The guy

Yesterday the weather was its most saturated and terrible, the gray wet southern wind blew, athe wether when all men and beast start snapping and being esxcusablly-  unbearable.

The kids where whinging, crying, fighting, refusing to do anthing I asked of them , so I decided to take them for a walk to the supermarket. Take their mind of themselfs.

At the supermakert Floriana wanted a chocholate doughnut, chocholate, tomatoes, spanish strawberries , aduck shaped sponge...., Duje wanted an argentine watermellon, icecreams, to go sausages , sweets, fizzy drinks to look cool with but cant actually stand drinking.. They went on a rampage pulling me by the sleeve and whining on by my knees down there, occasionaly dissapereing behind isles..

While I was cheking out the watermellons, a "firendly but weird guy from our hood" who always tries to give me a gift , appered in his shiney and most insistantley altruistic.

 He grabbed me by the elbow, produced out of himself some broken off flowery branch, and said,
Here you go.
 I said no thank you.
 But he insisted. These are BAGREM. You can eat them.
 I smiled as one deos as said no thank you any way.
 Than the mad man he is holding me by the elbow- with my kids rampaging about hollering all the louder for my apprantley failling to notice them
- he started eating the flowers off the branch.
 Look, look they are eadible !!, he insisted.
I said thank you but I dont need them.
Here ! here!  Oh  I il  give you all of them!!
- he got all the more excited as if we where bartering for a cheap deal on a second hand car- and I won.
 He got into my face ,and I just had my fill of niceties, and his his offering, cactus fruit form the city parks, fir tree blocks cut down by gardners, or childrens clothes and baby dummy  he found by the bins...
Leave me at peace, I have my own life, I dont want those.
 I pulled away from his crazy grip.
Fine, fine
 he shouted like a teenage lover ,broken hearted,
than never say hello to me again when you see me in the street.!!!!
After he ovbiousley vanished into notthing, like a un wanted genie that we was.
I explained to my still whining son- about what had jsut happened- as so he would understand why he could not have his attention at once, and stop his ever louder whining.

On the way out, after we had over stuffer the trolley, as I was paying for our groceries, Duje pointed out- mummy there are those flowers.
The Guy, had left the flowers he had eaten ,
from at the till, for my to find.

....

80 portraits around the art world, project. Dakis Joannou , Log entry. 12. 13. 2019.

 

Dakis and I met up through the Watsup video application at  9. 31, Am and we painted until aprox 10.40 am. Dakis was in his office in Athens, Greece,  surrounded by art works  and I in my studio in Split, Croatia.

This project emerged out of me probably because I became aware that living as a mother artist, with a permeant base in Split where the art scene is very small, an inability to travel much at present,  I lack the possibility of new encounters, of meeting new people who love contemporary art, understand it or with whom I can share and bounce off the passion art is . The project became my window into the art world and a valid reason to meet other art passionate.

Meeting Dakis and exchanging with him, became in the moment of the performance the more interesting element, putting my attention to the painting as second. It is art that connects me to all the muses in this project, however the energy of the dialogue, the personality of the muse and their intuitive reaction to me is a part of the performance. - In fact, it is not a performance, it is a real reaction. A real life moment of interaction. I just label it “performance” to make it more digestible and easier to understand to the art public. For me in fact every performance is not a staged performance but a real life moment in time-the only real theatrical performative element is the organising of time, date, and the space, in which the performance is occurs.

The human encounter in my performance- always carries all the unexpected elements unlabelled interaction carries. Discovery. Curiosity. Humour. Intrigue. Revelation. Respecting of intimacy. Learning. And reaction.   Within the short scope of the painting session, I like to find out some elements of personal history, horoscope signs, personality of the muse, as well as the story of art- which was the reason I had invited the muse in to the project.

I was curious about the favourite works of such a grand collector, and in fact loved the answer Dakis provided. The works he collects reflect the friendships he forms and so his favourite works are those of his close friends.

This I could very much connect to myself, even though my system is very different, we are both people collectors. Dakis often collects the artists into his friendship circle and their art works , while I paint portraits of people ,most often from life- so that I do have the moment with the living person, essentially I have the opportunity to start friendships- which often do result form  a painting session, and then I keep their portraits. We are essentially both people collectors in an art spectrum.

