THE BLUE FLOOD

The Blue Flood (1993.) 80x100cm, Oil on canvas

 

I’m sitting here,
going through my archive.

I just found this photo…
a painting I did as a student.
It was an assignment that the professor gave me.
I never wanted to do it.
So I finished it in an hour
and went on to paint something
I actually cared about.

Now I’m looking at it again—
(and it’s not such a bad painting, anyway)
and it reminds me
of my night walks
through the old town,

of basements and half-underground apartments
you could glimpse inside.

My always-curious eye
was searching for something worth seeing,
something picturesque,
something to notice, remember,
and maybe paint.

Passing by windows,
I would steal a look inside—
and there would usually be
a lone man sitting,
with his bottle,
just like the man
in this painting.

Pain-thing.

Yeah.

And as the years go by—
and the tears go by—
on my night walks
through old European cities,
and the suburbs too,
I began to see
more and more
of these lonely people.

Like a big blue flood.
Like a plague.
Like an avalanche.

Atomized, broken people,
with a bottle,
in some shitty apartment,
with cheap wine,
or cheap brandy, I suppose.

The same scene, really
you can find in expensive apartments too.
The only difference
is the price
and the quality of alcohol.
But that makes no real difference anyway.

All of them
have given up—
on life, on women,
on shitty ideals,
false and deceiving religion,
on pain or happiness,
on joy and meaning,
on this world.

Ready only to drink,
and by drinking
to dull the sharp edge
of existence.

Ready only
to fade out,
to collapse into sleep—
harder and deeper each time.

And maybe, finally,
to die in their sleep,
and in death
to dream
of some better
and more just world.

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PLAVA PREPLAVA

Sjedim ovdje i
kopam po arhivu.

Upravo sam našao ovu fotografiju.
To je slika koju sam naslikao kao student.
Školski zadatak po kojem doista nisam
želio drviti. 
Zbrzao sam i završio je za sat vremena
pa otišao slikati nešto
što me uistinu zanimalo.

Sada opet gledam tu sliku —
i to s nije uopće loša slika, ustvari.

Podsjeća me
na beskrajne noćne šetnje
po gornjem gradu,
na podrume i suterenske stanove
u koje sam zavirivao.

Moje vazda radoznalo oko
uvijek je tražilo nešto vrijedno gledanja,
nešto pitoreskno,
nešto za primijetiti, zapamtiti,
i možda naslikati.

Prolazeći pokraj prozora,
zavirio bih unutra—
i tamo bi obično sjedio
neki usamljeni čovjek,
sa svojom bocom,
baš poput čovjeka
na slici.

Pain-thing.

Da.

And as years go by—
and tears go by —
u tim mojim noćnim šetnjama
po starim europskim gradovima,
ali i zastrašujućim predgrađima,
počeo sam viđati
sve više i više
osamljenika.

Nadošlo je…

Kao veliki plavi val.
Kao kuga.
Kao lavina.

Atomizirani, slomljeni pojedinci,
s bocom,
u nekom jadnom stanu,
s pivom,
jeftinim vinom,
i još jeftinijom rakijom.

Istu tu scenu, zapravo,
možeš naći i u skupim stanovima.
Jedina je razlika
u cijeni
i kakvoći pića.
No to ionako ne čini bitnu razliku.

Svi ti ljudi su
odustali—
od života, od žena,
od podvaljenih ideala,
obmanjujuće religije,
od boli ili sreće,
brižno iskonstruiranog smisla
tuđih mozgova. 

Pripravni su samo piti,
i pijenjem
tupiti oštricu
postojanja,
svakodnevice.

Spremni samo
nestajati,
urušavati se u san—
sve tvrđi i dublji svaki put.

I možda, na kraju,
umrijeti u snu,
i u smrti
sanjati
neki bolji
i pravedniji svijet.

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Velika Britanija 2018. godine imenovala prvu ministricu za usamljenost na svijetu