I call myself a “compulsive perfectionist”. All I do, in life as in art, is draw with cutting, definite gestures a space for thought and imagination. I could say that I am more of a portrait maker than a landscape one, as my attention tends to focus on traits that implode, force themselves in a movement inward, rather than explode in an outward boost.
But I am not satisfied with that. I need to get into into the image just created, trait by trait, spot by spot, atom by atom, photon by photon, if you will allow me the metaphor. Compulsively. Looking for a perfection that is far beyond my reach.
Fact is, nothing is definite and predictable in my art and in my life. Not a single stroke, not a single thought.
After looking at the canvas, I first draw a line, which is already made without an excessive use of control and pre-determination. My hand goes, my feet walk, my eyes watch, and I let them do it.
After that line is drawn, as minuscule as it may be, the world has changed its shape: new forces are lying behind the surface, struggling to win their race to the surface, forces which are the bricks of our sentient life.
When I look at the canvas one time more, and when I feel the urge again and a connection is made, I draw another line. And the process continues and continues, for many many times, down to the last, ultimate and initially unforeseeable stroke, which is a painful one, because I thereby accept my weakness and failure to keep the process going, but it is also the uplifting signature of my temporary presence in this world, watching it grow and pulsating in my hands, metamorphosing the time and space of anyone who looks at the painting, including the author.
Compulsively adding strokes to the canvas, I send impulses to the world around me, to the space on the wall, to the eyes of the watcher. To the person I am talking with (or that is reading me), or to the air I breath; to a stranger on the street, or to the reflection in a mirror. The world is an infinite canvas where infinite painters paint their infinite acts. And each act, changes the canvas.
With my painting, with my life, I ache for perfection by playing a game of unfathomable actions, mutating and pulsating, metamorphosing themselves on the canvas which, when we look at it, mirrors the metamorphosing of our life itself, searching for balance and relationships, in a sort of Shakespearean meta-theatre that I could call meta-art.
In the painting, we see a pulsating world acting like a mirror and a bullet at the same time. In fact, it not only “shows” or “remembers”, but it also provokes the watcher to a painful reaction: it makes him shift from a superior position on a pedestal, to the unprejudiced, cathartic experience, of bathing in the sea of existence, which can be awakening. We experience the time and space inexorably passing by, pushing and pulling us to be a different self every single moment of our life, and still, quite magnificently, always the same.
Riga, February 2016