desire? Perhaps both.
Or when the need is a desire and desire a need.
Not to do anything is perhaps the only state when desire and
need cancel each other, disappear in an eyelash stroke when
eyes are closed.
Sound of sombreness and endless void of darkness makes desire
are witnesses that never testify.
My eyes remember silently.
My eyes have realms where everything they saw they drop into
the space of oblivion.
Only whiteness has the role of awakening what is forgotten.
Everything that appears I recognize and without words I name.
By putting colour onto whiteness. Silently offering an unintrusive
Whiteness disappears through coming into being of a world that
others might name otherwise.
My signs and symbols in one moment are no longer only mine.
Their existence will depend on others. The moment of their separation
from me gives rise to joy in me.
In my eyes,
there is no place for desire, because desire conceals the essence.
That's what my eyes know.
Knowing that they know not.
All of my
states are states of need.
All of my actions are actions caused by need.
Only the essence has no need to exist.
the same as desire?
Can hope be my overcoming, a step towards desire?
Wherefrom a hope in me?
say I didn't hope. I did. I still do.
I was hoping
for convalescence even when I didn't know what convalescence
I was hoping
for every new morning.
For every new day.
For every night, where darkness is like a huge mirror in which
my mind was reflected, realizing that in hope the beginning
and the end are one and the same.
Depending on the point of view.
I was hoping
for friends, and if from time to time I've made some new friends
and some old I've lost, I have noticed how indifference descends
on my shoulders like dust that is hard to remove.
an invisible ember that smolders within us, not accelerating
our heartbeats, for accelerated heartbeats create a flame that
carries a desire on its flares.
a light of senses.
Hope is an ascent after the fall.
is a need created by man.
The only thing I knew about painting from the very beginning
of my engagement with it was that it was going to be a long
This length implies everything.
The only thing important is a journey.
Successful or unsuccessful outcomes of the work are only stations
along this way.
Sorrow and joy enter and exit through the same door, bringing
with themselves their markings, like seasons of the year.
Art is a
synonym for the word painting.
The painter became an artist.
It is like some aristocratic appellation for painters, behind
which the entire ordinariness of this craftsmanship is hidden.
The word art is a burden on the painter's fingertips.
It is a mist in which the voracity and vulgarity of ambition
are safely disguised into a pleasant appearance.
With a lot
of effort, the art of painting withstands all challenges of
Today, it is on its deathbed.
The painting, which lives through the so-called state of 'sickness
unto death' (with skillful make-up done by critics, museum curators
and gallery owners) is declared healthy by the galleries and
museums themselves, or at least there is an attempt to do so.
Old craftsmanship breathes its last breath. This skill has survived
only at some training courses for amateurs, where one becomes
a hastily trained painter, for in more serious art schools new
media are more attractive for students.
course, those enrolled in it secretly dream about Van Gogh in
the shape of the rainbow.
art of painting is transformed into an imitation.
The idea became a content of the painting.
The technique of conducting these ideas is not of importance.
It can be taken up from anyone.
If we devaluate the process of carrying out the idea it resembles
the Saturn who devours his children.
is a euphemistic notion of the powerlessness of painting and
art in general.
Expressionistic expression without emotion is a formula of postmodernism.
The idea is what holds emotion under control, not in order to
direct it towards a proper place, but because of its own narcissism.
The futile gesture of a paintbrush is a demand of an idea, and
not a requirement of an emotion.
Emotion annihilates the aesthetics, giving life to new forms
we didn't hope for.
A moment in which something unknown leads our hand, a moment
beyond knowledge and ignorance, (and this 'unknown' is neither
God nor some supernatural power), this is a moment when our
hand is guided by imagination and a world of visions.
be no new narratives, because none of the problems that man
himself created is solved yet.
The form of those eternal narratives shall change, or shall
be formed depending on fashion, but the authenticity of artistic
painting, under the condition that it satisfies all prerequisites,
in terms of form and content, shall depend on the level of honesty
of the painter.