“You see, unfortunately I am an explorer. Today’s youth are living through a period of crisis but also of evolution…” one of them said glancingly.
“Reality lies in the essence of things, “ the other retorted, “and not their external forms. Hence, it is impossible for anyone to produce anything real by merely imitating the external form of an object.”
With a curled lip, one snarled back, “I tried to break the material with colour because what annoyed me was the slavery of the material”
“The artist should know how to dig out the being that is within the material,” the other uttered, “and be the tool that brings out its cosmic essence into an actual visible essence.”
“I deplore people who make a mystique of technique.” One of them murmured, turning away. “Matter must continue its natural life when modified by the hand.”
“Would you like some water?” the other asked.
“Yes, though only to satisfy the taste of collectors. It is a kind of ecstasy of fragile things and half tone. I look for something else. I took a great lump of plaster, gave it the rough shape of a seated man and then threw tar over it. Just like that, as a violent reaction.” One answered.
“ … I believe in a confrontation without mercy between the hand and the materials.” The other muttered, to no one in particular.
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