Melita Painting

Melita HB Pencil & Watercolour on Hahnemuhle Aquarell mat paper 450 gsm. 12.5” X 9.5” Life has become too complicated on this bare rock of little consequence. A unique jewel in the midst of the Mediterranean Sea where Poppies grow fed by the victims of long forgotten conflicts spanning seven millennia. Enemies and allies alike, all Heroes entombed under the sparse course soil that embraces them is if they were her own. I was born to a Village-Blacksmith and a "town" girl. She, with her family, had been evacuated from one of the Harbor-side towns. Towns that were in direct line of fire in the early stages of World War II. These towns were centuries old walled Cities, already tired from long forgotten battles. That time they succumbed to a different battering. One from the deep blue Mediterranean sky. I grew up an irreverent youth. Inpatient and brash. I was one of the many who left country and family to pursue a lucrative future. A life overseas, among once feared strangers whom I now call loyal friends. Friends I count as inseparable and an integral part in my success. And with success comes the wish for simpler times. With a comfortable lifestyle comes a need to reminisce the past. March, each year, the Sirens on the island of Melita beckon me with their song. Without a moment's hesitation, I rearrange my pathetically busy life, throw theoretical deadlines to the winds; Leave the cell-phone to its panic-stricken stress, and allow myself the indulgence of a little time in Heaven. I feel the need to shed my tie, park the suit, loose the superior-attitude and in feverish pleasure and unencumbered joy, frolic barefoot on the salt-encrusted limestone of the rugged, sun-bleached coast. I am young no longer. I am now the strange guy that speaks Maltese with a funny accent. The old chap that knows people's grandfathers and the man others greet with intimate hugs. The Guy that always seems to disappear before you get used to having him around. Some call me Uncle and most call me Friend; the ones that called me Son have gone to a different Heaven. The hours in the perfumed Mediterranean-air are precious. Endless lunches with food of subtle tastes and rough and ready bread and wine flavoring the delicate touch of tepid Sun on sparkling sea. Nightly drunken conversations of lost loves, unlikely myths, political presumption and childhood indiscretions are the privilege of the young at heart. The end of the day always comes too quickly. At sun-down the Cicada choir sings for my unique pleasure and while foreign youth experiment with a week's freedom purchased at a Travel Agent, I hold hands with my Lady and tread the silver path reflected by my personal Moon to the Spiritual sanctuary that cannot be bought by a discount ticket. This is one programme that can only be accessed by memories of the reborn and I hold the only password. My wicked Sirens, you know well how your song has charmed another willing victim to his temporary oblivion. My beautiful Island let me breathe the perfume of your seductive skin, Allow me to lose myself in your gentle whispered embrace, Weave your gentle magic on my soul and I shall surrender to you all my worldly possessions. You will always be the Lover I can never escape from

Painting:Watercolor on Other

Original:One-of-a-kind Artwork

Size:9.5 W x 12.5 H x 1 D in

Delivery Time:Typically 5-7 business days for domestic shipments, 10-14 business days for international shipments.