Wulf Kirsten
Luchian
The Sad Master Locksmith. Lorica. Safta's Blossoming Life. The
Abandoned Inn. The Cemetery Path. The Ox-cart. Drunk from the
fountain at Brebu. Coloured in the Moinesti houses scattered on the
hill like straw bales. The uprising, smothered in the blood of eleven
thousand massacred farmers. The washerwoman's leaden white. Fleecy bundles of flowers, shining like enamel, in Romanian jugs. The vivid poppy flares up. Outlines are trimmed with beams of light. The painter fixes the silvery grey mist in pastels, it rises in the twilight from the Chiajna meadows. A pulsating mass of colour, dipped in sun. Shades of green. Glowing constellations, which scream in anguish. Pain colours the calligraphy of flourished paint, like a suddenly wild wind in the leaves that carries everything off and buries it. A person whose head is slightly cocked to one side pleading for his life, his lips burning hellishly on the devil's doorstep, who defies death. His body already stiff and exhausted, only his eye left unscathed. His paintbrush strapped to his wrist like a spear.
Abandoned Inn. The Cemetery Path. The Ox-cart. Drunk from the
fountain at Brebu. Coloured in the Moinesti houses scattered on the
hill like straw bales. The uprising, smothered in the blood of eleven
thousand massacred farmers. The washerwoman's leaden white. Fleecy bundles of flowers, shining like enamel, in Romanian jugs. The vivid poppy flares up. Outlines are trimmed with beams of light. The painter fixes the silvery grey mist in pastels, it rises in the twilight from the Chiajna meadows. A pulsating mass of colour, dipped in sun. Shades of green. Glowing constellations, which scream in anguish. Pain colours the calligraphy of flourished paint, like a suddenly wild wind in the leaves that carries everything off and buries it. A person whose head is slightly cocked to one side pleading for his life, his lips burning hellishly on the devil's doorstep, who defies death. His body already stiff and exhausted, only his eye left unscathed. His paintbrush strapped to his wrist like a spear.
Translated by Stefan Tobler
Page(s) 75
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