To become a maestro, one must find himself. Wax on, wax off. Gaze in your navel. Tied to my infinite schedule of getting out of bed and find a way to paint something different then the day before, write about it, film the people around me drinking beer, not worrying but probably still do, me questioning them, and questioning the hero’s from yore, Van Gogh, Picasso, Chagall, Beckman, who were they seeing, what were they thinking, why am I acting like I’m one of them? Why still paint (figures)? Am I an old fashion? Happy to be alive, knowing them all, knowing probably more. It’s all irrelevant, it’s 2015 or something, get over it, act natural. Natural? Get some money, get some papers, go back to school. Yes, school. Find out. How to apply? Silent monologue typing out loud. Must be alone the rest of my life, painting till time finally ends, world out of breath. No, no! Behave. Must educate other people, must reach my audience, must learn from others! Read different books, go out, catch some sunlight.
Who am I as a painter, writer, filmmaker? What’s there to give back too the world? What do I care what other people think of my work? Of me as an artist? Why would I want other people to paint? Please no, let me be the only one, don’t do it, be blessed. Final words, please. Back to work. What to write, what to paint? Maybe you’re right, a little poem, good idea. Therefore, I tell you, I am the artist.
“Since Adam and Eve, till paradiso comes:
Idleness, crying babies and politics.
I’ve got twenty six symbols and a few colours
To force emptiness on her knees
For the Bible tells me:
How long wilt thou sleep, O sluggard?
When wilt thou arise out of thy sleep?
Rise, take up thy brush, and paint.”