My favourite metaphor is the stew. With age I am learning that fewer ingredients of better quality are the best base. And that the art is in the method.
Illustrated reflections on art and life.
I am convinced that everything in nature, and in life, is complementary. We can’t just inhale or exhale, we have to do both, and in order.
When art is good and it reaches us, we understand it with that bit of ourselves that understands that which can’t be explained.
Nothing is possible until it is. Einstein said that to prove something new, first one had to be able to imagine that it was possible.
Sometimes the void of ignorance is better filled by the imagination than by knowledge.
Art hides a truth that it can’t show, because it would betray its etimology, but that has to be there, because if it isn’t, it wouldn’t be art.
Klee, who suffered the consequences of crisis, wars and nazi madness, kept being able to create subtlety.
Without children there is no humanity. To say that something as important as the destiny of humanity is incompatible with art is absurd.
Even if it might seem trivial, colours matter. I am convinced that a more joyful palette would contribute towards taking us out of the crisis.
While we waited for the tea we marvelled at the fact that time passes so slowly when the space is irritating.
When I discover an artist that did decades ago what in my mind is barely the sketch of a possibility I suffer a kind of artistic-existential short circuit.
In art, form always wins over content. If the content is protest content and the form is conventional, the piece is conventional.
The ones that defined the former rules should not be allowed to define the new ones because we have already seen how badly they worked.
Choosing what to copy and what not to copy, apart from being a tribute, is a selection process. And it says a lot.
I believe is that for art to exist it has to be possible to differentiate what is art from what is not.
What a strange exhibition. I love strange exhibitions. They are the perfect antidote against the banal prevailing miasma.
The madonnas of the cinquecento, or the quatrocento, or from wherever, aimed better than I did.
Why is women’s work understood as a derivative of their condition and if a man does the same it turns into something that concerns humanity?