More About This Painting
Everyone knew Joker in Strange City. How could they not? He stood out like a fly in the milk! Tall, strong, with pale, ghostly white skin. In Strange City, people raised him up as a madman, then tore him down as one. His hair was green, his lips tight, and his face marked with scars. His gaze was dark as pitch. He didn’t appear often, and few knew who he really was or what he did. No one knew his age or where he came from. Just another strange soul in Strange City, some said. Bad news, the rest whispered. Yet he never bothered anyone. Not a single “mad” word escaped him. And if you look a little closer, beneath the pitch, you’ll see the light.
Someone once said that Joker had fought in the Star Wars, battling for justice, truth, and equality. But he achieved little. They labeled him, and the light that once made him stand out as brave and first among others was taken from him, replaced with a strange, beautiful madness. They took his rights, they took his being, they told him to sit quietly, not to raise his head. Without suit and dagger, you lose the war. Joker is me, and you, and a few others—those who always seek the light deep within the darkness.