ΨYXRIBBLES

Exploring the process of abstract art creation, formed in the tension between desire and the structures shaping its expression.

Fidelity to Freedom, 2026, crayon, oil pastel, and pencil on paper

The Symptom: By the Event Horizon

Like a fly in a room, a tiger in a zoo, a thinking war general… The constant movement of going back and forth, pacing, drawing circles, and being eternally trapped. Not even thinking about anything specific, yet trying to grasp the entirety of everything. The ground, the wall, the passage, the page, the canvas, they all exist; yet the activity is all there is, both as a starting point and as an endless end.

I always find myself in many such circles: instinctive like a fly, stressed like a tiger, and relentlessly focused like a war general, as if it’s a life-or-death situation; it might as well be when trying to make sense of things. I can never stop when I have an idea, when I feel like I need to explain myself, mostly to myself, building imaginary dialogues to reach a never-ending conclusion.

These circles already exist within outer circles: friendships, family, school, work… I want to run away from them. Not necessarily from the actual people or from the real places, but from the monstrous multitudes who don’t believe in my circles, these very knots, and are willing to judge. When one gets too close and doesn’t have a cause to pace for, witnessing the void, they betray me the same way I betray their self-conceptions.

And there I turn again.

I see myself completely freeze in time. Thinking of my own thinking, replaying memories, wanting to poke my brain from the inside, as my mind struggles to know itself through the most contradictory attitudes of others. Is it me who feels too much, or is it they who lack integrity? Another circle.

Then I realize I’m not frozen at all; rather, I’m an outside observer of myself when I’m by the event horizon, only appearing to be stuck. I finally feel free when I’m conscious of certain limitations, yet such ends always contain something from me in “another.” I constantly remain outside of myself.

This is the incomprehensible void; the black hole I get pulled into, infinitely falling in.

The very fulfilment of this void depends on the lack of that fulfilment, defining social and personal antagonisms. And whenever I see myself frozen in it, my body is always moving back and forth, walking, or drawing, or dancing, or painting, or writing, or scribbling; orbiting around it.

Pacing like a fly in a room, a tiger in a zoo, and oh, poor war general who just happens to think!