Sinclair Vicisitud, “to retaliate against time.” Sinclair fails at capturing the far flung limbs where bodies lean back and drag forward of the passerby; seeing the lines of the passing smile, the slip of the wrist when picking up lipstick, the wince of an adolescent disturbed, frailties of a perturbed woman in a red skirt sifting through her purse, a wrinkled jacket, an unlit cigarette exchanged between hands, and a passing thought or a book of pages already read. “I escape being, yet-I am”. He lets time slip between his fingers like wind, while the cup empties of wine. He orders another. He stains the canvas with decay, because he believes every future second is a past second, time itself is in decay. He doesn't apprehend his freedom as being the possible destroyer in the present and in the future of what he is, and what he paints. So he’s glad he fails, at every time, and in every painting. Yet he continues to toss his arms up writhing around open handed to capture the winged beast of time; like leaves, like sand, like leaves, since they make a noise like feathers. Like leaves, like ashes, like leaves. While it all seems possible… he leaves only the momentum of history on the canvas.
Sinclair Vicisitud is a 27 year old Latin artist based in Los Angeles