Fuego III

FUEGO III

GREATEST HITS

1

© All work courtesy of Artist Kofi Boamah

2

"FUEGO III"

Greatest Hits

Kofi Boamah

artworks & journal entries

3

4

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

introduction

a painting in words

...candles burning in eyes flashing with phosphorus light,

as if wool covering eyes with eyelids tattooed with rain

drops, sunlight... soothing thoughts about water before

eyes open to see mouths distorted, eyes bigger than the

other, heads as if skulls, lips hanging to loose shards of

air... Picasso's mouldy fruit from le damesoil on the edge

of the table... Gauguin's yellow Christ crystallised like

Hunter S. Thompson in Fear And Loathing... dreams

escaping thoughts or thoughts escaping dreams... the

sweet getaway of a pleasure in a dream... seeing birds...

cages... voodoo ceremonies... an octopus feverishly

mating... breasts draped and speaking their own words:

worlds within soft tissue...

§

most of these words are from journals i've kept

throughout the years: unedited ideas that spring at

random times like noises on a nightbus: shouts from the

abyss turned into poetry, but then again what is poetry if

it isn't a painting in words? if it isn't that authentic shit

that spews out after a few... or happens when days go past

photograph: Gavin Li

5

without sleep... words had when psychosis has hit like a

windstorm... where does the mind go??? when time spirals into

one form: Caravaggio over Biggie Smalls, Rubens over

Ghostface Killah, Picasso nodding his head to a Wiley track...

calcium behind muted lips tending towards an imagination:

fiction and reality oscillating on a precipice... such a deep,

alternative nature, it seems... so I then stripped a mango of its

skin, and cut slices onto a wine-burgundy coloured plate... the

juices dripped down my right leg onto the floor and produced a

small puddle... Just as this was happening a kiwi fruit was being

mistreated in a small village in Mangalia, Romania — by a

woman called Petrovia Christi, she squished the kiwi fruit in

her hand and blurted out the words; it's too big!

6

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

writing notes in between paintings, writing on paintings, writings

that become paintings: thoughts spiraling into the world at a pacy

rate of knots... voices in head sat on a bed of lettuce... actions from

thoughts:

geronimo

cat-call

yellow teeth

Jesus' erection

La Scream:

Even the most stoic individual has a sensitive spot: an issue, a basis

for fear to grow. This notion is a variation of that which critic James

Wood coined: Hysterical Realism. This relates to the ideas

surrounding prose, mainly, of absurd characterisation, on one hand,

and careful detailed investigations on the other. The term was mostly

used to describe Zadie Smith’s White Teeth.

I have taken this idea and perspective and utilised it in painting.

Perhaps a similar London upbringing to Zadie Smith has allowed for

7

similar ideas to flow. Therefore, paintings are peopled with

long necks, large elaborate teeth, bulging eyes, and then offset

with abstract forms too. Someone is nearly always screaming.

Why it could be asked?

The answer to that question is complex but oscillates between

the feeling of that which lies beneath and that which usually

goes unsaid: tears at fallen last pieces of bread, disappointed

stares at a spouse, getting caught in the rain. Our feelings

reign over the taste of the mundane.

8

9

10

'after Caravaggio's Judith & Holofernes', 2019

11

12

'a study of Caravaggio's Salome with Head of John the

Baptist (1609-10) over Biggie Smalls'

2019

13

14

'Mona Lisa without teeth', 2019

15

Picasso's Guernica...

…droplets of water caressed the edges, the wine-red rug

next to the bed sat under a dimly lit light-bulb emanating a

distilled yellowish light, the sounds of water making a pitapata

sound, the screen housing the 1971 Alain Robbe-

Grillet film L' Éden et après, that is muted. A cold breeze

simmering through the slightly ajar window with the

droplets caressing an old black and white photograph: in it

a laying woman with her face turned away is wearing no

underwear and just a white blouse on a bed under a

painting of Picasso’s Guernica, on the dressing table rests a

gun, which seems cliché to be sat next to a Bible, but here

we are—the juxtaposition of eternity in the rather obvious

metaphor, the remnants of mango peel resting against

Bible pages as if a sound vibrates the voices of disgruntled

persons dying in the rain, a clown’s death at the hands of

strangers distilled silence, oceans of nothingness after a sea

of dreams—unused leather straps at the edge of the bed

resting like memories never had, pita pata pita pata...

note written — Paris, 2018

16

central Medina

the apartment had a door that I feel absurd to forget, brass

knuckles, like poetry in physical form. but bare with the

thought, I then thought, as restless as it may be the sounds

of all the comings and goings: on the street, Saudi type on

the settee, ornamental furniture, though not the elite stuff,

it was more low-key, perhaps... tv or radio on, or maybe it

was something else, the memory is a 'shitty' thing. If you

don't learn to forget, it saunters: residual fuzz, all

melancholic and brolic. though besides, I'd rather listen to

the Sky...

note written — 2016, Tangier

17

18

'Beauty Will Be Convulsive or not at all - Sketch', 2013

19

20

21

'Drunken Silenus supported by Satyrs over Coltrane', 2019

22

23

'Boamah a la Cezanne', 2019

24

25

26

27

28

'voodoo ceremony in Congo', 2019

29

30

'one for Picasso', 2019

31

32

'after Ann Quin's Berg', 2019

33

paintings, paintings — paintings

Ukraine in the news, amongst other stuff, i still felt cold,

you wouldn't wish this feeling, honestly, without trying to

paint the perfect picture I'd rather just move on, hang up the

phone and redial... /associates/ just keep coming and going,

and then there's all the keeping the faith business, moved

from the balcony, laughing... hysterics & mania...

...but all I wanted to do was finish what I was doing, this

painting wouldn't get done by itself. Painting the hand and

gun just seemed all types of mayhem, just moving about...

note written — London, 2019

34

juicy juice still juicing

note written — Hamburg, 2016

35

36

'ode to Baselitz', 2018

37

long stares at an Ostrich...

he chiselled away at my thing, and they say hand but I'd

called it whatevs, for me it was a case of numbness: a

total cold...

pursed lips all shrewd and wound up — mounted on the

edge of a precipice... ocean blue string leaking out of

sweater... last night i fucked a lesbian i met on Dalston,

Kingsland Road... the sixteenth person i'd been with...

as if reincarnated the tint of existence slightly skewed

now to new angle...

note written — 2016, London

38

lost in Paris & Toulouse

all i had were the clothes on my back... i'd arrived in a haze of

mania induced stupor... days into nights, nights into daze...

loose fabric of ideas shifting (in retrospect) though at the time

very concrete: I must get to Menilmontant... leave the thirty

euros in the pocket of the homeless woman on the street

corner... her teeth singed on the psyche...

though eventually i make it to Toulouse, long bus ride where

five-o had questioned me about what I was doing in France... I

reluctantly told them my name and that I was a painter... they

looked as if I had just fucked their wives: all rancid and fat off

donuts... or croissants — same thing... some type of flâner? where

is your luggage? shrugs... apparently I had a bad attitude... i kept

thinking of the word: papillon, how beautiful the word is, I

thought, the sky eaten up by blue with white clouds and

papillon dancing around us...

Toulouse is full of protests... a friend's boyfriend lends me

some money and a jacket... the mania has subsided into chats

over Chinese foods, though one evening i begin to walk

aimlessly through Toulouse: past jugglers at traffic lights, cafe

Ginette, and hear the words: feint cries whilst she sat naked... i

saw the mania in a person i had never seen: creating painting of

an icy woman saunters for the rest of the night... i kept seeing

faces from Toulouse & Paris...


