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Paintings are the time-/space- frame of my thoughts or even more so the materialized end product of my entire emotional realm. They are the necessary shrinking of my free spirit down to the size of a framed canvas. It feels very limiting to imprison an emotional impulse in 1.2 m x 1.2 m but such is the fate of an artistic body that has to reveal itself again and again.To me, Picasso..s sculptures, for instance, have always had a life of their own. Be they made of cardboard or of bronze they are like directional signs: crossroad signposts on the pathways through space and time.At a retrospective of his works at the Nationalgalerie in Berlin, I stood and looked at his sculpture of a goat for a long time. The rays of the setting afternoon sun fell on the oversized udder of the bronze animal and revealed all archetypes of fertility within fractions of a second. My world seemed changed.I was more fascinated by the absurd realities of Warhol (Campbell..s soup cans), the word-frames of unspoken content of Gertrude Stein (A rose is a rose is a rose...) and the appalling concepts of beauty of a Francis Bacon than by any academically induced high flights of crash-endangered art classes or studios.Coloured pigments contain Atoms that create pictures of other realities. I always hoped that people would come that could identify with my day and night transcending soul.I believe that there is an ocean of initial images of all possible formal revelations of creation that we artists unceasingly sift through in search of THE picture of universal truth, the prototype of absolute expression. We are eternally bound to fail, though, because we, by nature's law, belong to the family of Sisyphus. The upward movements of his boulder are constantly being driven ad absurdum by the laws of gravity. Thus, we gain our knowledge through our daily failure and must attempt not to incinerate our wings cravingly in the centre of our creative sun like Daedalos' son Icarus. www.acquaye.de