I felt like I was communicating to someone form my planet.

Dakis also showed me some Josh Smith’s works on his walls, pointing out that they are carry  somewhat dark energy, and that he has even darker works in his collection. This intrigued me as I tend to avoid facing owning a darks side, I don’t read the kids or my self sad or tragic books, Im all about the keeping things bright and being up beat ( since leaving my creepy portraits at begging of college phase).  The answer surprised me, which I why I will share it in his log. – In my interpretation Dakis said that the dark intense works create a visual and energetic contrast to the other works. It makes the other works pop and appear even more positive, and visible,  and  it gives a space a more interesting dynamic. Food for thought. I may be able to admit having a dark side one day when I am wiser and not need to hide the  dark paintings I create .

There where many more topics of conversation covered, as happens when people meet, and especially when they are in the sacred live painting moment. But this is not an article, I am not a journalist, the rest you will have to feel form the painting produced.

The painting does resemble the muse, contain the energy and colours of the conversation, even if it is not entirely anatomically correct, because the conversation won a larger part of my attention. It seems like I paint badly when the muse has great stories. I gawp and listen more than observe the paint on paper beneath the screen .

 

80 portraits around the world project, Ernesto Morales, Log.

Ernesto Morales. Painted 6.3.2019. Between 11 am – 12,20.

Ernesto I had met at the Budapest art fair for the first time, so it was not trough the social media that I discovered him by chance. But it was by chance, all the same, as the fairs are busy places over flowing with people and the encounters are random and short. However before painting Ernesto I had seen his art work in real life exhibited at the Milanese gallery in the fair.  His paintings are mystical, hazy and composed of extraordinary materials, such as gold, plants growing in the Amazon, or crushed semi precious gems. Obviously I wanted to hear more about it. There was hardly enough time in the swish swash movement of events in Budapest, so including him in the project was the perfect solution to hear more.

Today he greeted me through the video chat, from his studio in Torino, and I decided to paint from my dining table in Split . I posed the telephone, with the Instagram video chat on- into a fruit stand to perch among apples for support and the perfomance begun.

The conversation  began  , and simultaneously so commenced painting  his portrait in watercolour. Ernesto at some point asked as to what we will do- and was surprised to discover that was painting him without his being aware of it.

The way I paint- is sort of automatic. I converse with the muse- completely attentive to the conversation, my hands and eyes do the job automatically. I do believe that it is the energy of the conversation ,the very energy of the muse that informs the style and colours of my paintings.

Ernesto took me further than the conversation, he took me on a tour of his studio, and showed me  the art works he is preparing for a number of international shows, most excitingly- for any living artist, he is about to exhibit at this summers Venice biennale.

It is very rare and generous to be allowed into the creative intimacy of the studio, not all artists will show their works before exhibiting it , especially to a colleague artist in fear of their ideas being stolen. Ernesto showed me the very alchemic system he has to even make his paint. I have seen or never heard of anything like it. The way he creates his paint, is closer to the way ancient Egyptians made medicine, it is material and spiritual. But it is not my right to disclose his secret recipes, you must find out from the artist him self if you care to know more. 

This is an artist, who loves nature and explores, the invisible elements of our realm, within the very way he creates his materials and his paintings.

The Instagram video, constantly broke up most of what Ernesto was saying to me, So I was receiving only pieces of his words, at times one of two words or half words,  pieces of his sentences, and translating those in my mind best I could. Technology influenced our conversation, slowed it down, broke it up a little, mystified it. And the colours of the screen might have influenced my perception of the muse.  

But in all , I felt like Alice, who entered a new world- as Ernesto shared his, to me through this magical little camera on the phone.

The result of this both ways pleasant and inspiring exchange/art performance, is actually a beginning of new projects among us,  ideas tumbled out even after our painting session. In fact Ernesto has show interest to exhibit In Kastela or Split and spend a while working in Kastel Art Residency,- which I have hosted for the last decade. Very Exciting .

