ART-in-CANADA
 
Vera Gudovics
Selected Paintings
 
 
   
           

About The Show
 


I was born in pain one morning. On a rainy autumn day. Since then I love the rain. Dawn was hanging in wet rags on the sky when my mother's womb thrust me into this world. A tall, white-winged man hit me in the face and I began to breathe. He was not alone but surrounded by similar white-winged men. As friendly choir, they promised to see me many others times and left. From there my sentient life began.

I am unable to grasp the years. They have always been to me like tadpoles in the puddle. As if they all are alike, only zigzagging in different directions - slippery, gliding out of my hands. But only one thing is certain, that my body has been growing and changing, and once (it seems to have been in the period of puberty), the same white-winged man appeared, not having changed in the least during the passing years. He opened the window and showed the endless dark sky, perforated by flashing pins of stars, to my wondering eyes. Even before, I had often been enraptured looking at the sky, but now the black infiniteness enchanted, attracted, allured me.

There was however one difference. The "window-opener" had wings but I had none. So - wanting to grip his white garment, I fell from the bed to the floor, whereas he thrust himself from the windowsill into the sky - into the depth of the well of space. But he had left a velvet cap, a brush and an album. He had not said a word but I understood the hint - put the velvet cap on my head, the brush and album under my pillow and fell into the sweet whirlpool of sleep. Then after a while I saw many many dreams, beautiful and horrible ones, almost all of them being coloured.

Then I woke up ( again not being able to count the tadpoles) and believe it or not - I found myself lying on a heap of crispy sweet-smelling paprika. Instead of snow, there were ripe cherries falling from the sky just like hail, and from the kettle a smiling carp ready to be cooked, was smiling at me. And then I understood that it was no dream anymore. I did not even have to pinch myself - the poisonous green, vile parika was already pinching and torturing me like fire. The fresh wind blowing from the Danube was friendly, licking my mouth. Mr Bartok smilingly put on a record with one of his own compositions. Inspiration descended on me. Since then I have been alive.