The silence, I’m alone here, outside there’s the night, everything is still and sleep is starting to return. I don’t know who I am nor what I’m doing nor what I want, I don’t know if I’m old or young, maybe I’ve got hundreds of thousands of years to live, my past is disappearing into a grey abyss…
Alberto Giacometti, ‘Paris Sans Fin’
giacometti’s set of lithographs ‘paris sans fin’ have power, and vision. the words which accompany them, written by giacometti, are in french and i suspect they lose something with translation. i do not know if the above quote accurately represents giacometti. the drawings evince an artist enthralled by the world around him – struggling to understand it; and struggling as though there can be nothing in himself (or of himself?) which cannot be mirrored outside
after all we are all made of that same stuff. everything is made of this same stuff – then as well as now.
that being the strength of the drive to develop the drawings – the strength of the need in the drive – here (at that time, and over the six years it took him to create the – maybe unfinished – series) his art is of a standard wherein he can achieve these feats. his understanding has reached a state enabling him to do what he did.
the words sit next to the drawings and function therein. perhaps.