I can’t stop looking, staring, gawking and admiring this Berlin artist’s paintings. Theo Altenberg, my God, man. Your paintings are these fabric lookin’ dreamscapes, sort of Rorschach ink blot test-y, watery, flowing, drape-y, mind-trippy, flag waving in the wind, cleverly ruched, kind of abstract-ish dashed with a bit of still-life dissolving before my very eyes, something somewhat sand dune-ish, calculated yet spontaneous pieces of art that make me do a wiggle dance of happiness with the paint brush of my heart. These paintings look so edible and so toxic, I don’t know what to do with them. Is this the visual equivalent of a writer’s stream of consciousness? If so, then keep on talking, sir.