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I
was four years old when my parents gave their neighbours a
present; it was a present for their wedding: a beautiful richly
decorated plate. A four-year-old child always thinks the present
he sees is for him. After I had realised this plate was only
meant to spend a very short time in my home, I declared I
was going to paint it (my confidence was the confidence of
innocence), so that I could keep it with me for ever. This
declaration did not particularly move my family; they only
saw an oasis of calm ahead, while I was going to work.
My
big sister gave me a sheet of drawing paper and the box of
water colours she used at school. A few hours later, I had
become the attraction of my family, after they had seen the
first painting of my life; I could not read nor write but
I could paint and reproduce a still life, with the necessary
childish touch that made the painting personal. After that,
the painting was framed and I became the Mozart of the brush,
for my family. Afterwards, I took my brushes again and painted
landscapes and still lives. They often framed my pictures,
which rooted my belief in my emerging artistic streak.
When
you are a schoolboy, you often have a go at stamp collecting;
that is how I fell in admiration with a stamp showing
Henry MATISSE's blue ladies. Supreme revelation,
intense visual shock, extreme explosive emotion. This contemplative
admiration showed me what the real painting, the painting
with a soul, was; all other kinds of painting were instantly
ditched, and my previous works received a dreadful blow.
MATISSE
was beauty.
I was bullshit.
I had found my master in him.
Long
years went by, much too long years. One thing was logical
for me: whatever I would do, I would put no soul in it, for
only MATISSE had been able to do so. I kept this state of
mind, in spite of the First Prizes I got while I was at school.
By and by, I was drawn by the world of show-business which
gradually fascinated me. Thus I rubbed shoulders with many
stars, each one nicer than the one before. In such a situation,
you see the flaming aura of their world: these people give
themselves to the others. On the other hand, all the mediocre
parasites who gather around them make this world impossible
to live in. I was probably too sensitive to stay in this sphere,
so I turned to the world of business and stayed there for
quite some time.
There,
I discovered a jungle where I observed many types: pretenders,
traitors, the vapid and the politically incorrect, worms and
werewolves, and a few worthy ones, who often walked off the
beaten track, like me. As to the rest, they merely take from
others.
These
two different spheres wage a bitter war, and they both disappointed
me. So, I decided to go back to the world of my pictorial
emotions.
LE
CONDOR
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