In the afternoon I was painting on the terrace. Although the artistic adventure did not end, I have managed to displace stains and smears that were crosscut with a variety of lines. It’s all good. Sheltered under a wide roof, I was listening to the silent drizzle of a light rain. In the distance, barely audible, a radio is being heard from the neighbour’s courtyard. Oddly enough, it is not folk music, but classical. Very strange, I thought to myself. He stopped breeding pigs, and the air was filled with freshness of negative ions instead of the stench of the excrement piled up adjacent to the wall separating us. Inevitably, that was a huge loss for the Dadaistic order of thoughts in organizing a painting. I’m trying to degust the taste of the offered peace.
Determined as a soldier, with stained fingers I squeeze the colour tubes. Spelling in my head the English print on labels. Neapolitan yellow and emerald green. They sound like titles.
Without any malice, I demonstrate my mastery of the situation. I’m scoring out this composition of escape from everyday life, yet this beginning is promising, as far as I’m ready to believe in it. I smile, and obliquely stretch my lips. A master of his own, submissive to the painting.
The night is approaching, and there is not enough time. The obligations persistently and inexorably lurk the opportunity, as if they were only waiting for me to get tired and drooped so that they could finally subdue me with their burden.
I know all the tricks.
I’m planning my strategy.
When they accumulate, I prioritize and eliminate. There is no planning nor organizing. Later I take a bite of the leftovers, not allowing them to get stale, not letting them stay in one place.
Not allowing them to grow roots, that’s important too. The point is in the freshness of the afternoon and in the smell of turpentine. It is massaging my pituitary gland.
Freedom resides only in choice.