"For a painter, the only master is God" (Iurie Shevciuk DDT)

"Shape is relief, relief becomes space"

Within light I have also seen shadow, within shadow, I met light. Those are freestanding shapes, complex by structure, dimension, gesture. Being in a continuous dominance state one over the other they form a relief. Observing the truth between them, they will become convincing in space.

I paint and draw man. Letting the light to fall over him, will obtain the shadow. I put him in a past, obtaining style. Surrounded by objects that he can no longer do without. I want to help him keep his own detail forever. Inquisitive in front of the observer he draws himself obtaining dimension. Lays down lines for support, paints light and shadow.

Man grows rich just with happiness.

In the painting "he" becomes rich through structure, brush strokes, colour and lines that will entwine light with shadow, "his" happiness and my happiness.

Gheorghe Stirbu


Doru Arazan Jr. 12 January, 2012, Timisoara


"The boots that were two sizes too high were making a noise at every step, such as when old people mutter prayers or curses. Watching him in his army coat, with his long hair, gathered into a tail, unshaven and with the bag tied up with a rope, you would have thought he was on his way to Patagonia. Or even further. Towards a place where only his need to dream of the world knew existed. If anybody would have asked him then and there what's the name of that place, he would have raised his chin, gazing with great wonder, and saying nothing.

He was walking and painting the love bunch, holding Olga's hand, the birds in every color, of which one night, he told me were older than the Sun itself and that they have not yet give up flying, that child, running across the meadow behind the house.

After a while, he cut his hair. He gave the army coat to a homeless person. The boots too. He kept only the bag with brushes and paints. Opening it, after more than a quarter of a century, at the beginning of every day. Painting the sound of money clatter from the empty rooms of the heart, the lack of time bundled in silence, with the name of every human being, a small sanctum smelling of candles and garlic, her smile.

Bare feet, nor larger nor smaller than his size, are walking forward. Without stopping. Without resting. Now, in the 21st century, he could have bought a pair of branded shoes to show who he is. Or to shelter himself from sadness. Or to get a job at the museum. But Gheorghe is walking on the canvas. Painting the waste of light inside each soul rushing after meaningless things on the world's stand, the pomegranate trees under which Christ remembers he was human, the fish dried up under the sun, with cut bellies, were the wind sounds like a folk song, himself, lonelier, kinder, closer to that place. With every passing day."