39

40

41

'faces from Paris & Toulouse', 2019

42

'Marxist Tropes', 2019

43

44

45

'Rodney King Keeps Happening (Donuts)', 2016 — 2019

'instigations of Deleuze', 2016

46

47

'the Congolese Clowns at Night', 2019

48

49

50

51

52

'old master over Wiley's 'Igloo', 2019

53

54

'after Otto Dix (Odd Couple)', 2019

55

56

'skull after Dubuffet', 2019

57

'five-0 & Donuts', 2019

58

'blackface', 2019

59

paintings, paintings, paintings II

so here we are... shadows dancing... the caress of moods,

feelings dismounting under memories of others: memories i

know i feel numb, though memories... anyway, the chain root

of optics, nerves, feelings... still feel numb, numb, numb...

sounds emanating whilst paint is splattered onto wood,

though soon caressed too: remembering the love affair with

figures in colours, with abstract forms dragged out of the

spirit as if resting on the other side of the pillow... i moved

back and stepped on something furry, bare feet against life: a

small pussy had crept in through the open balcony door and

was now staring up at me screaming: this pussy aint free! or

perhaps that was the Kendrick playing...


60

embarrassing thoughts on a bus in Tangier

prayers, casual glances at sheep, the vehicle moving towards

the metropolis, I remember, and I wouldn't quote the kid on

this, but the call to prayers were sounding and I was out on a

limb, though still numb... she said i look like a sack of meat,

bloodshot eyes along dusty roadsides—psychosis in a foreign

land...

note written — 2016, London

61

62

63

64

'Rubens over Ghostface Killah', 2019

65

66

67

68 'Adam & Eve in the Garden', 2018

69

'After Goya & Bernhard's Glenn Gould Came Her On Wood Grain...

(Music Be the song of life, so sing on?)', 2014

'

70

71

72

73

Artist's Door entitled: 'Huxley's Door'

'Playing an Invisible Piano Naked', 2014

74

75

76

77

78

'Daphnis At War with Pholus (the world's a stage)', 2019

79

wired thoughts on Kingsland Road

depleted thoughts suspended and then transfixed on the

ecstatic: the exuberance of the moment—flaying arms... gums

appearing out of nowhere... a riot with cars streaming by...

vodka drunk on a trip from Chernoe to Kupavna... the

elucidating of a paranoid mind up from endless nights of nonsleep

with paint dripping off blue jeans...

...moving from dungeon to Kingsland Road I think it's

Wednesday but it's really Friday: nighttime lingers around

bones where thirty minutes before I had been reading Bible

quotes from a large Bible sat in the living room: Jesus over a

Wiley beat, sifting through a dreamlike state—convinced that

the black sky would fall... then painting as if the sky would not

be there tomorrow...


80

fuego, fuego

Palm trees blew in the wind, whilst fragments of sound

emanated out of the broken family jukebox: a Mexican song that

Maria couldn’t place. She then changed the subject from the

song to the dead body radiating a coldness into the hot living

room. Subjected to a degree of chaos unsurmountable to

reason, Maria started to dance, a real jig: it was one constipated

by death, but isn’t a dance a dance?

note written — Paris, 2018

81

82

83

84

85

86

'am i in the zoo or in the Louvre', 2019

87

88

89

90

91

92

'anarchy, riots, wine', 2019

93

94

'READING

THE BIBLE

HIGH, DAVID

ENDED UP

WITH AN

ERECTION',

2019

95

'Untitled (Murderer in blue suit on a blue bench at night)', 2016

96

97

'Howl II', 2016

98

99

'Brussels Brothel', 2019

100

101

'portrait with arms', 2019

102

103

'Death (after Karel Appel)', 2019

104

105

106

'elements of Climate Change', 2019

107

108

109

110

'The Beauty of Woman (After Kafka's Dictum)', 2014

111

112

'inner turmoiled Priest', 2019

113

114

'Queen Marina of Spain Screaming', 2019

115

salsa verde—the reckonings

actiones secundum fidei

the dust on the windowsill speaks of an abyss: forms of

abandonment knotted up in specs of time, congealed by

absence—"death’s voice” vibrating in specs sitting against glass,

metal. Nostalgia wrapped around decay: fingers touching metal

after panic attack; the procession of sanity confronted amongst

a show of people looking on. Tired eyes at the window looking

out onto the same views that house Guernica, but illustrate a

slower world: doors knocked on, milkmen, busy libraries, big

back televisions…

116

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Le Rêve — Part 01

A Balustrade Leading To Snow

Maybe I should start off with something about the rain. The

wetness in the sky produced a melancholy... The blue water

falls like Magritte’s raining men... The cold glisten of water

parades the mysteries of the world... Though now that I am

looking at these sentences, I find that I have not been true, as

I am mostly just concerned with the thought of Lucia: I find

it quite disturbing for a beautiful woman to be suicidal and to

commit the act.

In the late summer of last year Lucia decided to venture out

of the City Centre to an Exhibition of a Brazilian Artist, Lydia

Fernanda. I had heard of Fernanda a few years previous from

Vameer, but had not been tempted to visit this exhibition

initially. It consisted of photographs documenting Fernanda

cutting half her right index finger off, and a film too

depicting a scene that has Fernanda crying and dancing, and

then dancing and then crying again. It’s all shot in what she

described as a “lo-fi style” interspersed with poetry that she

had said she had written. Penetrating like sex, shapeless though

as if the wind. The Gallery owner didn’t once declare the

happenings as anything but groundbreaking, and I could

perhaps see why, but the effect on Lucia highlighted a

myriad of issues that sound over that of where I am sat,

117

118

119

'recurring Dream', 2019

120

121

122

123

'Female Nudes II', 2014

124

125

126

'Ode to Rembrandt', 2016

127

'self portrait with picture of Van Gogh', 2019

128

129

'how I feel hungry', 2017

130

'both chopped', 2019

131

132

133

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Le Rêve — Part 02

ironically, given the position I sit in, but perhaps I could say

something else? Regardless of telling lies or “fictions” a

translucent sheath covers all words and actions if they’re

looked at enough—a child telling lies only merely covers the

obvious alternative reasons: that they want attention, that

they’re bored and so on and so forth.

Though it seemed tragic that Fernanda would happen to be

there, that moment, that day that Lucia exited the station

walked slowly as she would have, and entered the Gallery

very much like a walking Sophie Podolski, or actually

perhaps I shouldn’t include literary figures… no the past

haunts just like the future and the present, though the past

interchanges as each moments pass, if looked at carefully

and sanctions the present. As if an open reverie Lucia

walked around the Gallery in awe of all the works: the

photographs, the poetry, the film. And then the walking

embodiment of all these things: the artist. And Fernanda, I

thought, is what could be explained as one of those

emotionally gloopy persons: heavy textured though baring a

beautiful smile, a Brazilian smile with all the trimmings:

shapely figure, perfect teeth, white Brazilian skin, overeducation.

Volatile beneath a veneer, Lucia was perhaps

ready to pray at an altar that was more than ready to be

prayed upon: an emerging fine artist is very much an owl:

looking around for a congregation. Heavy gusts of wind…

Sounded her poetry perhaps, or at this point I should

134

reintroduce the rain? A metaphor for the rain or an allegory,

even though both are rather vulgar ways of introducing an idea

to someone: this confusion is very perceptible, especially in

Vameer’s writing, though he didn’t see it this way. He saw

things from a different and enchanted perspective, and one

that consumed Lucia from that day. Of notions relating to Art.

Going back home to tell Vameer of Fernanda and all her ways

as if Anaïs Nin’s words of living twice were put into practice, I

imagined her diary full of adjectives to describe Fernanda, and

seems to me to be downright nonsensical, I thought, but to her

would come across as romantic, I thought when Vameer told

me of what had occurred. I think I heard myself say something

to the effect of: Shadows have bodies that sometimes don’t resemble

their shadows. Or maybe I said something else as poetic: A

Balustrade leading to snow. I don’t remember. Though the smell

of mango wafted into my nostrils and governed me

momentarily.

note written —Marrakesh, 2017

135

136

Nighttime mounts, as if Moscow and the snow falls, repeating

mantras, cold stares at death. It's a total shitstorm, all the

above, I thought, movies on in the background where I'd

opted for Wedding Crashers (cheer myself up a little after a

word from W...) I moved towards the balcony and started to

think about days gone by, rhymes, beats, things that brought

back an ounce of feeling. Long stares at the thing...

