So you want to know our birth date!
We are of the same age with the first rain that touched the earth;
with the swiftest dew turning clay into mud... Probably even older
than those! Moreover, everlasting our births are: With the leaf
of every branch that designs glorifications for the sun, at every
shoot getting rooted - even at couches - we are being born again.
At the merry warblings of titmouse birds, at the caterpillar cocoons
pregnant for their butterflies, with the snake waving hand to the
shirt it remained behind, "Hello!" saying we are to the
earth and skies again and again.
We are just changing forms on the other hand: Neither are we born
in fact nor dying at all. Because we are of those energies whose
death will only be an illusion. A death which in fact is pregnant
for new births. A death which is a vacation!
Are you wondering where we were born?
Where winds were born is our birth place; where the tree of Arbor
Vitae and Phoenix bird were born... Where the waves of ocean have
first been visible to eye, where the pollens of scotch firs last
touched the grass is our birth place. The mountain that God has
given the Commandment to prophet Moses, the garden that Judas has
'sold' Jesus kissing, the river that Hallaj's ashes were flung on
is where we were born.
Everywhere, or nowhere...
Nevertheless you may ask "How does he see art?" or "Which
trend does this poor man support, follow?"
May the ego-centrics derive points of views - while seeking after
a remedy for their crises, a cover for their spiritlessnesses -
; belch out very personal(!) opinions to the public! Let them divide
and get divided by 'ism's and trends but never represent the
ability to give an answer to the question "Who am I?"
We neither are afflicted by art nor care for trends!
This man only is a spring, a waterfall coming from agnosia ascending
towards the luminious Upper Truth. Whatever he does, whatever he
tells or writes, whatever he paints or draws is just a shovel of
pebblestones, a handful of sands left behind... We
certainly are not an artist or the like. However we may be the apprentice
of that Cosmic Master, making a hundred mistakes thus opening the
path for a thousand reproaches a day.(We have not yet even fully
deserved our name: 'Safai' is said to mean brightness,
Did you ask whereabouts, when, how many exhibitions had we arranged?
Do not make us laugh; do you ever think there can be any moment
that we are not at an 'exhibition'?