Sarcina Artist Statement
Pure and full, it moves and is filtered by our past, our view of the cosmos, and of our own being. The clock never stops, neither does the mind, neither the growth of flowers, tomatoes, the grape vines for anyone. Seasons come and go, day after day, year after year. Life moves along.
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We have sad and happy times, one overwhelmes and the other apears like an unexpected rain. It is a desert, whole months without change, and it is the swelling waters which drown with its rush. It is surprising, deep love, unexplained hope, sorrowful. And in the end it cannot be caught in a snapshot. It is lost the moment we try to hold it in our hands, a bubble you try to catch. It is not to be caught but lived, and lived with courage to see it as is, and to celebrate it. It is fragile, tender, a breathe, a ray of light. It is flesh and blood, the heartbeat heard in the brain in silence. It is human, broken, and full of sin. It is holy, divine, a meeting between persons, a moment when peace stays the craziness. Life is the mysterious movements and the permanence of the ocean.
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Painting is an intimate meeting, unbound by time, between persons. More than an intellectual formulation, aesthetic information, or kitsch to salve the tastes of the masses, it somehow participates in the movement and mystery of human life.
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The burden or responsibility, ‘sarcina’, of the artist is to dive into this mysterious ocean, survive, and surface with some fish to share with the world. ~Joel Klepac~
Sarcina
De sus a coborât
în canalizare
în adâncimea mea
A stat lângă mine
la intestinele oraÅŸului
plângând în locul meu
că nu mai aveam
apă nici de lacrimi
„IÅ£i aduci aminte când
am plâns împreună
pe dedesubtul centrului?”
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Sarcina (pregnancy/weight)
from above he descended
into the sewer
of my depths
he stayed next to me
in the intestines of the city
crying in my place
when I no longer had
water for tears
“do you remember
when we cried together
under the city center?”
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“Why, also on awakening from your dream and entering fully into reality, do you feel almost every time and occasionally with an extraordinary force of impression, that along with the dream you are leaving behind something you have failed to fathom? You smile at the absurdity of your dream and feel at the same time that the tissue of those absurdities contain some thought, but a thought that is real, something that belongs to your true life, something that exists and has always existed in your heart; it is as if your dream has told you something new, prophetic, awaited; your impression is strong, it is joyful or tormenting, but what it is and what has been told you—all that you can neither comprehend or recall.” (from The Idoit by Dostoevsky)
