Silvia Gurfein
w/t (canción para cruzar el tiempo),2003
Oil on canvas 50 x 50 cm
Private collection Buenos Aires, Argentina
w/t (canción para cruzar el tiempo),2003
Oil on canvas 50 x 50 cm
Private collection Buenos Aires, Argentina
Cord String Sense Rope Chord Clockwork Thread (*)
(*) The Spanish word “cuerda” can be translated as all of these words.
Time beholds us. Time is horizontal, like a canvas that folds and unfolds, and like water, that runs faster near the vacuum.
Time in painting beholds us, and painting is making all presents simultaneous.
And painting is a snail.
I lose time.
I go out to breathe in the melancholy evening air that speeds up blood and blurs edges, and I am a chilled breath that turns everything to crystal. And I wonder how many times I am going to polish that crystal.
I waste time.
While I walk around the lake house at the side of the mountain, time folds in my head and, at the same instant, two distant spots in my memory touch, meet; now they happen at the same time.
They happen now. I am nine and I am twelve and I am ninety and I am forty-eight and I have not yet been born.
Because, magnificent like a mountain reflected on the beautiful beautiful lake, time looks at me and all is still, waiting, and I am so small and fleeting, I am an instant, and I am going to cry and I leave you these paintings so that they might behold you and you don’t know when now is.
For now, I am going to be still and the same so that you can change, so that the rest can move. Because one part must be constant so that the whole can grow. So I inhibit variation as much as possible to remain identical.
Because I am cord and I am bone.
I bear the pressure and the mountain storm to see the diamond. And I wonder how many times I am going to polish that diamond.
I make time machines, tunnels and passageways, journeys through space, journeys through time, embracing my paintings, expulsed from my paintings.
I burn some words so that you breathe them in and they become sculptures in your mind.
And for now I see the world as a gift.
And love as a teacher.
For now I do this. I give you treasures cleaned of dirt and the way to find them:
fewer things more time.
Time in painting beholds us, and painting is making all presents simultaneous.
And painting is a snail.
I lose time.
I go out to breathe in the melancholy evening air that speeds up blood and blurs edges, and I am a chilled breath that turns everything to crystal. And I wonder how many times I am going to polish that crystal.
I waste time.
While I walk around the lake house at the side of the mountain, time folds in my head and, at the same instant, two distant spots in my memory touch, meet; now they happen at the same time.
They happen now. I am nine and I am twelve and I am ninety and I am forty-eight and I have not yet been born.
Because, magnificent like a mountain reflected on the beautiful beautiful lake, time looks at me and all is still, waiting, and I am so small and fleeting, I am an instant, and I am going to cry and I leave you these paintings so that they might behold you and you don’t know when now is.
For now, I am going to be still and the same so that you can change, so that the rest can move. Because one part must be constant so that the whole can grow. So I inhibit variation as much as possible to remain identical.
Because I am cord and I am bone.
I bear the pressure and the mountain storm to see the diamond. And I wonder how many times I am going to polish that diamond.
I make time machines, tunnels and passageways, journeys through space, journeys through time, embracing my paintings, expulsed from my paintings.
I burn some words so that you breathe them in and they become sculptures in your mind.
And for now I see the world as a gift.
And love as a teacher.
For now I do this. I give you treasures cleaned of dirt and the way to find them:
fewer things more time.
(*) The Spanish word “cuerda” can be translated as all of these words.
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