jewish painter

Circle, Triangle, Square.

Circle, Triangle, Square.

March 10 1930.

His master seems to hide hunting pictures. Heiz chuckles for a moment as she looks up around the room, avoiding the painting. For an instant his heart accelerates, and he stays in rhythm like a pendulum, feeling the oscillation of the skull and undoing that friction of the body to keep it stable in the face of the acceleration of blood flow. There were several in a remote part of the house, the corner of a room. I quickly verify that many did not have a signature and again stepped away. He remembered his teacher's words about the insipidity of art and its objective searches, as if the occupation of that task of portraying the hunting of the hare or the fox, was the antithesis of painting as he had said.

It is a previous search of his teacher, secretly find a fetish in returning over some field that determines a sacrilege. Under the guise of governing it or revealing the secret of its existence. You just don't like it, but it's something that exists and you should evaluate it because suddenly you could be wrong. Heiz again repeats, that his master may be wrong because we can't rule everything.

In his first encounter with the painting the hunting of the hare. Heiz perceives the density of the color, suddenly more than all the paintings he has seen, and he feels euphoric. Excited, he leaves the painting on its side and waits a little while. There was some expectation of an expansive epic nature. Heiz thinks that she had entered a painting for the first time in her life, and that it was so easy. There is a saying, you fall into hell. He is not falling, he is entering. He's taking strange steps.

The end result could be an unfinished task, the tireless search through all the nooks and crannies. The secrecy that keeps those thick gardens of nature of indefinite space and that can continue underground, a parallelism that is infinite. The paintings had the painting the objective search of man, the triangle his objective position which is to be in the middle of a task that already takes time, and the circle as that indefinite task the size of a garden that is as extensive as the world itself where the hare can hide, that thorns and brambles cross it like spells, strange penumbras that come out like lightning from the trees and smudge lights between dark and fine threads of celestial light, almost miraculous, turning the paths intertwined and sometimes impassable but full of secrets.

An environment with the texture of stagnant water, immovable like that of a lake, since there may be tunnels beneath it, countless tunnels, turning the lake into a mere mirror. Exactly, he thinks, being submerged in clearer waters, the mirror of water becomes clear, so clear that he can discover infinity. Repeat, expansion of the world by the hare, exactly, the hare expands the world, a world larger than reality full of hiding places, and tunnels, which make the lakes magical mirrors.

magic mirrors.

In his opinion, the hunting paintings seem sublime, and have an impact on good ideas, and they had a clear aspect, clear about the search, an infinite search, in that material full of complications for a soul. Again I think of a Eureka, a difficult place for a soul to move, walk, cross and suddenly succeed. after this he will always return to look for those paintings more than any other, always before the aspect of secrecy.

where is the hare and the fox. Now take out the painting, even in the semi-darkness of the room, while soft beams of light coming through the window hit one of the walls. For moments he feels unfolded by the matter. Those thick shoots of honeysuckle made kaleidoscopes where it tirelessly submerges. It is like a game and his heart has to be attached to the pack, and he feels that he is colliding.

You feel that you should approach your teacher on this matter without telling him about those hunting pictures that terrify you so much and that you have removed from your list of what you should study. Again he sits down and wonders about What is the real search, he had a real search, of course not, suddenly yes and it is not entirely clear. He gets up and thinks that there should be one, or should be clear to him by now. Again think that it is the inspiration, it is close.

He speaks to his teacher about the circle, the triangle, and the painting and about his infinite searches, and the reigning state of the reality of the painting over the reality of the observer. He tries not to talk about hunting the hare or the fox, but at times it feels inspiring to talk about the lakes that become magic mirrors, and their ability to activate that internal wheel, that infinite wheel in the human being, blowing on their fire and suddenly taking him to walk in other planes. It is not someone who paints for someone who is free, painting to liberate those who are not free is also a job. He thinks it is something similar to that swastika, that crismon. that Evocation. Again he pays attention to his teacher who is expectant in his still lifes.

Now Heiz asks him about the actual search for the artist. The teacher comes forward before he continues and talks to him about inspiration... he tells him that there are no objective searches and to forget about that matter of wanting to put the world in a sardine can, the minimum is to seek to copy the world made by god and you better be half divine.

He felt afraid... afraid for a moment before that answer... that frankness of his Master who spoke to him in another sense of being a painter, of those ways in which someone is a precursor of that title. That clearly does not define, but that creates a certain pleasure.

Now yes... The search for inspiration begins... as if all history becomes apocryphal and the painter is someone who is born. His teacher tells him that suddenly the painter is someone lost, from a divine place. For a moment she looks at him with indifference, somewhat petty, and distant. For a moment he loses hope. So what are you doing here, doing the work of a shoemaker, a tinker, a tailor? He calms down for a moment without losing his posture, returns to his work and decides to get rid of the matter for the moment and how demanding his teacher is, how demanding and difficult. He still doesn't know what kind of apprentice he is before his master. Suddenly his teacher is someone who has reached a deal with his father, a matter that he does not like to ask and weigh and that he thinks they are not of a disciple and teacher nature as if they left that chosen position.

he finally understands that smoothness of dark clouds, which used to move on an invisible dome and rarely crossed like spray, before not so close, before not prone to disasters on land. He sits before that sky, he can see those cracks, that icy and uncontrolled flame, those disproportionate puffs in an order of danger, and he ponders those enormous sizes the size of mountains. He also thinks that he can swallow them, those flakes are so close to him... and he feels cold, exposed to the world and they can rain on his heart, his soul, his whole being and create cataclysms... he doesn't leave a space for meditate on the road and walk fast at night. He continues to his house in a hostile state, he thinks he is on the run, before that world becomes heavier and swallows him, he already has too much trying to see, as if the darkness of day was not enough for him. And now it rains on his soul and he thinks that at least he has one.

Or suddenly that is the only thing he wants, he gets angry and runs away, it is the only way that the space of natures satisfies him, as if he wanted that invisible world of things, like light, shadows, wind to go through it. The inspiration at the end is to be able to move, to have wings, to be able to move around the square, the triangle, and the circle. Knowing what you are looking for, establishing parameters or recognizing them and having the logic to establish them, also being able to present the variable, fleeting, indefinite as the infinite that underlies everything and makes the content excessive. That crosses the same skin and its infinite parameters, crosses space and its infinite state, crosses feelings and its indefinite spaces. A painter is someone who controls that type of fire and only inspiration knows how to handle it, control it, transport it to the canvas and blow on it. And he will do it, even if he has to copy it, it will be the best copy that a human can make, he will be the best copyist because in the end everyone is a copyist. He shouts it although he is not entirely sure, but he thinks that he should continue.

for a moment he calms down and thinks that his teacher is wrong. the swastika spins, crismon rolls, he is agitated inside and his fire moves. Lakes that become magic mirrors. And that rain that falls on Berlin falls on his soul.