Essential loneliness / Singuratate fundamentala

I’ve chosen this drawing to illustrate this title. It’s a couple, they probably make love – or have sex – together. But they are essentialy alone. Same as we are… each and everyone…

There will be a lot to say: no, I’m not alone, I have a wife, a lover, children, parents, friends, etc.

The truth is – and it’s sad, very sad (as I am tonight) that we are, finally, alone. No lover, no wife, no children, no friend (and I value friendship a lot) can fill in the emptyness, the essential loneliness we feel sometimes. Happly, it doesn’t happen often. A few minutes, maybe, in a lifetime. If you are moderately smart, you’ll recognise it. If not it will be only a very unpleasent feeling, a strangeness, something you will put aside as quick as you can, trying to forget about it… If not, you will be prone to cleaning rifles accidents, like Hemingway and his father…

Why do we feel it? I don’t know. It could be a negligent word from some of your dear ones, a mean remarks of a person you thought (how stupid can one be?) was a friend, the fact that your child doesn’t have 2 minutes to ask how are you? Or a stranger’s mean look, with no reason that you know (maybe he or she doesn’t like your mug, as simply as that?)

Very few of us will wish to analyse too much this odd, unpleasent, sickening feeling. Neither do I.

But then, maybe I am disturbed?

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Am ales desenul acesta al unui cuplu pentru a ilustra titlu de mai sus. Probabil ca cei doi fac dragoste – sau au sex – impreuna dar, in mod esentail, ei sunt singuri. La fel ca fiecare dintre noi. Fara exceptzie.

Vor fi multzi care sa spuna: nu, eu nu sunt singur, am o nevasta, o iubita, copii, parintzi, prieteni, etc. Se poate. Dar adevarul este – si e trist, foarte trist (asa cum sunt eu in seara asta) – ca fiecare suntem, pana la urma, singuri. Nici o iubita, nici o nevasta, nici copiii si nici prietenii (si eu am o idee foarte inalta despre prietenie) pot sa umple golul acele, singuratatea noastra fundamentala pe care o simtzim uneori. din fericire, nu se intampla prea des. cateva minute, poate, intr-o viataza de om. Daca esti destul de destept, vei recunoaste momentul, cand se intampla. Daca nu, va ramana doar ca o senzatzie neplacuta, ca un sentiment bizar, ca ceva ciudat, ceva de care te grabesti sa scapi cat mai repede si incerci sa uitzi… Daca intarzii prea mult s-ar putea sa ai accidente de curatzat pusca, ca Hemingway si tatal sau…

De ce se intampla? Habar n-am de ce. Poate sa fie un cuvant aruncat neglijent de catre cineva iubit. Sau o remarca rautacioasa din partea cuiva pe care (oare cat de prost potzi fi?) l-ai crezut prieten, sau faptul ca copilul tau nu are 2 minute ca sa te intrebe de sanatate… Sau, pur si simplu, o uitatura urata de la un strain sau straina (de ce? cum ai putea stii? poate ca nu le place moaca ta?)

Foarte putzini dintre noi vor vrea sa analizeze pe indelete acest sentiment, bizar, neplacut, care-tzi provoaca greatza. Nici eu nu vreau.

Dar, cine stie? poate ca sunt deranjat?

“A deadly genius”

I will tell you a story about the quirks of memory…

Years ago I was visiting Tate National Gallery in London( 1993? 1994?). A lot to see, especially if you are an artist and you like impressionists and post-impressionists, for instance. Cézanne, Pissaro, Renoir, Van Gogh…, as I said, A LOT to see…

Years later, I found out my memory wasn’t as good as I thought. I did remember, like in a dream, a turmoil of colors and maybe a landscape or two… Pissaro? Renoir? Van Gogh?… Vaguely, very vaguely…

And yet, a small, very small painting, haunted me. I was dreaming it and the details were quite precise… Bizarre little people, painted with precision but in a marvelous textured way, with saturated colors but not excessively bright… Something like Bosh or Pieter Brueguel the Old... I could NOT remember, even tortured, the name of the painter… I knew just that he wasn’t a very famous one…

A few years ago, I was flipping a pile of junk magazines in a garage sale and BAM! there it was!! my little painting from the Tate National Gallery… it was only a small, bad, reproduction, in B & W, but I could have recognise it in millions! And the story behind that, the story of the mad painter Richard Dadd was even more hauting and interesting… But about his story – connected with the subject of madness and art – next time…(canned laughter)

A taste, although… the portrait of Richard Dadd, painting in a English asylum…

The Ghost of Madness…

This is the title of one of my “kind of abstract” little paintings (acrylics- see bellow). It is also a temptations and a problem for a lot of artists… I don’t know if a connection – a causal relationship – between madness (well, call it mental sickness if you want) and artist (geniuses, at the highest…) was made before Schopenhauer… He is although the one who made this connextion famous…

The number of artists who were (a bit or a lot) crazy, mad, excentric, loony, etc. is not at all small. To cite a few : Hugo van der Goes, Vincent Van Gogh, Toulouse-Lautrec, Dali (by his own confession), Jackson Pollock, etc. Since suicide is considered by some the extreme symptom of mental illness, a lot of others could enter the ranks : Pascin, Rothko, Nicholas de Staël… And I limited myself to painters only…

Of course, the myth of the “cursed artist” (l’artiste maudit) is the general, public perception of this, in a very simplified manner. But to study the phenomenon would take volumes and volumes…

One thing is clear: if the above mentionned artists were mad they create their art only when they were perfectly lucid. I do not know a single mentionable work of art created during a crysis… but a mentally ill artist has a different, an original view of the world, a visionary one, sometimes… If we are to believe Jean Dubuffet we need to be a bit crazy and we are never crazy ENOUGH in order to create original art… Maybe it’s true, maybe not…