There was a man, he came into being, and he lived… He was born every morning and died every night. He created to see, otherwise he couldn’t perceive … People moved around him, and he painted their motions. People moved so fast that they saw only the visual side of things and made a big thing out of it. The man wasn’t interested in that. Why? - Because he couldn’t stop. He had no alternative.
People thought he did what he did for pleasure, for beauty, others thought he had nothing else to do. Only one person knew what he was actually looking for and that person was him…Who is hurt by permanent protest but the one who protests? I know that but only confrontation can reveal the truth…
And there was a Trout that swam against the current. As the time passed he felt the world around him. He used to go where the live emotions swam and caught them. Then he would return to canvas. Emotion deadly but short. In a few hours everything was over - the man was happy. But for half an hour only…
One hour passed and he would return to fishing on emotions again complicating his existence. Who needs that, but him? He walked in the streets mechanically and thought of compositions, symbols, forms and most importantly, he thought of colors. He worshipped and sacrificed the cult of color everyday.
Art is just a word, it doesn’t bite, doesn’t humiliate; for some it’s a harmonious unity of sounds, some need it as a Shelter, others enjoy art after lunch. Only few can get into its heart, than climb out on your shore and perceive your works.
I believe such people exist. I started with caressing colorful tubes on my way home. I loved it but I squeezed it at home all the same. Color is most powerful substance in the world and it survives everything, even time… I like the idea that one can’t pass the same river twice.
Rules are is static and dead. Who can see the horizon? I’m trying and I am glad. Not a work is similar to any other. It’s very interesting to me. When artist acquires one specific face, one image - he is destroyed. To learn painting is to analyze one’s own feelings. I don’t want to be granted tasteless, ready information. Painting is not a profession. It means moving forward to one’s own personality! The road is very long, hard and interesting at the same time.
Canvas is a source of information the spectator shouldn’t get annoyed with the first emotion. It is a process of perception, a dialogue not with the artist, but with ones own personality through the work of the artist.
My works have little in common with beauty - painting is more important. We all have our own criteria of beauty. My criterion is individualistic, curved and marvelously broken.
George Areshidze
