© 2006 Theo Kleynhans Wrath

Seven Deadly Sins

I decided to approach this series of work as a confession. I am guilty of every one of the seven deadly sins.

Look at me all puffed up with pride in front of my own painting that hangs in my dining room.

See how strangely effeminate I stand enviously in front of other artist’s painting in my lounge. All of them collected because I envy their technique or their subject matter. (Yes, it is an Andrew Mogridge peering balefully over my shoulder).

There I sit, practically incandescent with lust in my study next to an obscenely pink office chair.

Can you still remember how I seethed with rage over that critic for that show? And here they still hang in my passage after all these years.

Then the bathroom. I suppose the clock on the wall represents my conscience. Ticking away hour upon hour, lifetime upon lifetime while I lie in the bath or stand in front of the mirror staring lazily and appreciatively at my own face.

The bookshelf. Always we return to the greed for words. The greed for knowledge and understanding. Yet another tome, yet another encyclopaedia to cram into my overstuffed brain. More, more constantly, greedily more!

Finally the kitchen crammed with appliances to make more food. A steamer perched atop the cupboards next to the striped cookie tin, next to the espresso pot, next to the mixing bowl cum scale, next to the Soda Club maxi next to the Drappier Champagne. The irrefutable evidence responsible for the ever-increasing girth of the gourmand.

I am guilty on all accounts, seven times.

But still I keep my eyes closed in introspection. Reaching in for absolution, reaching back to the source echoing over decades and centuries. Trying to somehow get in touch with the Surrealists.