les anges se promènent dans berlin

“c’est encore une nuit où les anges se promènent dans berlin”

art… how can we get closer to understanding it. or do artworks want to understand us? how do they make sense of things?

pots, plates, south america, more than a century old.
pictures, sculptures. recognising art. isn’t that the ability to bestow belief on your own imagination?


imagination connects objects to us and makes their aura visible. an artwork cannot live without a viewer. viewers give a picture its soul and allow the picture to breathe life into theirs.

and as the picture enlivens our soul, we create a connection, a connection that gives our life strength and spirit.

there are so many sides to a picture, as many as there are faces and facial expressions in the world. there is no one single story.

in addition to my musings on art, i also want to present works and find, perhaps invent, a story for them. one story from many. the essence probably lies in the oscillations between all the many possible stories, and perhaps, in that movement, lies life.

i do not want the writing of art stories to be an act of writing history, of grabbing hold of something, storing it, suffocating it and fixing it in the past. i want my texts to be personal stories, stories that reach back into the past and all the way into the future, stories that still to this day give a work a strength, its strength. art triggers something inside us and makes us live and love. art will not be constrained by the notion of time and instead only acts NOW.


purpose is left at the door

this is an experiment:

i want my words to draw me closer to the meaning, no, to the soul, and only the soul, of art.

i write, i want to write: with the violence of colour, with the shadows of the present. the blackness and the contrasts, the same tenderness i feel when i sweep my charcoal across the page.

copyright: eva-d


my pictures appear on white backgrounds. white means the possibility of all conceivable approaches. so what does it mean, what is created when i leave a drawing there, on the white?

i believe writing, the process of writing, is like painting. sluggish at first, forms waiting to be found. the censoring thoughts must be held in check. want?

what is this want? why this want?

purpose is left at the door.

where there is purpose, there is no creation.


do artists have a responsibility?

do artists have a responsibility?

do they just float along on their own cloud, or do they have a mission. and if they have a mission, who gives it to them?

he was born there, at home, surrounded by his family. no sooner had he emerged from his mother than he beamed at this new world with bright eyes and an inquisitive mind.

the midwife: “celui la, il va rouler les autres.”


the piano has been drinking(nach tom waits' song)

the piano has been drinking
(nach tom waits’ song)

art: drive. making. losing oneself.


an urge. an action. losing oneself.

the question: why am i doing this?

to open up. to exist beyond the instant hit, to be free, to leave causalities behind. to find new pathways for art, for painting. places where art can do something. in hospitals it can accompany the lonely, give them something to lean on and carry them to worlds far away from pain and disability.

art, what is art?

intensity and truthfulness.

intensity, intensity means giving yourself over to colour or form, fully. the colours expand, the brushstroke drifts across the page.

red flows over the paper, forms puddles, a map of emotion, i need only be able to see it. the brushstroke gives shape to something recognisable, allows the colour its space and plays out its own story and elation. yet it also reacts to the colour, and the colour to it.

where does the difference between painting and the written word lie?

the word clings to my spirit. everyone thinks they can understand. i write to be understood. i censor all moments of simple blabla, of screaming with words, of clashes and big, inky black fanfare.

i am stuck in a word that has been used and used a gazillion times before. the text, moulded from witty references. uuuupsss summm techniko tratra rattattum. schwitters, jandel: the intellectual space is limited no matter what i write.

the colour, a new one every time, and every time a new shadow unfolding on the paper in a manner so surreal.

censorship happens in the mind, but the eye and curiosity are free.

in a lion's wave

in a lion’s wave

painting is like dreaming. it makes sense, is logical in its place, as long as we don’t try to rationalise it.

bang, the dream is over and i am awake. one last attempt to put the scraps of last night into words. hurry, hurry. with every tenth of a second i wait, whole chapters of dream material disappear forever.

painting means sleeping, or dreaming.

or, wait, no, living with art, contemplating pictures, stepping into these worlds made real – that is comparable to dreaming.

in dreams there is no why.



don’t let the sun catch you crying

“every society honours its live conformists and its dead troublemakers.” (mignon mclaughlin)

he sweats, he grasps, he moans, in his lifetime he reaches for the stars. 

isn’t the kingdom of heaven reserved for the dead?

is art like life?

the page is completely white. it is complete.

and now i give it a story, mine, any, its own. even the materials are vital. what paper to use, smooth? rippled, thin, high-grade, thick? what size. will it fit on a normal sized page. and what should i write the story with, a pencil, 3b, hb, 2h, a coloured pencil, chalk, acrylics, watercolours?

don't let the sun catch you crying

what does this all mean for life? are those our circumstances? or are they the tools that we were given to carry on our way. do we have a mission to fulfil? does a picture pursue an explicit goal?

is it about constructing one’s life in beauty and harmony like the portrait taking shape on the page.

and what of the smears, the fears and doubts, the inadequacies, the weaknesses that make a picture so “human”.

so, he reached for the stars.


his father, a swedish missionary of baptist persuasion on a tour to win new followers in deepest france. albi, the seat of a catholic archbishop, as religiously conservative as it gets. the father’s target audience, mostly portuguese, economic migrants, cheated of language and respect.

mother, a norwegian woman at her husband’s side. more about her later.

the father, speaking from the pulpit: my congregation, give your hearts to the lord.

he, a boy just barely three years old, asks his mother what that means.

mother: your heart belongs to jesus. it is your gift to the lord.

he, seeking a solution in peace: he can have my heart, but my head belongs to me.