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  • Writer's picturematilde tomat

W Kentridge


I went to see his vernissage at the Whitworth Gallery in Manchester on Thu 20 SEPT.THICK TIME : “combining drawing, tapestry, music and film projection as well as sculpture, this major touring exhibition draws on sources as broad as early cinema, China’s Cultural Revolution, opera, scientific theories of time and space and the generative qualities of nature and creativity”. More about him here.

For someone like me who has been for the past 10 years (at least) angrily resenting anyone who breathed art and lived the freedom of making art, I felt like a child in a sweet shop. I was there, and just by being there, I was happy. I wouldn’t have minded being the last one in the queue and not seeing nor hearing anything, I was there. And it was beautiful.

He spoke about the conversation between the artist, and the paper, between the pencil and the paper, and I wondered if I have ever taken the time to sit and listen if there was any talking between my sheet of paper and my pencil; he spoke about magic, of his land being hybrid and of its bastard traditions, which resonated so much with my land Friuli, that land where people never stop; he spoke of images already on sheets and how we are just instruments for said images and stories to be revealed and told; he spoke about his process in between structure and uncertainty, leaving a safe space for doubt, for some conscientious freedom.

And, as you would (of course) I have asked him a question, the last question of the evening. Because you see, he was there and I had to take advantage of this situation. So, I stood up and told everyone that my name was Matilde, I was 51, and only 2 weeks before I enrolled into an Art School, and if he had any suggestions, ideas, hints, for me.

He replied to allow the process to be only me.

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