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–march-13-2014

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.



pencil and pastel on paper, 230 x 110 mm, 2014

pencil and pastel on paper, 230 x 110 mm, 2014



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