Eter Naumta

My dreams, awake and asleep, are intangible. The beautiful things I want to make are intangible. Every time I think about artistic creation, I suffer. I suffer because I idealized art, which is intangible. Because who can describe the artistic figure as a majestic creation, as a contribution to humanity, if it is precisely that contribution which we imagine, which we dream, which we see, feel, and experience — we who decided to call it art.

In this drunken haze of spirituality, of theatricality before others, of staging ourselves to lie to the other, to satisfy them and thereby satisfy ourselves. The lie of our algorithm.

That’s why those of us who want to work at this, or do this, only want to be servants of the other’s experiment — to help draw out a smile, a tear, a shiver, a knot in the stomach.

That’s why, in my wandering between the formal, utilitarian education that puts food on my table, acceptance into the club of the financially solvent, and the cultivation of my more etherian side — the one in which I want to live off art, which nowadays might mean living off thin air, which is exactly where our senses are flying toward these days.

In this piece I wanted to show that inner struggle between the need to find a tangible artistic experience and the collision with the reality that this experience is inside me, always, but the moment I try to grasp it, it disappears. That’s why it moves from a solid figure to something ethereal, faster still, when I try to catch it with the mouse.