A day later I found myself starring in the mirror, the yellow

hue and slight charcoal Blackness of the reflection amounted

to all types of thoughts, as if I had to name all the /associates/,

consistency got me thinking however. Stick with the

associates they know about all the stuffs pertaining to what

I'm going on about. I got a voicemail, an associate calling

about where I had been before the night before. Music

playing: a crescendo of sex, something like Moroccan music,

or perhaps Algerian, though I'd settle with the thought that

the music was escaping my grasp, memories distort, fabric,

days in Northern Africa reminded me: long singular elements

of... wait a minute, I thought: that random artist guy in

Tangier was all about the warnings, they'd do this, they'd do

that... I just felt numb...

note written — 2016, Barcelona & London edited. 2019

137

138

139

'Froth on the Daydream', 2019

'Kidnapping God', 2014

140

141

'December Portrait', 2014

142

143

'female Christ', 2019

144

'(Jesus & Magadelene) ode to de Kooning [Hysterical Realism]', 2016

145

'three headed personage again', 2019

146

147

'old Couple (Amsterdam II)', 2019

148

'Disembodied Youth (After Miró)', 2016

149

150

the insane therapist — diary entry

23 / 02 / 2018

· Talk in a child’s voice about buses 38, 180, 136 and 55. And

use a framing device to be the patients friend in childhood

incidents that still bothered them...

· Make a huge tepee hut out of blankets and furniture to then

get in and discuss agoraphobia with a patient...

· Act out a scene where I was the patient, and the patient the

Doctor...

· Diagnose walks in the Park...

· Listen to Ravi Shankar in the middle of a session to get the

depressive patient to dream of more exotic surroundings and

things they have yet to see...

· Act out a nightmare a patient was having as realistically as

possible to gauge the recondite truth that these ideas are

created by the mind...

· Talk about a bird as if a tree...

· Paint pictures of unicorns...

· Speak to a patient under a white sheet...

· Act out a dream involving a wizard woman covered in a

brown sheet...

· Sympathetically read a short story of a patient enthused

with “fears of laughter”...

· Imitated playing a piano naked...

· Took a banana, stuck it in my ear and said DADA...


151

'Nietzschian Wonder', 2019

152

153

'the insane therapist', 2019

the understated drama of amulets

the thick crescendo of silence

the ambiance of neglected thoughts

the taste of banana caught between teeth

candlelit dinners with spouses secretly having affairs

a slap on a Tunisian beach

note written — Delhi, 2018

154

Ladydays — (Flowers as Decisions)

I left Alex waiting for me, as I felt anxious. Attacks can take the

form of many disparate acts as if sudden palpitations can arise

out of the blue. In the hotel I stood in the doorway and then

walked towards the window. I had started to pace without truly

realising this. The room started to feel smaller now, like a tomb,

all claustrophobic. The words of Jean Genet came to me at the

same time as I paced:

What we need is hatred. From it our ideas are born.

I think I hated, though was this enough to fuel me?

I then heard the door knock, and it was unexpected. I saw

through the peep hole. The group. I restarted my pacing and

was soon now sweating, whilst the door was being knocked on

extremely loudly. Loud heavy knocks. Thoughts of my sex came

to mind, the flippant nature of its arousal. I want to do what I

want, I thought. But I had no real idea what that was at this

time. Regardless, I felt like being stubborn, until the phone

rang. I knew I was being forced to answer the door or the

phone. One or the other, but not both.

I decided that I would answer the door.

Distinct Loss of Concentration

155

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Maria kept asking how the trip was and I could only answer

with the abstract words: One door opens… as Maria liked to

talk (the sound of her own voice) she failed to notice the

weighted quality of the words. The passage of time. It was

only time that set all things apart, though confusingly it is

the thought that time consists in parallel form and all that is

happening is happening now. Now seems too considerable,

I thought as the car drove. You wouldn’t want to break a

perfectly good situation, said Maria, like Rimbaud’s broken

clock.

The car passed a fast food restaurant and I yearned

momentarily. The thought that food could orchestrate a

thought away, still very much alluring. Maria didn’t notice,

she was always too concerned with something. I often

thought that Maria had the antidote to depression, but to be

vapid in ways that I consider absurd would be a step too far,

I thought. Besides, it wasn’t as if I was totally bereft of

happiness, no it was just that that happiness was very much

in lieu of consequences, repercussions.

And Alex had been so sincere, so sweet since it happened a

month ago. A suicide attempt is no joke, but all the

leverages that amounted to those acts could not be brought

up. Too juicy, too lacking any sort of discipline.

I thought long and hard about why I preferred certain

sexual escapades but can only come up with the idea that all

sex has to have some form of grit, I thought. Then again,

156

gangbangs can be quite salacious in the eyes of many. I refrain

from thinking such thoughts, I thought whilst Maria

mentioned her Bob. Something about him not liking oral sex.

The derelict abuse of sex is very much the thought that

occasions into my being much of the time, I measure against

the beliefs of benefits, meditating notions. O I was guilty, that

was clear. But it was a guilt that I could only truly see in Alex’s

eyes, out of sight out of mind.

Maria asked whether I wanted to have dinner the next night.

With her and Bob and I just said no. I gave no reason, and she

seemed to be fine with that. I assumed a suicide attempt can

make one look selfish.


157

'Another one for Gorky', 2019

158

159

'sketch for rendition of Autumnal Cannibalism', 2018

160

'Dalí's lesbian food sex (after Ensor)', 2019

161

'drop lick', 2019

162

'the human savagery of a naked Refugee on a boat — sketch', 2018

163

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA


naked black female saxophonist at Nazi party (Naima), 2019

A myriad of elements influence painting, for me. It’s all

wrapped up in a world view doused in synergy, seeing things in

other things. There’s a stream of consciousness running

parallel to the pragmatic aspects of a good painting. This is

where the intelligent spectator lives. They sit and consider the

art and allow it to come to a consensus, of course based around

an historical perspective of art and painting too. Here with this

painting I wanted to suggest a few things simultaneously:

having been reading Philip K. Dick’s ‘The Man in the High

Castle’ I started to wonder what if too? This painting, for me, is

set in this world of the Nazi party overtaking North America,

perhaps the specific location could be the historically musical

and black New Orleans, controversially. This is where I’d

imagined such a scene could occur. A black female saxophonist

perhaps in an underground Jazz bar exploited, hence the

metaphorical and literal nakedness, which brings the painting

back into the actual day. Sometimes paintings are not depicting

164

a literal scene and in this case the illusions are paramount to the

figurativeness: the crowd consists of four onlookers, one tellingly

with a Nazi sign on their blue Jacket. This is perhaps a

representation for the state of how I sometimes feel about art: a

sort of humorous nativity towards disgust. I feel the spotlight on

the saxophonist adds an important narrative too, along with the

blackness of the canvas and the way the black has been painted

on the canvas a bit like black rain, swipes upwards, downwards…

It has a lot of drama in the canvas, similar to a Georg Grosz

painting in its brutality, but somewhat Basquiat in its messiness.

Like an attitude of: it’s finished. I’d imagine there lies some

Picasso here to, as his marks have such a considerable impact on

any young painter, even if they’re disliked. Picasso was there. But

looking at this large canvas I can see more for painting, which

harkens to George Condo’s perspective of Artificial Realism. I

feel a painting like this strikes you as although it is imaginary,

there is enough realism in the painting to render it believable,

which some could find disturbing. But that is what the very best

art does: contribute to conversations, illustrate wild realities etc.

