Circles Squared

Svaki trenutak naših susreta slavili smo kao bogojavljanje sami na ovom svetu a Ti, hrabrija i lakša si bila od ptičjeg krila stepenice si vrtoglavo preskakala  i kroz vlažni jorgovan vodila u svoje carstvo sa druge strane ogledala. Kada bi pala noć milost si bila meni poklonjena – kroz oltarska vrata otvorena tvoja nagost u mraku je sijala i polako se naginjala... I budeći se govorio sam: “Budi blagoslovena” znajući za smelost mog blagoslova a ti si spavala i plavetnilom vasione kapke da ti dodirne pružao se jorgovan sa stola; i plavetnilom dodirnuti kapci bili su mirni i ruka topla; a u kristalu su pulsirale reke pušile se planine svetlucala mora kristalnu kuglu na dlanu si držala na tronu spavala i Bože paravedni:  bila si moja. Probudila si se i preobrazila svakodnevni ljudski rečnik i govor se napunio zvonkom snagom a reč “Ti” - dobila novi smisao  i značila: Care na svetu se sve promenilo čak i obične stvari: lavor, bokal...

Ogledalo Ogledalo Stalker Ivanovo detinjstvo Nostalgija Andrej Rubljov Nostalgija Nostalgija Ogledalo Solaris

“What is art? (...) Like a declaration of love: the consciousness of our dependence on each other. A confession. An unconscious act that none the less reflects the true meaning of life—love and sacrifice.” Art is born and takes hold wherever there is a timeless and insatiable longing for the spiritual, for the ideal: that longing which draws people to art. Modern art has taken a wrong turn in abandoning the search for the meaning of existence in order to affirm the value of the individual for its own sake. What purports to be art begins to look like an eccentric occupation for suspect characters who maintain that any personalized action is of intrinsic value simply as a display of self-will. But in artistic creation the personality does not assert itself, it serves another, higher and communal idea. The artist is always a servant, and is perpetually trying to pay for the gift that has been given to him as if by a miracle. Modern man, however, does not want to make any sacri...

... There are no great masters left. That's the real evil of our time. The heart's path is covered in shadow. We must listen to the voices that seem useless in brains full of long sewage pipes of school wall, tarmac and welfare papers. The buzzing of insects must enter. We must fill the eyes and ears of all of us with things that are the beginning of a great dream. Someone must shout that we'll build the pyramids. It doesn't matter if we don't. We must fuel that wish and stretch the corners of the soul like an endless sheet. ...