Dzyga the Fantastic

Who would try to understand the painting of Dzyga

has understood nothing — so too bad for battered rationality

his canvas must be penetraterd without memory

for his painting is a meander, to well-beaten paths.

Indefinable painting that weaves and turns in waves of colours

painting of silence where tacit cries vibrate

incandescent painting with ice-cold fires

the canvas calls a point of a line

like the madness of a look.

Reality overspills its limits but no paintbrush stops life,

torments details, imaginary seism in his marine head

there floats a scent of wind

of clouds in perdition.

The canvas abandoned, there is fatality in his landscapes

come words, useless,

his painting is lived from the inside

in long journeys at the edge of time.

Christiane La Blancherie, 1982

 

RENDEZ-VOUS OF THE FANTASTIC

One can encounter the painting of Kazimierz Dzyga and love to distraction
imagine montains, where wonders lie
recognise a horizon in an incandescent lake
and drêam of a dark-haired woman anchored to the rocks of the infinite.

One can invent the painter and paint him in his turn in a bleu sphere
or bitterness red, scratch out a sky to the very heart
or grasp him in a familiar landscape.

One day, one encounters the man, there, at the edge of the canvas

his eyes filled with looks.  He smiles, stirs, and vibrates.
You would perhaps have preferred him solitary and a shade less true,
would perhaps have liked to call him Master.
Too bad: that is not his way, he is sincere.
Just unfaithful, for love, with his paintings.
What he accomplishes is sublime
but, hardly begun, the next is already calling him.

Kazimierz handles the instant, this capsized moment,
intense and perfect.
Be sure not to take him for a poet of the everyday.
He paints the elsewhere from the depth of his being like a nostalgia.
Habit breaks him, suffocates him like a cloudless sky.
He penetrates life with a wolf's patient step,
taming fantasms the better to deceive his dreams.
His secret gardens inhabit shared refuges.
He speaks painting as other do words,
at each moment offering himself
in fateful memory on the border of the fantastic.

Christiane La Blancherie, 1985