Entropy is an
eschatological murmuration. Surrendering to its cooling protectorate (and its
dull, dire dare) will force an artist to either freeze or flock amok (since
artists and groupishness don’t mix very well). This is a diptych about the
Second Law of Thermodynamics and (objective) tinnitus.
Appendix
In any portrait, chromatic
nutrients are sapped (more or less involuntarily) by the understanding of the
fact that any (untainted) natural process has a (dubious, but unescapable)
destination, and that back-tracking is a (labyrinthine) illusion. Deciding on
the size of your canvases becomes (counterintuitively) trivial, considering
that the (rather) inevitable transfer and transformation of energy will only
lead to more and more (and more and more) (of its) waste. These are the
Physics–rooted reasons why I’ve started this painting (and, in fact, the entire
“Entropy” series) with an en Brunaille intent. But the deluge of potential nuances overwhelmed
the coherence of my work, so stratification (and sublimation) became paramount.
As an architect, I feel at ease tinkering with Sgraffito “frequency responses”. I wanted to propagate them into
the acrylic. Only a Brutalist resolve
stopped me from overwhelming you with ornamental clues that would have
artificially increased the musicality of this work. But I wanted this painting
to reverberate like Arvo Part’s Kanon
Pokajanen, not like Bach’s Goldberg
Variations. Just as I wanted it to smell like adulterated metropolitan
snow, and not like a pastoral summer rain. If my chromatic impulsiveness was
nurtured by Caravaggio (Polidoro da, to be precise), it came to
terms with itself once (K) Malevich
lowered my heartbeat. And trapped inside this trek, there is a (achromatic and ominous) susurration. One can hear it in Rome,
outside the Palazzo Massimo Istoriato,
just as loudly as one can hear it while crashing White on White. I hear it in this work, too. I think it holds an
aviary panache that describes one’s (orderly)
aging migration, which, in turn,
puts a swooshing spin on one’s solipsism. In short, otology trumps ontology. However (once you’ve open your eyes
again), parenthesis trapped the only truths
that mattered, for they were as fungible as stained-glass shards, and the
artist – their jailor, who craved the catharsis of a “Brutalisme lyrique” –
neglected to set them free, too.
UNIQUE ARTWORK
> format: XL > size: 104 x 72cm / (76 x 56cm) x 2
> medium: acrylic painting
> support: magnani paper 300gsm
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on: https://alexandru-crisan.com/