165

'naked black female saxophonist at Nazi party (Naima)', 2019

166

'the human savagery of a naked refugee on a boat', 2019

167

'Portrait of Roberto Bolaño', 2017

168

169

'Portrait of Tash Caesar', 2018

'invisible man on highstreet', 2019

170

171

'the prisoners (Marxist Tropes)', 2019

172

'the raw meat eaters', 2019

173

'Boamah a la Bonnard', 2019

174

'bdsm scene mixed with taking of Christ', 2019

175

'white Nigga II', 2019

176

'the angry professor', 2019

177

178

179

180

'Untitled (She Was a Little Upset)', 2014

181

self portrait in a coffee shop

Sometimes insanity does prevail, and the sporadic bowels of

it sing a melody from a certain perspective of there being

light there. Though it can certainly be true that the darkness

is as apparent too, amidst the frail winds of a sunny day,

there remains a resistance to any sort of light. The subtle

capacity to reduce things down however plays into the

simplistic feeling. I avoid the simplistic feeling. There, things

lie dormant in ways that amount to nothing. To live deep in

the mystery and to deepen the mystery of existence.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

And I thought all of this, scribbling down these notes in the

coffee shop, where two men sat coercing each other out of

their sullen moods with words, though they barely touched

one another I could feel their closeness from across the

room. Where I sat close by to an old man with a black and

golden Alsatian. A psyche very much heightened now and

awake, for I hadn’t slept for a few days, each moment seemed

to spring from a lucid mouth. Sipping coffee with occasional

stares at the two men and then the man with the dog, my

reverie was entangled in being where I was and the thoughts

in my mind.

The oily remnants of thoughts balancing and

counterbalancing—the whole world a mad house. At odds

with qualms remaining on amnesia. Desire caught by the tail.

Though in its place leaves of fear, corrupted by the usual

182

monotony of emotions. That pure feeling is very much one

that fails to enliven, most often, I thought. At the counter

nails bitten display the usual commonplace anxiety. The

subtleness of rain falls against the window with cars

speeding by, whilst a murder happens somewhere on the

face of the planet, a rape... Perhaps harsh as that may be the

poetic nature of life lies there somewhere. The Alsatian

barks at another entering customer.

The deep melancholic feeling of saturated insanity is a

feeling that comes and goes, I thought, pouring more sugar

in the coffee. The hue so multicoloured and layered that the

colours are as if a Max Ernst Painting, luminous and bright.

Here whilst the sky is greyish blue, I am feeling at a total

loss. Lustfully in danger of deciphering needs from desires.

Night time sounds, moaning, words becoming things. Dust

on windowsills. Coffee spills on tables. Drifting through

thoughts as if careening out into an abyss that does not

exist. The man and Alsatian stand to leave...


183

Dust

(1999)


AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

To tear through existence is to tear through the very core of

absurdity, the relative aspects of life at its most ridiculous, said

Fernando who was getting worked up; sweaty brow. He was a

bum, so the people listening (tram riders) assumed he was

talking shit. He pulled back his cup, used for panhandling, and

sat down right next to me.

He introduced himself (as Fernando) and we started to talk for a

while about his Sister. Apparently, his Sister, Corsa, was

prostituting herself and living in an abandoned building in

Tenderloin. Then we started to talk about the concept of aliens

and Fernando went into great detail about a time he said he had

been abducted. He said that they dropped him off in the Vegas

desert and he had no idea how else he could have gotten there.

I picked up my arm, which was hurting from the fight earlier

on, and wiped the sweat off my head. It was a scorching day in

San Francisco.

In the seat behind a black man was listening, You wouldn’t

know near nothing about persecution, he then said. Fernando,

who had kind green eyes, looked at the black man and started to

cry, before standing up and declaring to the rest of the tram

riders that he was in fact there for anyone that needed it. I need

sex, an obese woman shouted out from the back of the tram,

184

achieving a distinct amount of laughter. The black man had

either had enough or genuinely reached his stop as he gathered

his things and got off the tram.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

I had nothing much to do that day, so I decided to follow

Fernando around and see where life took me. So after a few

more stops, where we eventually reached Union Square we got

off and started walking to a corner Fernando said he usually

panhandles in.

See here this the thing about life is that the best things about life

was like this one time, Fernando started whilst shifting his cup

as if to place it in exactitude, this one time I was in LA and a few

dustheads were with us down by an underpass. They were acting

crazier than usual, he starts twirling his fingers beside his curly

set head, as they were talking crazy though I found out later that

it was part of some voodoo. God only knows, but one of the girls

was real pretty, sweet looking. Though she was real skinny but

she starts sucking at my joint, it goes on for a little while, before

a priest walks in on us, wearing the full outfit, which I thought

had to be a fake, but he was a real priest I came to find out. He

pulls out a pistol and goes to pistol whip me. I step aside and tell

him that the skank aint nothing but a skank and then that’s when

this priest points his gun at me, before telling me to do

something for him. I say: What? He grabs a bottle throws it to me

and says if you wanna live pull down your pants and put this up

your butthole. I start raving now, but this guy had a steely eye

hombre, whilst all the while this hot skank is just watching us

continued.

185

'suicide after Hockney', 2019

186

'screaming after Kundera's Immortality', 2019

187

'Portrait IV (Schizoidness)', 2014

188

189

190

'the dinner', 2019

191

192

'the arsonist', 2018

193

194

'untitled (Madman's Head II)', 2014

195

and smoking a cigarette as if it’s all regular. So I get the bottle and

put it up my arsehole and our priest looks at me as if he had

orgasmed right there and then. He grabbed the girl and walked

away. But that’s when I learnt the realms of self pleasure man...

I sat down next to Fernando who was catching eye contact with

random people on the street.

Flophouse

After about an hour, Fernando had made about three dollars to

add to whatever amount of money he had before. I asked him if we

could go and see his sister, and he thinks for a moment before

asking if I was a cop. I tell him fuck no, and he gathered his stuff

together. A guy called Bobo had joined us, he wore a red mac

jacket and quite notably long red socks over the bottom of a pair of

ocean blue jogging bottoms.

The walk there was hot and bothering. Sweltering even.

We eventually reached Tenderloin. She was stooped over on a

chair with olive green eyes as if partially gauged out. Though she

was as I imagined her to be. Beautiful. As if a calendar girl. I felt

quite light headed, so I pulled up next to a fan where a metal chair

had been placed and sat down. Just a little high, she said with a rye

laugh that spoke volumes. Corsa, you’re a mess, said Fernando as

he stooped over to wipe snot from her face. The room was dark

with only the two chairs and a fan inside it, though there were an

assortment of needles sprinkled around.

196



The shadows were forming and disbanding about the gutted

out derelict windows as Fernando gathered Corsa and tried

to set her right. After a short while, where I sat next to the fan

contemplating suicide, I watched Corsa gather herself. She

had just taken a hit. Though she was scratching her left ear

with right hand, which I found quite strung out behaviour.

There was quite a silence, perhaps Fernando was fed up with

life, I thought. Bobo was in and out the room, pacing.

I sat in silence until about an hour or so more had passed

when as if she had taken a hit Corsa fully awakened. Who’s

that? That’s Gordo, said Fernando to Corsa, legs spread open

piercing eyes on me. I’m just hanging out, I said. He a cop?

asked Corsa flippantly flicking her right veiny wrist.

Fernando ignored her and got up off the floor, Come on I’ll

buy you something to eat. Take me there lightly.

We walked down the street to hear a few shouts from across

the street: You look better on your knees! Corsa didn’t look

the way Fernando had illustrated her, but I could tell, mostly

from her eyes, the teeming insides of a soul enraptured. Just

her words take me there lightly were so rock and roll.

So who are you? she said staring at me from across the table

of the fast food chain. I told her I was just into hanging out

around the City and that I had seen Fernando a few times

around and felt a certain camaraderie towards him. She

listened whilst slurping a chocolate milkshake. I know you

want to fuck me. I said nothing just as Fernando came back

to sit down now. Bobo was up and down, speaking a certain

197

gibberish I had quickly become accustomed to.

Fernando than started repeatedly shouting belligerently: For the

water gets too hot! Sir you’re gonna have to make your out the

joint.


AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

I hope you never get pussy! shouts a hobo on our way out. Corsa

is eating a burger slowly as if savouring every bite. It was just too

damn hot, I thought. We then started to walk along the hot

scorching street whilst Bobo was in and out talking gibberish

and being quiet. Corsa walking with her piercing eyes and

Fernando intermittingly shouting: For the water gets too hot! I

joined him: For the water gets too hot!

I couldn’t tell them I was only seventeen, I remember thinking,

they’d shun me in an instant.

Bobo’s Place

Bobo was living in another flophouse though this one wasn’t

empty, it had a few people scurrying around into the hot sun. I

am searching for a reason, I thought, I am in the chaos

dimension. Corsa was giving me all the eyes now, and even more

so when Fernando said that he was going and coming back in a

moment. I walked up to Corsa and thought of what to say before

she said, oooo I could do with a young fuck. And she took me by

the hand to a bedroom where a man was clearly high from

smoking dust, the smell emanated from his crackling lips.

There was a bed, which Corsa led me to. She took off her

198

knickers and spread her legs. Can you lick it? I went down on

her and had her moaning and moaning. Then she said put it

in, which I did as I was hard by then. I started to stroke, and I

felt like a king, as it was only the second time I ever had

fucked someone. Faster, faster! I used all my might, I

thought. Through the open window the hot sun beamed

down on my sweaty face. Before looking to my left to see

three man stood watching wanking themselves off. I felt a

voyeur’s remorse and stopped. Corsa upset starts shouting:

Why did you stop? they’re not going to do anything. By now

Fernando was at the doorway watching.

He flew into the room and threw a punch that hit me right on

the nose. I tried to throw one back but he had already gotten

me into a headlock. I scuppered out the headlock and left the

flophouse in a hurry.

It wasn’t until a week passed that I saw Fernando again,

panhandling near the Aquarium. I walked up to him and said

hey. He was less angry then the last time I saw him. Why was

you so angry? I’m just tired of the world bossing me around. I

told him that I would buy him lunch and off we went.


199

'Hand Study', 2017

200

201

'couple sex wrestling naked in park', 2019

202

'lonesome eccentric aka Alfred Jarry's green face', 2013

203

'is that jazz, is that jazz!!!', 2019

204

205

'tiger, tiger', 2019

'the sex addicted virgin', 2014

206

'mysterious woman with breast', 2019

207

208

209

'study for Condo's memories of Rembrandt - with three states at 7 years old', 2016

210

211

'memories of Condo & Dostoevsky', 2017

212

213

'anorexic model with blue gloves', 2017

214

'after åsa's dream (drowning in air)', 2019

215

216

217

218

'Black Rain & Baboon (Night, Forest)', 2019

219

220

'Suicide contemplation & crowd with clown (after Levé)', 2019

221

222

'the gestapo (after Westside Gunn)', 2019

223

224

'portrait of Mora', 2019

225

226

'sketch for portrait of Mora', 2019

227

228

229

230

'Jazz Culo', 2019

231

'brothel', 2019

232

233

'veins (the raw ingredients)' 2019

234

'Existence is

elsewhere.'

— ANDRÉ

BRETON,

Surrealist Manifesto

235

'2 states after study of the base of the Cruxifixction', 2016

236

237

'Sale (origin of Cotton II)', 2019

'memories of L.A's Venice Beach', 2018

238

239

'the Kif den', 2018

240

241

'smoking Kif, painted', 2019

242

243

'Candle Lit Sun', 2019

244

245

'the ol' pornographer', 2019

Diary of Lucian Frail

After they had taken the body I made myself some lunch; eggs,

toasted bread, and tomatoes with coffee.

At the kitchen table now, overlooking house 85 and house 72

plus the street, I took in the view whilst eating and drinking—

looking at the shift of shadows formed from the sun, and the

cars on road; going to and thro. A gentle wind blew the leaves

of the tree outside house 85. Then staring into my reflection I

started to think about the day ahead, and the concept of time.

Time began to convulse, it seemed and I was slowly but surely

losing something in a mental sense, of which I could not pin

point, stood naked in the mirror.

note written — Marrakesh, 2017

246

The Merciless Gift of Time

The very nature of his existence was very much altered, and this

perplexed him no end. The day after the funeral, he called

Moloko in order to spend time with her, but the phone just rang

and rang. Angrily he knew that he was within a crisis, but knew

not how to alter the feelings he was having, as if another person

playing him like a puppet on a string. It occurred too absurd,

life, and therefore worthless, this manifested in many ways,

which will be further disclosed, but in more ways than one he

was suffering what can only be referred to as psychosis. He

deemed it appropriate to call for drugs, anything to take his

mind off the lucidity of existence, and it took him hours,

shuffling along in his flat, to decide which drugs he wanted to

take. He eventually decided that Cocaine would provide some

sort of energy and verve needed to sway him away from this

‘sullen mood’.

note written — London, 2016 ed. 2018

247

248

'black on black', 2019

249

250

'the Estactic reformulated §13', 2017 — 2019

251

252

'an abstract cubist without the lines (bindlestiff)', 2019

253

254

'memories of Picasso (orgy)', 2018

255

256

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Perelli's Note

“I don’t know what to do with it, I’m terrified of that profound

disorganization.” — Clarice Lispector, The Passion According to

G.H.

I called but there was no return, I think some situations in life are a

bit like that: although they can change they rarely truly alter.

Claudia could forgive me, but it would still leave this impenetrable

feeling — Speeding at a rate of knots, feelings and emotions but

still cased within the parameters of stubbornness. And it was this

feeling that I felt governed by that made me go out into the night.

Into the darkness I walked, passing random people on the streets: a

guy in a biker jacket smoking a cigarette, a lady pushing a pram, an

old man with a rotund stomach yelling at his wife from his car. It

was this night that I met Perelli, on a park bench. We spoke about

Robert Coover as he held a book by him in his hands. I wanted to

know why this was, hence the beginning of our conversation.

Perelli, after a few minutes of innocuous chit chat, told me that he

was a painter. He painted a lot of screaming figures and women,

and sometimes screaming women figures. I wondered why it was

important that these figures were screaming, and poetically he said

that this was because “we were all screaming in some sort of

continued.

257



fashion in reality”. And I thought about these words the rest

of that night into the morning when I tried to write.

It was the next week that I met up with Perelli again at his

studio in Dalston. We started to speak about philosophy, in

particular Wittgenstein, and the limits of language. He said

many things, and I did too, but nothing much transpired in

the way of thoughts into actions, somewhat akin to

philosophies effete charms. I started to think about Claudia;

her eyes, her mouth, her body. Though the subject then

changed, and we started to talk of Rembrandt’s ‘Stoning of

Saint Stephen’ and how the colours were luminous. Though

by this time I was totally distracted, whilst Perelli passionately

spoke about Rembrandt.

That evening as I was making my way home, through Dalston,

I thought about the trials and tribulations of flies, and how

their lives were quite disturbing and from a certain perspective

quite meaningless. Regardless of being quite consumed with

this I was still ‘Put out’, in a way.

I don’t know where to look, I thought. The feeling of

claustrophobia is one that only increases in certain situations,

for me. The lightness of being is, at that time, disturbed and

concerned with nothing but exiting the situation. And this was

the case that Friday on my way back from the Gallery when I

happened to bump into Perelli again.

Perelli seemed distant, as if something traumatic had just

258

happened. I asked if he were okay, but he kept saying “fine”.

“I’m fine,” he kept saying. It was only a week later that Perelli

decided to do this deed that can’t be undone. Though he did

leave a note...


259

260

'Figures in a Room', 2014

261

'untitled (Paid)', 2014

262

263

'expensively cheap', 2019

'Alcoholic in the Park [Ode to Condo]', 2016

264

'devil ghost at sleeping couple's window', 2019

265

266

'After Mad Dog Performance / Reservoir Dog (Kulik)', 2019

267

'philosophy in strip club', 2019'

268

269

'Loco Sane', 2016

270

'Untitled (Paradoxical Reality)', 2014

271

272

'the female butcher, human bodies', 2019

273

274

painting, painting, painting III

"Flamingo Days — Having arrived to Lake Nakuru the day before

Oppensweller looked at her with an exotic enchantment. The same

exotic enchantment that she looked at the Flamingos. But nothing

much was said: Oppensweller just tended to the birds and a few

days passed..."

