Elegia 2019-01-04T16:15:03+01:00

Elegia per Carles Amill


“Va viure en coves de barris gitanos, estudis cavernosos sense gaire llum excepte la llum de les seves pintures.

Una nit a Brooklyn, em va convidar a treure les sabates i caminar amb els ulls clucs a sobre d’un llenç al damunt del ciment per sentir el gruix voluptuós del pigment a través dels peus de la meva ànima.

Va ser després del seu període blau de patates i parets de pedra, però abans de les façanes arquitectòniques i els dibuixos de foc de tros.

Va viure la seva vocació com un monjo medieval, no va comprendre la gran pressa de la vida moderna.”

A ten minute walk from his studio to the beach could take hours, stretched out by cafés and conversations, glasses of beer and the latest art journal.

He followed no schedule but the tides, worked for nobody but himself.

One painting was called, “The Bull Don’t Want” meaning he wasn’t going to fight in the ring but he liked to be surrounded by friends, and he was, everywhere he went.

Without trying, his charm cast a spell.

I could get so high on his talk of helicopters and basilicas, catamarans and omelets, described in an English fractured by a mind that always surprised me.

Sometimes he fell down and scraped the earth but always rose again, every time but the last.

“I’m sick,” he said on the phone, “I feel like shit.”

“Can we do anything for you, Carles?”

“Yes. Enjoy your life,” he said, so tired and distant, a star already gone, not fading but ripped out of the sky.

de Mick Stern, Abril 2004