My paintings don’t have a past, they are empty of meaning in present, but they expect the talk of future, the most remote possible future.

They’re not have their feet firmly planted on the ground, although there are invisible roots that take life from the earth, like so many blades of grass.

While I work I look for the truth in what I do. The time isn’t yesterday because it would be false, it’s not today because the emotion takes my breath away and I’m dying and being born every moment  after each new stroke.

Immediately after the time gets old, useless, meaningless. I never know what will come out with the next brush.

My thoughts go with supersonic speed and stop only to choose another color. The last just painting is never right. So I live the life of the new painting with a sense of mystery that has the moonless night. (...)

                                         

 

LIA DREI (Notes, 1962)