A Revolution in Painting is painting a new vase of flowers. Painting is an extremely difficult art that must be done with extreme ease.

Pretension. Demented art.

Synthesis: To do all you can, to make things out of everything, to paint, in the end, only flowers.

I prefer vases which are not flowers, flowers of art and art that creates flowers. Nothing can be fairer or better than a well painted “still life” full of movement and life.

They are only vases of flowers, just flowers.

I should speak of flowers. But no. I speak of butterflies. Flowers are worth nothing. Farfalas, papalotes, papillons, mariposas, butterflies, borboletas are farfalas, papalotes, papillons, mariposas, butterflies. Psyche. Nothing more.

Look, kind sirs, at these new tablecloths. See this fire-red, this gold worthy of Saladin’s tent. This charcoal black, which I scarcely see, and which is made of cremated bones. Blue. Blue is the creation of yellow, great lord of the Sun, the best friend my shoulders have. Orange sweets. Memory, taste. Childhood, baby-pink. Fruit, flowers in the gardens of restituted joys.

To receive with flowers. Nothing better.

Nothing greater.

I paint flowers to live of colors and to die glad.

Oscar Araripe / September 2010 / Translated by Susan Casement.