A walk in the city. A coffee in hand. Looking around slowly. Almost invisible, with a magic hood, barely two eyes amongst flowing people. A woman with red painted fingernails clutches her friend’s shoulder in a powerful gesture.
A gray-blue vagrant looks for refundable goods in the trash can and glances around as if with the request not to be watched. A green and yellow spring child chases a dove like an equally strong playmate.
It is a world of colours that focuses on the framed view of the moment and then loses itself again in the vastness. On the whole, it surges and weaves. Also individually. Moving existence, intertwined, illuminated, multilayered and mysterious. There are corners and edges, soft curves and delicate brushstrokes. The wrinkle on the cashier’s forehead speaks of a sad story that belongs only to him and yet to everyone. In the laughter of the mother pushing her baby, a whole painting emerges, in the garden in the evening sunlight. In the brief exchange of a glance with a stranger, the deep blue unknown sea sleeps. And they are all beautiful simply because they are works in progress, canvas and brush, stone and chisel in one, even if they themselves cannot always feel it. The aesthetic gaze, the creative sensation, is then perhaps like the hand that knows it is guiding the brush.
