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As soon as I get up, dress and go out into the early foggy morning, on the way to my atelier, those persistent thoughts a minute ago, suddenly start to run away in a hurry. It is very hard to retain them.
Therefore I have time to manage, to catch one or two by their tales and I am sitting at the table to make all the efforts to describe, to revive with pen and ink.
Now here is the canvas, there’s the brush and the colours…now prove all that! Prove that you have big balls. Do I have to prove? For whom? For myself? For self-esteem or pride? Is it excessive energy or strength? Is it a vein hope for a few dollars? To God? God, where are you? In me? Instinct?
How fearful it is to face the white canvas! Give me some kind of colour…it doesn’t matter what…but not a white canvas!!!! A great fear changes me and takes away all decisions and I feel myself so weak and very unsteady ground under my feet.
The white canvas is starring at me with homerical green. Well, sometimes I feel like running away, it doesn’t matter where. Anything but this!
Then, I am standing in a cold sweat and I try to hear soft whispers, little sounds that give me direction, some kind of little finger from the darkness, pointing to the big intersection of the roads.
Well, here I make a choice: there are hundreds. Blessed are artists who know exactly what they must paint; which way; they have all decided. For them, it is only a question of technique…how to compose lines, colours, forms.
Ok. What are you whimpering about? All that philosophy. What happened? You lost your strength, or what? Your knees are knocking!
Well, go and see the basketball match and everything will be forgotten. We will wait until the next morning, and maybe other thoughts will come.
Ah! Goya! If only he were here! It is interesting what kind of etching he would have made in our golden, civilized, cultured century. But we have a lot of toothpaste and creams, and now we have such good looking teeth!
Alexander
P. Sachal |
