioned agreed to the meeting, and now Seonghwa braved the pavements of Seoul with white roses in hand.
Though he was never one to wish on shooting stars, Seonghwa was starting to believe there was a chance for chances, and today was his redemption arc.
Strolling down the residential backroads, Seonghwa caught sight of a young man struggling to carry a haul of groceries, and he didn't think twice about jogging over to the stranger's vehicle to offer his services. "Excuse me, would you like some help?" There were lavender comforts lathered in his tone, like wind chime melodies of feathered greens eddying across a tender spring.
The man's eyes widened at his unprecedented appearance, but he quickly settled for a courteous smile. "Oh! Yes yes, thank you!" With indebted glee, the stranger gave half of the hefty load to Seonghwa before shutting the trunk. "I live on the twelfth floor of this building right here. I hope you don't mind."
"Not at all."
They entered the building and exchanged some inconsequential banter on the elevator ride up. Turns out him and the man named Pluto were classmates back in high school, but they never crossed paths until now.
When Pluto unlocked the entrance to his studio apartment, Seonghwa marveled at the collage of canvases being illuminated by the sunset magic of a drunken summer evening, not noticing that his bouquet had escaped from his clutch. "Oh my goodness, these are beautiful."
"Thanks, I made them myself."
"You're an artist?"
"Yep, that's why I have these useless arms that can't even carry a couple grocery bags." Pluto raised his arms for emphasis which made Seonghwa chuckle. Pluto nodded over to the kitchen aisle, "You can put the bags over there. I'll be back." He instructed before disappearing into the hallway.