...for a while I recited this paragraph whilst I would paint... it

informed the painting in a way I could not pin point, as if the

words were conjuring up freedoms, pictures, illusions...

note written — London, 2014 (Flamingo Days), ed. 2019

275

276

'Priest at Psychiatric Ward', 2017

277

278

'Nigga Please', 2019

279

280

'A Brothel in Ghent Damntor', 2016

281

'Portrait of Mr Frimpong', 2019

282

283

'A Semblance of Madness', 2016

284

'the Jamaican', 2019

285



Candle Lit Sun

Our day is a beleaguered rival to our night, which instead

groans from; the pangs of loneliness, the mire of the forgotten,

the incandescence of stillness. Hollowed bones awoken and

pacing: up and down, down and up, whilst the world

continues dwindling along at a casual pace regardless of

urgency. She was sick from the stuff, and up going through

the motions of withdrawals. I asked her how she felt, watching

her spread eagle on the bed retching. Pain is a matter of life,

she said with ever increasing laugher, sprung from the

fountain of multiplicity—by the minute she was getting more

and more complex.

I wondered why she was adamant that she organised the hotel

room without my attendance, and why we took off just like

that, as the hotel room was next to the same room as to whom

I came to find out was Ashley. This is the reason we drove to

six different hotels, looking for Ashley. Feigning a family

bereavement.

What are you doing here? Said Ashley in a voice that ruffled,

the lady beside him, assuming his wife, looking on in silence.

We had arrived at Brighton on a spy job at the least, or even a

hatchet job. I felt so cheated and told her this back in the

hotel room next to theirs. This cranky hotel.

She remained silent just the wind of thought my accomplice

286



now, I wanted to tell her that she let me down and that I was

the one that she needed and that anything else was

unnecessary, but her tears said so much more than her words

could have mustered. Staging a mutiny in a sense. Just the

wideness and wonder of the world enough to disdain this

seedy emotion, I said and I think this caused her to go over

the edge. She slapped me. And I felt humiliated but attracted

to her at the same time, something sexual about the brute

force of a beautiful woman hitting you; A primal scream, in a

way.

Both rooms were now spiteful.

This arguing would bring the hotel down another level,

though the mustard brown carpet and flower wall paper did

not help either. Though I accepted that I played a role in

what was happening the actual happenings felt outer body,

as if another was speaking whilst I watched her cup her ears

against the wall. The tears of the accused, though

remorseless as they may be the tears fell into a hotel at

Brighton Beach.

After Brighton she had changed, something within her that

had reigns on her sanity switched and opened translucent,

she became bitter and less sure of herself. Rejection, even in

the eyes of a psyche that was trying to uphold a sense of

sanity (Ashley’s) arrives like a thief in the night, for she was

altogether taken now; consumed by the freshness and what

287

she had desired being taken away from her, or seen to, though

much of what occurred remained a distilled furnace or a

coalition to the darkness: now there was nothing propping her

out of the milieu.



After another round of meetings mostly based on the subject of

changing the film title from Blue to Black, a huge difference, if

there was one, and a change that belittled much of the content

of the film, I came to the conclusion that life was just more

fragmented than I ever acknowledged, somewhat akin to

Camus’ verses in The Fall. I kept reading and re-reading it until

I memorised whole sections and came to the same conclusions

of the absurdity of existence.

The sea caught the end of her toes, her words muffled under

the caress of the warm water, and she wouldn’t speak loudly for

the words had to creep out as if Thor had been paralysed and

had his neck nearly cut off, as if salt had vanished and that all

she could do was shed tears. The evenings were no better, as I

assumed a fuck would make things better, but mid fucking she

shed tears, talking about fatal wounds and a debilitating desire

to go on, as if Beckett were scribing the words that left her

mouth: …you must go on, I can’t go on, I’ll go on...

Exhilaration was in fact called on, for me this was the only way

to help subside the feeling of desperation in her every move,

and so we arrived at the Boxing Match a little late, for the traffic

in London towards Wembley Stadium. Whilst the Ukrainian

Anthem was sung, she looked a little dishevelled by all the

288

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

lights; opening and closing her eyes in quick succession. And I

could see why, the gloriousness of the event was supposed to

dazzle her—the seats weren’t cheap; the money from the

screenplay came into play, though I had only been paid twice, I

was so used to living a life of poverty that I felt as if I had more

than I needed. A boxing match would coax her into a new mood,

I thought. Inside the first thirty seconds I could tell that I was

right in a sense, as I caught her mimicking the boxers punch,

this subtle move told me that it would take her mind off the

tears.

In round four, after Klitschko served a decent left-handed jab, I

watched her biting her lip, the sensual feeling that this gave me

was if surrounded by angels, though it would be a cliché sign of

her banalities, regardless I received each and every sign

carefully, monitored each movement with grace, bestowed each

footstep with the emotion that I had.

Though at round eleven when Joshua hit with a stunning upper

cut jab, I watched her jump out of her seat in glee. As if oxygen,

my heart’s axis moved: I was no longer happy to play the folly,

the sidekick, the other. The devil springs from lulls of swords

that lie upon the feeling of SO BE IT. So be nothing, I thought.

Though this feeling had to subside for the eventuality of the

mood swings would pummel any chance of such deliverance, I

thought.

The closeness kept springing to mind—tantalizing urges of

happenings in close proximity started to yield my every down

moment as lived in—just the thought when passing road works;

289

of death, the feeling of life and death; in a knife, the chance

encounter with finality; standing on a balcony. These urges

were like a circus of chance or an enthralling synagogue of

sentiment. Even exemplified the closeness of her—repeated

soft blows to the heart.

As the longing would not cease to amaze in me—the primal

scream of wanting to be closer to someone right next to you;

this being consuming all sense of matter. What more could I

expect? I failed to intercede when these thoughts acceded to

motion through bones awake with a powerful elixir of flight.

The nights prolonged along with days only cut up by the

flowers—just watching the flowers grow into a real garden

Voltaire would be proud of, the springs of nature hollowing

a bespectacled light...

note written — London, 2011 — 2017

290

291

'Cubist Mexican Nun with Breast', 2019

'An angry Madonna at Jesus wetting the bed

(after Condo)', 2019

292

'a man as he missed the station', 2019

'the Moroccan', 2019

'suicide scene', 2019

293

294

295

296

'Hard Boiled Babe', 2019

297

'show business', 2019

298

299

'portrait of Gil', 2018

300

'the angry handjob', 2019

301

'arms dealers', 2019

302

'arms dealers', 2019

This drawing made in 2019 became a breakthrough.

The illustration depicts a strange scene. On the news

behind the bar is Syria, Aleppo, with a bloody body

and a soldier holding a gun. It is fitting that the only

other colour in this drawing is blood red. The bar

tender stands faceless and another abstract figure

stands behind the bar, perhaps detailing a strip club

scene. And in the forefront are two characters, that are

smiling with teeth exposed clinking glasses. There

seems something absurd about things: there’s a

nonchalance; perhaps the news is muted perhaps but

the scene would be of most importance in the grand

scheme of what the two characters are discussing. Arms

deals—central to the illustration is a contrast.

