Jewish art is no fool fish at the sixt level but a painting wich vibrates in colors like a harp for hope, a Triomphe of a free psychotical symbolic who cares for a 'non' reality in the mind, as a part of a dream into existence because it isolates an expressiv esthetic in colored motion. Looking by broken notions upon ourselves to illustrate a sensitiv univers witch is thinking about an idyllic psychological refuge ; such as a view is rather utopian, seperate from Societal Ratio Mania, essentially charmed & characterized by a pseudo free choice witch rules out being for the ultim subject as a new object, instituting the symbolic desorder that seems opaque, however, of what it means for the silken silly mind without real meanings for the sens of reality. A fool is in fact a fool and gives us a terrifying masterpiece of monu-mental creation reaching for the level in lights a kind of mosaic sky in the mind to a yellow and pink substance wich kept off the hovering flesh in associations with interpretations of this and other dreams or indeed pleasures. It contains no limits in alchemical radical radiation structure and expression into a new artistical view without imposed system anymore. It looks in fact as an individual value, with own satisfaction in fiction on this creation, for an existence of mind wich is living and suffers. It's a significant duel between cartesian rationalism & the fool, standing in love on the bright side in the garden of hapiness. A common virtuous action in this part of art exclamation in the kind of a mistaken idea that we are just in the reality, without consolation than to live in a mysterious kind of metaphysical point of view concluding energy. The artist with his fascination for a new contemporarie vitality in a pictural tradition of broken existentiality, in all kind of minds for ever.
elle tremble sur le méridien et domine l'innommable simplicité du rien bien
pendant que mon éveil lent avec larmes entoure mes mots en trace entre rochers déjà dénudé et collé aux ventouses le roseau à la lisière cahoteuse la pénible marche avec mains de glaise étroites l'amour comme une miette dans l'infini de l'oeuf du Moi
pendant que irrévocablement toutes ses branches lourdes tombent dans les yeux habités du poète empoisonné