I am not and have never been, a painter or any other established or known form in the area of art. I am only the unconscious designer of emotions, which I catch like birds with their huge wings, which make the shadow, which make the current when they struggle, which leave a blinding sun through their feathers in the fright of the air, which pluck you with their beaks their soul like a pear, who grab you like tiny prey in their claws and don’t just let you go above ground when you no longer interact with gravity, but just drift.
In the twilight that dripped smoothly like a string of golden honey over the wheat field, Andrada closed her eyes under the fatigue of a whole day that seemed to have lasted forever. The sun, stupid and empty, like a child who does not want to sleep, played hide and seek among the tall whiskers, painting them in yellow, orange and red tones, a living picture of nature breathing under the canvas of the sky. Andrada, with her face that seemed sculpted from light and shadow, had fallen asleep facing the sky, where the angels were just beginning their evening dance, to a harp and a cup of nectar.
Her story begins on a summer day, when the Sun spreads its rays over the endless field. The woman in the image is caught in a moment of reverie, eyes closed, breathing in the scent of the warmed earth. Her face, painted in blue tones, melts into the landscape, the contours becoming one with the surrounding nature. Because Andrada is unborn. The mysterious girl is the suggestion of mature purity, shrouded in long-gone yellow-purple sunsets.
This hunger for colors is a testimony of life that, through brush and color, managed to capture the essence of an ephemeral moment and transform it into an eternal experience. The viewer, you are invited to lose yourself in the details of the painting, to discover your fakeness, your canines, your jaws full of nuts and minced meat, your bulimia of meanings and feel the emotion that inspired this non-painting. I know we are 2 idiots: You and Me! Let’s bathe, let’s bathe in the Profiterol of thoughts in the molasses before the honey, in the thick light like a yogurt from the country with the fields bursting with juice, with a broken head running after Andrada so he doesn’t take your bike.
„The colors enveloped everything in an aura of mystery, every emotion that had illegally touched the canvas, driven by an unseen hand, seemed to have captured a fragment of the soul, a piece of the dream of a day from the fairy tales. On her face, the blue line of the lips was like a promise of the silent and cool evenings after the burning days of August, and the shadows and lights that entwined on his forehead, raised fine veils, like secrets, murmuring in unknown languages”.
No words are needed because, while the night falls and the first stars begin to twinkle timidly through the dark blue, Andrada’s soul, free in its physical cage, walks through its dreams, embraced by the rays of the last glimmers of day. His face, now hidden, in an apparent disorder of colors and shapes, guarded by the painted universe, becomes the altar on which time places its offerings, where every moment is petrified into an eternal moment of beauty.
It sounds selfish, but the colors mix in a vibrant dance, it’s not tango or Jive, it’s just Kizomba in sync with the air around. The yellow of the wheat, the red of the wild poppies, the green of the leaves – all intertwine in a raw vibrating scribble, like an over-broken refrigerator, shaking with the floor and simultaneously with the energy of life. It is more than just a representation; it is an expression of pure emotion, of restlessness that swallows silence with its mouth full.
Andrada
….lies now, like a bride or scent of colored sequins, a spot of blue in the dense braid of warm tones.
The tenderness of her lips, furrowed by whitish skins, sunny, sensual, seems to whisper unspoken stories, and her eyelashes, long and dark, keep the echoes of a deep subconscious sleep.
He seems to have spread his dreams on the canvas, like a blanket, and lent his face to this world where everything is possible, where the boundaries between fantasy, confused reality and the juggling of a young ballet dancer are just thin lines of blood under the thin skin of the world.
The contours of non-being are blurred, not out of clumsiness, but with hidden purpose, as if to teach us that true beauty lies in the imperfection of each moment we experience.
The work „Andrada asleep at sunset in the wheat field” is not just an introspection of art, it is a journey into the depths of consciousness, where every drop of color is an unspoken word, where every shade is a line of a poem that not yet written, of a girl yet unborn.
Wheat is not simple vegetation, but becomes the wave caught in time, a yellow sea that breathes under the canvas of sunset. In this tear-like moment, time has stood still, and Andrada, a deity of the harvest, of nature, of life itself, rests her head on a pillow of ears of corn. She does not sleep, she is sleep itself, she is the dream from which each of us does not want to wake up.
Every stroke and note, tenth and semitone removed from the painting knife with which the light is sliced like a gentle animal, reconciled to itself in the slaughterhouse, is a word of a secret language, a letter of the primordial alphabet from which the world was woven.
And so, „Andrada fell asleep at sunset in the wheat field” becomes a non-art work that transcends simple description, a manifesto of the soul in front of infinity, a whisper of eternity in the ear of our silent existence.
Andrada, sublime and enigmatic, becomes a metaphor for human nature itself – complex, full of contradictions and ever-changing. Echoing Dali, her portrait transcends mere representation, inviting us to explore the subconscious layers of existence.
Warhol would have appreciated the way the everyday is transformed into a sculpture, while Basquiat would have found resonance in the raw and spontaneous energy of the canvas.
Andrada dreams in her shoulder blade full of elderberry scent, to be the rescue of a fallen bird from beyond the air.
Andrada fell asleep at sunset in the wheat field , 50×70 cm, oil on cartoon, is a work from the exhibition „Centaurs behind the Mirror”>>
See more works on the Facebook group enLife art>>
Other articles about the exhibition „Centaurs behind the Mirror”>>
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