David Jackman flies me back into my father’s guitar case 1989 where I used to fit surrounded by red velvet, where I used to play, where I used to sleep. There was a tiny box for the extra strings where I kept some precious possessions like a shell and a tiny car.
Sol Mara brings me back to a space filled with cassettes, Wim Wenders and a special soundtrack I’ve never listen to again except in the most unexpected place once and then gone again, only playing forever in my mind. Will I ever find it again?
To be well is to be able to be back in my father’s guitar case.
With classic compositions outside and the late 80s adventures into underground ritual electronic sounds and its potential for intra waves.
Serenity is to block the outside and be only in my velvety case, is to be able to go back to where I were in those pleasant memories and choose to never leave, to find the belong in the alone, to choose that as my house where I bring new toys to hide in the extra strings tiny box.
I leave you all on the sides. I’ll let you run without rising the wind in my hair. I don’t really have to let you anything, I see you pass, grab what tastes good, leave what’s bitter to my tongue for you to saviour.
My march is different than yours but your scalp doesn’t allow you to know that your march is not the only march. Not your history, not your story, to you it’s just your scalp. I step back and watch, you don’t know that I watch more than I talk because I talk a lot, but you also lack the eyes to see the invisible. You are obsessed with visibility, your are blinded by the need to make sense of who you are according to who’s around you and that is why you set thick grids around yourself and play fit the pieces with ideas, triangle in triangle hole, square in square hole.
You aren’t able to see beyond the surface and you have a crutch that says you went deep because you’re connecting dots and making drawings like seeing animals in clouds. That’s what you call the big picture. All your sayings and all your words are disgusting to me, your language makes me cringe, it’s cheap it’s unpoetic it’s easy it’s vapid. Your work is stupid and stupid is a word is a concept that is so much stronger and means so much more than what you’re doing. Stupid, suddenly, gained a whole new density. Words and concepts go up and down back and forth like fashion, the hordes give them new meanings every once in a while, maybe decades. Hate is a word is a concept that so little can understand. In my heart 3 have a permanent place because they know what hate means. They can say hate without jumping 7 times touch wood and scream peace. Say hate without fear. Feel hate, know what it means, live through it. No intelligent mind lives in this world without hate. But you need to know so much more to know that, you sickening piece of old bread. Emotions shouldn’t control you, they are yours, you move them, not the other way around. And that is to you who call yourself sensitive. Those 3 in my heart know that they are so whole in all that they could lack, they are so full because they know. They know to let the masses pass without caring if they know or don’t. And that makes them so grandiosely powerful. You raise your voice to say this and that, to be seen by those you look at, you are so fucking dependant of that! But if you’re told something you don’t understand, you’re whole foundation shakes and you rise your gates in protection because you think you’re being attacked you weak little grain of sand. We, we let them pass. You aren’t built to know that there’s a whole fucking vast landscape behind an advert billboard. You don’t know you loser fuck that a slogan doesn’t make a truth no matter how strong, meaningful or connected to a good cause as it might be. A sentence is a sentence is a saying is an expression, it is true as much as it is changeable and it’s a slogan most of the times.
I was looking at it and I said “he’s an interesting person but his paintings are all the same” and my friend replied “but that’s a thing painters do, they search for a language and then they repeat it over and over again”. My friend is not an artist but a creative of other kinds, so I appreciate her opinion. I like to hear the opinions about art from honest smart people not in the arts. I just had been looking into the sculptures of this one artist who is A Sculptor. Some artists are Sculptors and Painters and Performers. And I think those that have ONE discipline delve into the means of that discipline in a particular way. Say they are in the world of paint, of liquids and pigments into surface, they’ll thrive to find a place of their own -a style- and then go round and round and round and stretch it to infinity again and again the same shapes the same motives ‘how else can I talk about this through this‘… //little parenthesis here – I’m talking about a certain type of practice, not so much discipline, which is connected to the following thought// Another friend told me she showed three of her works to a curator who really liked them but didn’t find a common interest between all of them. Now, my friend could possibly be lost/in search for her language still. When you don’t know yourself yet you sprawl in experiments of curiosity which depending on the levels of self-maturity might come across as related to each other in some way OR if the levels are lower, an attempt to reach for too much. Independently of which case this was, there’s another idea in the curator’s comment: fucking branding. Branding, if you can really see it, it’s godamm heteronormative (to name a root of evil), it tells you to pick a side and stay on it, and don’t make people confused. It’s forced individuality, which is strongly superficial.
Some artists don’t have much control or interest over visual compositions, they care for the materials as long as they pass the message. Sometimes they lack the obsession that makes you find deeper associations. Sometimes it looks like crap.
I mean, I am suspicious over surface, over harmony, but also over detachment. I think you can really read intention in art, always. Read the artist. But this is another theme, the artist in work.
I’m out now, anarchic critic style.
Claude Bornet for Marquis de Sade’s Juliette