303

304

305

306

'corashe', 2019

307

'portrait of Rob', 2019

308

309

'shadow man (Gospel of Aberration)', 2019

'mental hospital (meds + feds)', 2019

310

311

312

'the sky was bleedin', 2019

313

314

315

316

'we both ended up headless', 2019

317

318

'picking cotton in the hot sun & getting

carried away with oneself, no trees adding

shade', 2019

319

'three headed motif priest', 2017

320

'the agnostic priest switched one evening (the mezzanine)', 2019

321

322

323

324

'Rashan Charles keeps happening (Donuts)', 2019

325

326

327

328

BIOGRAPHY

329

Kofi Boamah is a multidisciplinary artist

that concentrates on illustrating the inner

workings of the human condition and

creating compositions that enlighten,

transform and sometimes humourize that

which seems ordinary, into sagacious and

challenging works. Primarily working in

the fields of: painting, photography,

illustration, film, prose and poetry — the

artist’s main aim is to: “Pursue the

intrinsic feeling of a violent serenity with

suggesting nods to past artists and a new

unknown future.”

— website: kofiboamah.com

330


331

332

333


EXHIBITIONS &

LIST OF WORKS

2019 —Deptford Does Art - Group Show

2019 — Espacio Gallery - Group Show

2018 — 2019 — A Hundred Years Gallery

2018 — Espacio Gallery — Group Show

2017 — Unit 5 Gallery — Solo Show

2015 — A Hundred Years Gallery — Group Show

pg. 11

'after Caravaggio's Judith & Holofernes'

120 x 120 cm

oil pastels & oil on canvas

2019

pg. 13

'a study of Caravaggio's Salome with Head of John the

Baptist (1609-10) over Biggie Smalls'

120 x 120 cm

oil on canvas

2019

pg. 14

'Mona Lisa without teeth'

oil pastels on paper

21 x 29.7 cm

2019

pg. 18

Beauty Will Be Convulsive or not at all -

Sketch

oil on canvas

60 X 80 cm

2013

pg. 20 - 23

'Drunken Silenus supported by Satyrs over

Coltrane'

oil & oil pastels on canvas

120 x 120 cm

2019

pg. 24

'Boamah a la Cezanne'


21 x 29.7 cm

2019

334

'ladynight'

oil pastels on cardboard

40 x 24 cm

2019

pg. 26 - 29

'voodoo ceremony in Congo'


120 x 120 cm

2019

pg. 43

'Marxist Tropes'

oil, pencil & oil pastels on canvas

120 x 120 cm

2019

pg. 31 & 300 - 301

one for Picasso


91.4 x 121.9 cm

2019

pg. 32

'after Ann Quin's Berg',


50 x 50 cm

2019

pg. 44 - 45

'Rodney King keeps happening

(Donuts)'

oil on canvas

150 x 110 cm

2019

pg. 47

'instigations of Deleuze'


21 x 29.7 cm

2016

pg. 36

'ode to Baselitz'

industrial paint & oil on canvas

160 x 120 cm

2019

pg. 41 & 42

'faces from Paris & Toulouse'

oil & oil pastels on paper mounted on canvas

100 x 100 cm

2019

pg. 48 - 49

'the Congolese Clowns at Night'


160 x 100 cm

2019

pg.50 - 52

'old master over Wiley's 'Igloo'',


150 x 110 cm

2019

335

pg. 54

after Otto Dix (Odd Couple)


75 x 125 cm

2019

pg. 57

skull after Dubuffet

oil & oil pastels on card

52 x 40 cm

2019

pg. 58

five-0 & donuts

pencil on paper

21 x 29.7 cm

2019

pg. 59

'blackface'

pastels on paper

21 x 29.7 cm

2019

pg. 62 - 65

'Rubens over Ghostface

Killah'

oil & oil pastels on paper

120 x 160 cm

2019

pg. 66 - 69

Adam & Eve in the garden


594 mm x 841 mm

2018

pg. 71

After Goya & Bernhard's Glenn Gould Came Her

On Wood Grain...(Music Be the song of life, so sing

on?)

Oil on canvas

125 cm x 75 cm

2014

pg. 72 - 73

Artist's Door

pg. 75

'Playing An Invisible Piano Naked'

Oil on canvas

75 x 125 cm

2014

pg. 76 - 79

'Daphnis At War with Pholus (the world's a

stage)'

oil on canvas

120 x 160 cm

2019

pg. 82 - 86

'am i in the zoo or in the Louvre'

oil on canvas

120 x 160 cm

2019

pg. 88 - 92

'anarchy, riots, wine'


120 x 160 cm

2019

pg. 94

'Reading the Bible High, David ended up with

an Erection'

oil pastels & oil on card

594 mm x 841 mm

2019

pg. 96

'Untitled (Murderer in blue suit on a blue bench

at night)'

Oil on canvas

150 x 120 cm

2016

336

pg. 97

'Howl II'

Oil on canvas

150 x 120 cm

2016

'the naked jazz party'


75 cm x 125 cm

2019

pg. 98 - 100 & 325

'Brussels Brothel'


150 x 110 cm

2019

pg. 102

'portrait with arms',


21 x 29.7 cm

2019

pg. 103

'Death (after Karel Appel)', 2019


40 x 60 cm

2019

pg. 104 - 107

'elements of climate change'


150 x 100 cm

2019

pg. 110

'The Beauty of Woman (After Kafka's

Dictum)'

Oil on canvas

60 x 80 cm

2014

pg. 112

'inner turmoiled Priest'

oil on canvas

24 x 30 cm

2019

pg. 114

'Queen Mariana of Spain Screaming'


75 x 125 cm

2019

pg. 118 -120

'recurring dream'


100 x 150 cm

2019

pg. 122 - 124

'Female Nudes II'

oil on canvas

150 x 110 cm

2014

337

pg. 126

'Ode to Rembrandt'

oil on canvas

18 x 24 inch

2016

pg. 142 -143

'female Christ'


58 x 37 cm

2019

pg. 128

'self portrait with picture of Van Gogh'


60 x 80 cm

2019

pg. 129

'how I feel hungry'

crayon on paper

21 x 29.7 cm

2017

pg. 130

'both chopped'

pastels on paper

40 x 60 cm

2019

pg. 132 - 133

Artist Studio Space

pg. 138 - 139

'Froth on the Daydream'


80 x 80 cm

2019

pg. 140

'Kidnapping God'

crayon & pencil on paper

100 x 80 cm

2014

pg. 141

'December Portrait'

pencil on paper

100 x 80 cm

2014

pg. 144

'(Jesus & Magadelene) ode to de Kooning

[Hysterical Realism]'

oil on canvas

1016 mm X 1524 mm

2016

pg. 146

'three headed personage again'

pencil on paper

21 x 29.7 cm

2019

pg. 147

'old Couple (Amsterdam II)'

pencil on paper

21 x 29.7 cm

2019

pg. 148

'Disembodied Youth (After Miró)'

Oil on Canvas

160 x 120 cm

2016

pg. 152

'Nietzschian Wonder'

oil, acrylic & oil pastels on canvas

150 x 100 cm

2019

pg. 153

'the insane therapist'


100 x 160 cm

2019

338

pg. 158

'Another one for Gorky'


21 x 29.7 cm

2019

pg. 159

'sketch for rendition of Autumnal

Cannibalism'

pencil on paper

21 x 29.7 cm

2018

pg. 160

Dalí's lesbian food sex (after Ensor)


150 x 100 cm

2019

pg. 162

'drop lick'


21 x 29.7 cm

2019

pg 163

'the human savagery of a naked

Refugee on a boat — sketch'

21 x 29.7 cm

2018

pg. 166

'naked black female saxophonist at Nazi

party (Naima)'

oil on canvas

120 x 160 cm

2019

pg. 167

'the human savagery of a naked refugee on a

boat'

oil on canvas

120 x 160 cm

2019

pg. 168

'Portrait of Roberto Bolaño'

crayon on paper

21 x 29.7 cm

2017

pg. 169

'Portrait of Tash Caesar'

oil pastels & pencil on paper

21 x 29.7 cm

2018

339

'memories of Darwin'

pencil on paper

21 x 29.7 cm

2019

pg. 170

'invisible man on highstreet'

oil pastels on card

594 mm x 841 mm

2019

pg. 171

'the prisoners (Marxist Tropes)'


