| Marcel Caloian |
I enter the artist workshop and feel, sniff, the smell of wet trees, burned forest, crossed by chariots pulled by white cows…
I breathe the sent of cherry-trees, whose flowers bathed in moonlight shine like small Easter candles…
Restrained from the eternal greenness, fire-trees’ bodies remind me of the Christmas trees from my childhood back in Romania…
A light falls down from the trees on my head, like a rain of silver arrows…
In the artist’s forest , all his painting speak of “the tree of life”, found in the middle of terrestrial paradise and whose fruits keep man’s life, only if the man keeps his innocence…
The workshop is a “branched...
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