Letter to an artist
Andrea Pagnes
Andrea Pagnes /crack smoker (selfportrait) 2007

To mark the beginning

It looks like a black line, rising at dusk. A sharp purple-grey cloud that becomes obscure and then grows endlessly. While it rises, the sky Ė with all its stars - begins to darken in my sight.
Picture it! It is as if someone Ė which I never knew - has abruptly rang my bell, warning me that soon Iím going to get lost, drifting away for this oppressive silence that lasts inside myself forever. A silence always equal to itself, although capable to change the surface in various different ways. A silence ingrained into this past of mine that seems to me so strange, so vague.
Between reality and me there is a veil that my thoughts cannot tear apart. Will you simply think at yourself?
Just yourself, if only for a second.

Living together with others

Someone says that anything is transcendental and it is more or less real, just like reality - rainbows, seas, continents, mountains as well as every single being, every single animal, every single object.
Although many times I feel like I am dying, I still continue to ask from Art a way to reveal my soul to me. So my mind can freeze for a moment while it understands that I, actually, I exist for real, that Iím truly made of flesh, nerves, blood, energy.
Sometimes my lips whisper a love song, or I teardrop instinctually, crying for someone I do not know yet. Are we really able to love with that kind of love we really need and wish for ourselves?

Meanings and quest

I guess I would be quite happy if I could blow away every single one of my thoughts, every single motion, in order to let myself drown deeper and deeper in an empty life, just ordinary: prosaic work and no knowledge at all. Stupidly, if not shabbily joyful, I would drink the water of this human existence without asking where it is its source.
Sometimes, I wonder if happiness exists only for those who know that they can no longer feel it. When I come to the mystery, and I understand it, Iím frightened. Are you?
No, art canít speak about itself, at least not this particular form of art which you feel is yours and you nourish through. Nevertheless, I ask you not to doubt it. Sometimes, in your eyes, it might seem too much, or not enough at all. I ask you at least not to doubt your suffering, because you will suffer much more and in vain, if one day youíll realize that you doubt it.


Different languages

I admit I do not know how to speak your language, that is, the language of your art. Nevertheless, I tell you that profoundly and still more profoundly, inside this heart of mine Ė I feel a sentiment. The same as it was that day, when I saw an image for the very first time. Something touched my heart deeply: something happened inside me Ė without being aware of it - something that changed my life. Since then I felt that something was rushing and rushing inside me, through my veins, enrooted its seeds into my spine.
I love art, trying to love it as love loves. I do not know any other reason to love art, rather than simply love art. What can I say, more than this? You know what I mean. I just want to say to you that anytime I talk Ė or write Ė about art isÖ that I love it. Sometimes I suffer that someone can just reply to what Iíve said and not to my love. Anyhow, as I told you, I do not take anything for granted: I will never ask art for more that it has decided to give me, donít you?

Different sentiments

You can feel love for someone without being there. Without uttering a single word. During your day, you may pronounce nonsensical sentences (everybody does it): in those moments you know you forget yourself and, even if you are going to talk with someone about your art, or just to yourself, you probably may even not remember how much you love it. So, if youíre faithful to your statement or, you have decided it to break it, itís all right as well: rather then speak of anything, just tell about nothing or donít.
When youíll see a work of yours after years, you will not know anymore who you were and where and, it could comes that youíll miss yourself too.

Are you ready to overcome the contrary stream?

I wonder what will happen if someone will see his failure again, in the real life. I do not know, I am afraid, but somehow I sense that everything someone needs is there, in his or her own room. Thatís why I beg you to save it. It doesnít hurt. There will always be moments in which we feel we miss the world outside: but you are like everybody has been before, as you quest is still to come to an end, also when apparently caught in a glaze of stagnating despair. I do not want to frighten anyone casually: nobody in this world has loved art as you love it. Your way is yours, thatís it. Sometimes you have surely felt that your art has not been understood by those in the way you would have wished, but youíve always knew that this is part of the game. However, if a ray of moonlight transforms into a vision, a miracle of pure beauty, the firm waters of a lake, you have good chances.

Why are you so

How can you love being so far and, to be glad only by thinking to be arrived when someone is not arrived yet? Do you have a secret? Donít you want to share it? Be confident. You have always known everything about yourself, although you do not know anything yet. If youíll tell your secrets, you will understand them.
We pray, we love, we cheat, we confuse ourselves, we think, we feel, we warn, we make illusions, we dream for a number of infinite times. Everything we do is in order to help us forget - or bless - our name, cast a spell, look for happiness. And if one day youíll cry once more, caught by the muddy spirals of sadness, you can still decide to share your sorrows with that discipline that you see somehow magic. Be shy, but not indifferent. Shiver, tremble or scream your feelings and thoughts like a fire that shines through the night, before it dies down. Meet in the chaos. Shoot a flash to enlighten your path in most truly complete human way.

Be wrong, never banal.

Andrea Pagnes,  curator, writer, ARTIST