The Sea of Meaningless Words


It was quite a long time since I worked on this painting. Something bothered me so I abandoned it for a while. Several ideas came and went just to make me return to the original one. I guess my winter demons were in action. The Waterbirds kept flying around me enveloping me in their watery games. I kept looking for the void, the big emptiness in other people's paintings, aiming to create my own blue void, something to correspond to a feeling I got when I lost myself in their full void. I don't think it works that way, or of it does, it's not that simple. I think I can still hear the Waterbirds whispering simultaneously: "We told you so." Their soft watery whisper slowly fades away, before they reappear and do it all over again. 

The crumpled paper with the lettering, words which don't mean anything anymore. Perhaps they never meant anything. Gilded lines, remnants of a possible illumination taken from somewhere in the middle ages where right now the snow stopped in mid-air while I walk through the empty scriptorium stealing gold from parchment. It was just before the Vikings came and their leader with a long blond braid down his back hurled valuable books into the sea making them worthless, their words meaningless. I stood at the door. He couldn't see me, but he felt me watching him. The wind blew from the sea, whispering words without meaning back at him. The sea is full of them, the crumpled paper in its watery cage. The overcast sky hangs low. It doesn't whisper, it doesn't move, its silent letters just sit there, overlapping. The smell of stone I felt in that medieval scriptorium is still with me while I sip red wine in the light of a crimson candle.




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Na tej sliki me je nekaj motilo, zato sem jo za nekaj časa pustila pri miru. Medtem se mi je porodilo nekaj drugačnih idej, vendar sem vse zavrgla v korist prvotne. Saj vem, gotovo so bili na delu moji zimski demoni, moje Vodne ptice, ki so me obletavale in me zapletale v svoje vodne igre. V slikah drugih ljudi sem iskala veliko praznino, ki sem jo želela ustvariti sama, da bi ustrezala čustvu, ki sem ga doživela ob izgubi v njihovih slikah. Najbrž to ne deluje tako, če že pa gotovo ni tako preprosto. Še vedno se mi zdi, da slišim moje Vodne ptice kako mi simultano šepečejo: "Saj smo ti rekle." Njihov mehak vodni šepet počasi izgine in potem se znova vrnejo.

Zmečkan papir s črkami, besedami, ki ne pomenijo ničesar več. Morda pa nikoli niso ničesar pomenile. Zlate linije, ostanki možne iluminacije, vzete od nekod iz srednjega veka, kjer je ravnokar sneg obstal v zraku, medtem ko stopam skozi prazen skriptorij in kradem pozlato s pergamenta. Bilo je tik preden so prišli Vikingi in je njihov poveljnik, mož z lasmi spletenimi v kito, ki mu je padala vzdolž hrbta, zagnal dragocene knjige v morje, jih razvrednotil in povzročil, da besede ne pomenijo ničasar več. Stala sem ob vratih. Ni me mogel videti, vendar je čutil, da ga opazujem. Veter je zapihal z morja in mu šepetal besede brez pomena. Morje jih je polno, polno je zmečkanega papirja in pozlate. Oblačno nebo visi nizko nad vodo. Ne šepeta, ne premika se, njegove tihe črke sedijo tam in se prepletajo med seboj. Še vedno čutim vonj po kamnu iz srednjeveškega skriptorija, medtem ko pijem rdeče vino ob svetlobi temno rdeče sveče.





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