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Tic, toc, tic, toc. By MAAS
This piece is about time—but not the sweet kind. It’s the ticking kind, the kind that stalks you when you can’t sleep, when your head’s full of ghosts whispering in your ear. It's about waiting. Waiting to speak. Waiting to heal. Waiting to stop hurting yourself.
All those words, fragments of songs—Willy Colón, Rubén Blades—they jump into my mind as I paint, like voices on a broken radio in my chest. “Y yo sin poder hablar.” “El diente de oro.” “La vida te da sorpresas.” They’re not just lyrics; they’re like echoes of the streets I grew up on, the corners I’ve stood on, the weight I carry. Amor is barely there, floating like a snake—poisonous, tempting, almost invisible.
That red arrow pointing up or down, that’s mood, that’s instability, that’s the question: “¿A dónde?”
The Xs, the bones, the cigarette, the rage in the jaw—they’re warnings. This character is dangerous, but only to himself. He’s overwhelmed by thoughts, songs, regrets, nostalgia. He’s on fire from the inside, screaming in silence, trapped in the rhythm of the clock:
Tic. Toc. Tic. Toc.
Tic, toc, tic, toc. By MAAS
This piece is about time—but not the sweet kind. It’s the ticking kind, the kind that stalks you when you can’t sleep, when your head’s full of ghosts whispering in your ear. It's about waiting. Waiting to speak. Waiting to heal. Waiting to stop hurting yourself.
All those words, fragments of songs—Willy Colón, Rubén Blades—they jump into my mind as I paint, like voices on a broken radio in my chest. “Y yo sin poder hablar.” “El diente de oro.” “La vida te da sorpresas.” They’re not just lyrics; they’re like echoes of the streets I grew up on, the corners I’ve stood on, the weight I carry. Amor is barely there, floating like a snake—poisonous, tempting, almost invisible.
That red arrow pointing up or down, that’s mood, that’s instability, that’s the question: “¿A dónde?”
The Xs, the bones, the cigarette, the rage in the jaw—they’re warnings. This character is dangerous, but only to himself. He’s overwhelmed by thoughts, songs, regrets, nostalgia. He’s on fire from the inside, screaming in silence, trapped in the rhythm of the clock:
Tic. Toc. Tic. Toc.