I have not video recorded this session. I do feel that recording the exchange will compromise the intimacy and the freedom with which the muses I paint express.

Having gotten to know the muses features- after studying them with concertation yesterday - We shall do a second painting session in which I will trough the video- paint a portrait on canvass in my favourite larger dimensions 130x100cm.

 

All the things you can't publish , are the best things you have written.

The Bard

The Bard

 

Do you remember that character from the Asterix and Obelix holding an instrument that would always get bound up in rope and tied to a tree? That was a bard.

 

 

I don’t know how Wikipedia would define them, but these creatures still exist among us, even today in this busy, internet, gadget , paradoxical bio, vegan, animal loving– never go out of fashion religious fanatic people killing- space race world.

 

 

A  bard walked in to my life. In to my field. On to my land, in the middle of the grand working on the land day. I recognised him instantly. Not because he had a black hat and a black guitar case – the instrument and the money collecting hat being the two quintessential essential belongings of a bard, a sort  of a functional uniform. But because I had heard him play the night before. He was young and fresh and happy as an apple. Playing some unusual for a street busker -up beat -music, and was really content, as if all his friends where there just around the corner.

 

I passed him three times, each time was delighted by his appartion,and just as he had packed up for the night I decided to drop some money into his hat- which he refused. He thought I was dropping it out of pity, as he no longer was playing. Having I explained that I had heard him earlier and considered him good- satisfied him enough to allow my to pay for his services and drop something into the  hat. Afterwards  I sort of pushed on, clumsily out of the public space, into the night, and away, slightly disappointed about not getting to know the busker.

 

 

The next day , with the noon sun high and hot, with the mountains as a background, he waded trough the tall summer grass into my presence.

 I knew it would be you, I said. I had just received a phone call out of the blue and from abroad, introducing the arrival or some friend who would look for me there miles  away from the city. And he , the bard from last night, had trekked with bus and on foot to come find, me.

 

It was spring / summer, that solstice moment when just the scents of nature make one drunk. He had that sun bleached thing, going on, like surfers do, long hair gone blonde form the sun, tanned skin, rosy cheeks and blue eyes. For instants I hated him. He was pretty much all a girl could want on a summers day in the nature. But he came into my field, on a grand working action day and just lied down like a lion in the shade, to purrr his days away. Did not even play music. What the kind of a guest was that? He helped a while, than criticised my disturbing the nature- which was by far prettier in all its meters of wild grasses and flowers ,that homed the awful snakesthat  scared me. But of course he liked the snakes.

 

Hmmm. To jump to the end. Bards like faries and elfes do exsist.

 

They are not registered in the books of births and deaths and because they float outside of what civilisation deems acceptable. They buzz on the edges of civilisation, in between cities, feed on the money they earn busking, live the life in between people may dream and wonder about but never have the courage or recklessness to live. He plays and sings and makes music about this life in the absolute freedom the un-belonging ness ,on having the stars as a roof, the coat as a house, the random friendships along the endless road. He revitalises  and inspires the souls of the people who for an instant stop, listen, and maybe put something in the hat. Or hungry to live the adventures of the bard, adopt him, grab him for a while to wash him, feed him, suck him dry of this freshness, of his philosophical thoughts arisen from the direct life in nature, anchor him with all the things he is running form, hoovers, set hours for meals, neighbours, the rubbish one has to deal with every day in the city, the human life, which he is not fit for ,which he does not cope in, and than he stumbles  out.

On to the road . safe, walking the eternal change. Safe with the short lived, instantaneous friendships, instant, and more importantly un-permanent. He is thrilled by every meal he eats, the fish caught and baked on a rock by the fire, because no meal is guaranteed. Not even salt is guaranteed. Each detail becomes a miracle. A god given blessing. Each thing which prolongs life, the journey is a wander, and all those comforts we live and do not even notice ,like a roof , like a glass found near a river , are a blessing. There are no plans. The plans are to keep moving somewhere. To eat. To play guitar. To talk to someone. To sleep. To be grateful for all the mercy life bestows. Then also , to run always, keep running, to not belong, but to have the feeling of belonging to all the stops, in many places, among many people, of different languages, and keep going, unable to stop.