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Untitled, 2010 Oil On Canvas 200x170 Cm © H'art gallery and the artist
Untitled, 2010 Oil On Canvas 150x200 Cm © H'art gallery and the artist
Untitled, 2009 Oil On Canvas 150x200 Cm © H'art gallery and the artist
Untitled, 2009 Oil On Canvas 170x200 Cm © H'art gallery and the artist
Untitled, 2009 Oil On Canvas 200x150 Cm © H'art gallery and the artist
Untitled, 2009 Oil On Canvas 130x170 Cm © H'art gallery and the artist
Untitled, 2009 Oil On Canvas 110x130 Cm © H'art gallery and the artist
Untitled, 2009 Oil On Canvas 135x170 Cm © H'art gallery and the artist
Untitled, 2009 Oil On Canvas 120x140 Cm © H'art gallery and the artist
Oil On Canvas 110x160 Cm © H'art gallery and the artist
Untitled, 2009 Oil On Canvas 120x140 Cm © H'art gallery and the artist
Exhibition view, 2012 © H'art gallery and the artist
Curated by: Dan Popescu

25 C.A. Rosetti street, 5th floor
020011 Bucharest
November 26th, 2012 - December 21st, 2012
Opening: November 26th, 2012 7:00 PM - 11:46 PM

+4021 310 83 39
8 PM
Gili Mocanu, conceptual


Yesterday, foolishness almost cost me my life. I left your workshop. I recall telling you that I wanted to light a smoke and get to writing. You told me it would last about two hours, after which things would stop making sense, and I'll want to give up. You then told me the parable with the hermits, the majarajah and the hunger. I didn't get it. Seemed to have nothing to do with what I was talking about, that it didn't fit, you know... But parables are exactly thus, you're not supposed to understand, they're not supposed to clarify anything(remind me to talk to you about this). What I didn't tell you was that I was going to get myself into a more unusual situation. When I get to the gallery I'm feverish, barely catching my breath. I tell myself I'm gonna wait for everyone to leave(I knew Lo was taking Ioan to a concert) and I sit down in the room on the right (where Ungureanu is now) and I take out six of your works, and spread them all around me. Before this, Cristi calls me, having forgotten his laptop at the gallery. He tells me he'll be there to pick it up in half an hour. I slump down into a comfy chair, with my laptop on, ready to... write. The light wasn't on in the room, I'd only left it on in Preda's room. I nearly finished the cigarette. I'd put on old Romanian music - Anton Pann. I never saw it coming. I felt trapped, like a fly. The works were only indirectly lit, because I couldn't see any of the bristle marks. With an open light source in the room, you can see the gradient, the oil chiaroscuro. In the shade, they turn into mere pointers of undefined, multidimensional spaces. I remember whispering to myself that I was playing with fire, that there were too many around me, that they would wreck me. I told myself afterwards that maybe that was the time to write. Start with what "sight" means. How it originates in early childhood. When do you first feel you can see? When did it happen? I barely managed to write, one letter at a time, trying not to get sucked into the wormhole. Those were four lines like a revelation, after which my mind snapped. I was trying, with the desperation of a drowning man, like a headless chicken, to get out of there, to try and move. Nothing. Frozen in a world that meant death to this one. It was as if I'd been staked. I don't know how, or whether I escaped. I woke up back here in the office, in my flesh quivering, with the acute sensation that I'd pissed myself. I look down to check, and I hadn't. I was thinking I'm oh so careless, to detonate this spirit bomb, a black portal that can't be shut down again. I was terrified, couldn't even move to phone anyone. Hazily, I realised that Cristi might get to the gallery and get me the fuck out of there. Eventually, it seemed like days to me, he arrived. I mumbled that we should get out of there as quickly as possible. I think I might have scared him, I was starch-white. At the elevator, I get your text. "Are Jews Hittites?" - I misread it "Are Jews nitwits?" and it fills me with shame for having blown a formidable load, like a dumb kid. I went out on Magheru, and it all seemed like an aftermath, like I'd died already, I was missing half my brain, and all I saw was like in the Tibetan Book of the Dead, a momentary return to a world that was once familiar, and now seemed like an endearing puppet show... I get to Cristi's place, in the old town. Let's have a drink, I say, take a deep breath, he says. I'm starch-white. Cristi is worried and he says I should come upstairs and lie down. We take the elevator  and I feel like retching. From the elevator to the house, I'm making an effort not to throw up in the hallway. I greet Alina and, with vomit in my mouth already, I rush to the bathroom. At last, I release, but it's not the bathroom, it's the closet. Disaster. Shame. I try to clean up. I kinda even manage to. Cristi tells me to relax and lie down. I try. I sleep. I die again. I wake up in a somewhat better state, with a bit of a better grip on the world. I ask Cristi what the fuck had happened. I remember. I tell him I'll for sure forget all about it tomorrow, that we have to come in early like the bomb squad, to defuse it. That this kind of use is very dangerous, and that he has to remind me to tell you we've gotta be very careful with the layout. I'm wondering if what I wrote on the laptop before I totally lost it was saved, although I shut it down when fighting for my life. 
I got back this morning, when I'm writing this. I took a picture of the black "ship". I disassembled it. I opened the laptop. The four lines were still there:

"The entire world begins with sight. It is the lit opening to being. There's an undefined moment, barely visible in anyone's childhood, when light turns into Light and then it falls into "sight". After that, "colours" appear, altogether still Light, but which then form "shapes", and shapes go further down into "things" that create the world - reality. This is the inception of conscious life. Tra la, la, la."

Dan Popescu