"Grodek - An Hommage to Georg Trakl" A.O.C Triptic 167 x 182 2009
"The nothing that is not there" Entirely in B&W and Paine´s Gray- A.O.C Triptic 200 x 70 2009 (sold)
Rodrigues da Costa Collection - São Paulo
It´s been a long time since I´ve discovered that inventing worlds was pretty much than just borrowing images to real and wishing recollections.
Dealing with these parallel and subtle strangenessess molded my whole understanding of what I see and what I suppose with the freedom and glory that art may grant, even to the most inarticulate misinterpretation of the facts.
But I keep on stretching the longest eye I can wear through every single gap I may find, perhaps to name and recognize the human condition, its tragic colors and delight.
So, I dialogue with the meaning perplexity somehow occurs to me, the anti-aristothelic tempo for disbelief, without any standards but the solely and ultimate drama and indictment of our misplacement in a universe we barely know how to spell.
Such a repertory had to follow other instinctive indisciplines and so, the grace of having all the geniuses composers at the reach of my hand could only evolve into an intense apprenticeship and burglary I commit against the ideas they may hide in their music.
I sit at the table with Palestrina and Cage, Mozart, Délibes and Debussy, Beethoven and Bernstein and with them I have the improbable dialogue.
But, how to unveil it if not by wrapping it again and again with other mysteries? After all isn´t it the matter of knowledge and history, adding layers of doubt, what I call "atmospheres of doubts" over gigantic primal questions?
That´s why the geographies I invent to conceal my works on are so petrified, the cities have no name and the lights are but to attract me to the gardens of miniaturized dreams in layers made up.
There are other seasons I deposit back in every single door, window, arches that lead to winding tunnels, all for the sake of subversion and amusement. I hope to understand the doubt in Kipling, Conrad, Jack London and Verne...we, in the womb of nature, fighting to decipher either if there´s essence prior to existence or it is the contrary, whatever carries up the flame, if this flame is about our natural arsonry or to light and warm our shelter up.
So, it comes up like a tranvestite style, unaware shapes to tell fables once upon a time of modular happiness and the vaguest ideals transfigured onto minimalistic slogans, the pop-dogmas, the way one can survive by imorally getting to know a 10 effect phrasing list. And they rule!
Never wanted to get rid of the vernacular, for the scent of the country I´ve imagined mine produced millions of idiossincratic perfumes indeed and once I take the chance to stroll along the streets of the dreams I dream about, I know that every corner, every subtle light ray and blind walls, all of them are but extensions of the handicraft of my wanderings.
I intensely love others´artists art, I recognize myself in some of them either structurally or formally. It doesn´t matter whether they instigate my passion for recondite mysteries or cheer pale truths up, I love so many so much and keep on reading, listening, touching and experiencing what they produce.
I would never forgive me if I´d paint with my eyes only...actually, I couldn´t do it. It´s rather natural that my expression comes from and with my interpretation of politics, intolerance, violence and whatever the lack of taste brings on with it.
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