594 mm x 841 mm

2019

pg. 172

'the raw meat eaters'

oil on card

27 x 35 cm

2019

pg. 174

'Boamah a la Bonnard'


21 x 29.7 cm

2019

pg. 175

'bdsm scene mixed with taking of Christ'


120 x 160 cm

2019

pg. 176

'white nigga II'


50 x 50 cm

2019

pg. 177

'the angry professor'

oil on canvas

40 x 40 cm

2019

pg. 178 - 180

'Untitled (She Was a Little Upset)'

Oil on canvas

75 x 125 cm

2014

pg. 186

'suicide after Hockney'

pencil on paper

21 x 29.7 cm

2019

pg. 187

'screaming after Kundera's Immortality'


40 x 60 cm

2019

pg. 188

'Portrait IV (Schizoidness)'

oil pastels & acrylic on card

60 x 80 cm

2014

pg. 190

'the dinner'

pencil on paper

21 x 29.7 cm

2019

pg.192

'the arsonist'


21 x 29.7 cm

2018

pg. 194

'untitled (Madman's Head II)'

oil & crayons on card

50 x 70 cm

2014

pg. 200

'Hand Study'

pencil on paper

29.7 cm x 42 cm

pg. 201

'couple sex wrestling naked in park'

oil pastels on card

594 mm x 841 mm

2019

340

341

pg. 204

'is that jazz, is that jazz!!!'

pencil on paper

21 x 29.7 cm

2019

pg. 214

'after åsa's dream (drowning in air)'

oil on canvas

120 x 120 cm

2019

pg. 205

'tiger, tiger'


21 x 29.7 cm

2019

pg. 216 - 218

'Black Rain & Baboon (Night, Forest)'


150 x 100 cm

2019

pg. 206

'the sex addicted virgin'

oil on canvas

60 x 80 cm

2014

pg. 207

'mysterious woman with breast'


25 x 40 cm

2019

pg. 208 - 211

'Study for Condo's Memories of Rembrandt, 1994 -

with the three states at 7 years old'

oil on canvas

150 x 120 cm

2016

pg. 212

'memories of Condo & Dostoevsky'

oil on card

60 x 80 cm

2017

pg. 213

'anorexic model with blue gloves'

oil on card

60 x 80 cm

2017

pg. 220

'Suicide contemplation & crowd with clown

(after Levé)'


120 x 160 cm

2019

pg. 222

'the gestapo (after Westside Gunn)'


27 x 32 cm

2019

pg. 224

'portrait of Mora'


50 x 70 cm

2019

pg. 226

'sketch for portrait of Mora'

pencil on note book paper

20 x 14 cm

2019

pg 228- 231

'Jazz Culo'

oil & pastel on canvas

150 x 110 cm

2019

342

pg. 232

'brothel'

pencil on paper

21 x 29.7 cm

2019

pg. 233

'veins (the raw ingredients)'


21 x 29.7 cm

2019

pg. 236

'2 states after study of the base of the

Crucifixion'

Oil on Canvas

1016 mm X 1524 mm

2016

pg. 237

'Sale (origin of Cotton II)'


40 x 24 cm

2019

pg. 238

'memories of L.A's Venice Beach'


21 x 29.7 cm

2018

pg. 240

'the kif den'

oil pastels on card

594 mm x 841 mm

2018

343

pg. 242

'smoking Kif, painted'


120 x 160 cm

2019

pg. 244

'Candle Lit Sun'


21 x 29.7 cm

2019

pg. 245

'the ol' pornographer'

pencil on paper

21 x 29.7 cm

2019

pg. 248

'black on black'


80 x 100 cm

2019

pg. 250

'the Estactic reformulated §13'


150 x 120 cm

2017 — 2019

pg. 252

'an abstract cubist without the lines (bindlestiff)'

oil on canvas

60 x 80 cm

2019

pg. 254

'memories of Picasso (Orgy)'

House Paint, Oil & Acrylic on Canvas

160 x 140 cm

2018

pg. 260

'Figures in a Room'

oil on canvas

100 x 100 cm

2014

pg. 262

'untitled (Paid)'

oil on canvas

150 x 110 cm

2014

pg. 263

'expensively cheap'


594 mm x 841 mm

2019

pg. 264

'Alcoholic in the Park [Ode to Condo]'

oil on card

60 x 80 cm

2016

pg. 265

'devil ghost at sleeping couple's window'

pencil on paper

21 x 29.7 cm

2019

pg. 266

'After Mad Dog Performance / Reservoir Dog

(Kulik)'

oil pastels on card

594 mm x 841 mm

2019

pg. 268

'philosophy in strip club'

pencil on paper

21 x 29.7 cm

2019

344

pg. 269

'Loco Sane'

coloured pencil on paper

29.7 x 42.0 cm

2016

pg. 283

'A Semblance of Madness'

crayon on card

50 x 70 cm

2016

pg. 270

'Untitled (Paradoxical Reality)'

oil & crayon on card

60 x 80 cm

2014

pg.272

'the female butcher, human bodies'

oil on canvas

150 x 100 cm

2019

pg. 276

'Priest at Psychiatric Ward'

Oil & acrylic on canvas

150 x 120 cm

2017

pg. 278

'Nigga Please'


21 x 29.7 cm

2019

pg. 280

'A Brothel in Ghent Damntor'

pencil on paper

50 x 70 cm

2016

pg. 282

'Portrait of Mr Frimpong'

pencil on paper

21 x 29.7 cm

2019

pg. 284

'the Jamaican'


21 x 29.7 cm

2019

pg. 292

'Cubist Mexican Nun with Breast'


50 x 50 cm

2019

pg. 292

'An angry Madonna at Jesus wetting the bed

(after Condo)'


50 x 50 cm

2019

pg. 293

'a man as he missed the station'


20 x 30 cm

2019

pg. 293

the Moroccan


50 x 50 cm

2019

pg 293

'suicide scene'


120 x 120 cm

2019

345

pg. 294 - 296

'Hard Boiled Babe'


160 x 120 cm

2019

pg. 298

'show business'


21 x 29.7 cm

2019

pg. 299

'portrait of Gil'


21 x 29.7 cm

2018

pg. 300

'the angry handjob'


21 x 29.7 cm

2019

pg. 301

'arms dealers'

pencil & oil pastel on paper

21 x 29.7cm

2019

pg. 304 - 307

'corashe'

oil & oil pastels on unstretched canvas

165 x 160 cm

2019

pg. 308

'portrait of Rob'

pencil & oil pastels on paper

21 x 29.7 cm

2019

pg. 310 - 311

'mental hospital (meds + feds)'

oil & oil pastel on unstretched

canvas

165 x 110 cm

2019

pg. 313

'the sky was bleedin'

oil & oil pastels on

unstretched canvas

165 x 100 cm

2019

pg. 314 -317

'we both ended

up headless'

oil & oil pastels

on unstretched canvas

165 x 120 cm

2019

pg. 319

'picking cotton in the hot sun &

getting carried away with

oneself, no trees adding shade',


80 x 120 cm

2019

pg. 320

'three headed motif priest'

oil pastels & chalk on card

60 x 80 cm

2017

pg. 309

'shadow man (Gospel of Aberration)' 'pg 321


'the agnostic priest switched one evening (the mezzanine)'

120 x 160 cm

oil on canvas

2019

50 x 70 cm

2019

346

pg. 322 - 325

'Rashan Charles keeps

happening (Donuts)'

oil & oil pastels on

unstretched canvas

165 x 90 cm

2019

pg. 322 - 323

Artist's Toilet

'Francis Bacon's Chair'

pg. 342 - 343

'recurring dream' (detail)

347

pg. 4, 327,

328- 329, 339

Photography: Gavin Li

'pg. 336

'stuffs'

pencil on paper

21 x 29.7 cm

2019

348

'cum on a casket'

— Boamah

349

350

351

Kofi Boamah

Fuego III

You also want an ePaper? Increase the reach of your titles

Delete template?

Save as template?