last 5 years, every Sunday I come to the Garden of Art to exhibit my pictures, I say to explain and not to sell, because, first, do not always sell and second-which is the most important - because my relationship with painting is that of Andy Warhol or Botero. I paint because the bizarre parade of all that look, sometimes, I smile a glimpse of a leaf, a feather of an angel, a mane of a unicorn or apple bite primal yet. I want to paint the paradise from which we were expelled and that, despite everything, still surviving here and there a fragment, for I am convinced that neither God with all their fury got annihilated. Paradise is here in snippets, in the light and the hand is in water clarity and the way the clouds are blurred (not in the clouds, but on its dissolution), is in the smell of bread and in flexible assembly experienced by bodies in intercourse, is in the earthy feel of snow in the mouth and the warm weight of the hen that sits to hatch, it is in so much and looks so unexpectedly in many places my work seems to have unity. Paradise was even here in the Garden of Art, in the space shaded by the branches of this tree and occupying which measured the width of four trestles. Yes, he was a painter, a classmate who came with his work when least expected. And I live stalking occurrences of Paradise did not know him at first. I was busy, as now, explaining to a client my work, trying to make him see that the value of the bread of this painting is not hyper-realistic effect that causes the airbrush, but the fragrance of peace with which he says: "All is well, no matter, is "I was enthralled with my own roll and did not pay attention to the smile that did not depend on short lunula from his lips, but a light that came from within, as light comes from inside of a watermelon pit . Came and mounted their works, I waved hello and I replied with a cold grin. Paradise
But come when you do not wonder then, hiding and for a long time, working in silence his next appearance. And that's what happened to it: the Sunday routine with the camaraderie of fellow bohemians of the disguise, a painter most of all the compas. While our pictures, faced as they were, began a profound dialogue, began exchanging reflections and little by little, as if running on roads asymptotic, became more similar. Neither of us noticed it, because our paintings come from far away, my stroke was without texture and correct (as befits the airbrush), hers was long and trembling, there was no point in common between my air brush and the violence of his knife, and where more plunged the difference was in palettes: mine committed in whites, the stridency of his in a blue and orange and yet, our works were brother and me, at least, were becoming less heavy me on Sundays.
And is that Paradise is traitor crouches and jumps, it is flooding all quiet until one day, suddenly, appears with evidence is undeniable and lightning burst that blinds and stuns. This revelation came the day when the two arrived with a work identical. The reason was the water, a sphere of water against a white background, everything around her was white and the brightness seemed impossible. Install the paintings on easels and on turning to greet me I realized that Paradise was in it. She, as always, gave me a smile of friendship, but to realize the absolute convergence of advanced works to upset me. I wanted to talk about the miracle, it's plagiarism. I was shocked by the surprise and mumbled in her indignation grew with every word and became eloquent. I understood nothing and understand everything she believed. For me it was the first time that Paradise was maintained, it was not a mere flash elusive and the more dilated that presence, I became more incoherent.
Seen from outside, everything was working against me since the failure to answer the charges was only the failure of a summary trial which was summarized in one sentence: You're despicable, he said, and, yet, at that time, I could not understand what that was happening externally. Collected his paintings, easels and left. I was ecstatic seeing, contemplating how he was going, how Paradise away with it, how it was shrinking in perspective, how is concentrated in a last point of light that engulfed the landscape background. Only then reacted: I wanted to reach, explain, tell him what it meant to me. But it was not. There was at the bottom of the landscape, or the right or the left side of the street. I stopped running, what if he had?, What sense it could have for my musings about Paradise? I stopped and let myself be overcome by gently melancholy.
Weeks later, I find, had moved to the other end of the Garden, but it was not her, had returned to his palette knife and her wild screaming. He saw me, turned his face with the same contempt and I stepped back. It was not worth entering into explanations, because if something I know is that Paradise is not recovered, is Pt.
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