Pintura titulada "Bleu" por Eva Mifsud, Obra de arte original, Oleo

Bleu (2018) Pintura por Eva Mifsud

Vendido

Vendido por Eva Mifsud

Obra de arte original Pintura, Oleo en Lienzo

Clasificación de obras de arte

Obra de arte original

Las obras de arte originales son cualquier obra considerada auténtica y no una copia o imitación de las obras originales de un artista. Las obras de arte originales pueden ser cualquier tipo de pintura, escultura, diseño u otros. Hay muchos tipos de soportes originales. Las técnicas mixtas incluyen pinturas al óleo, acrílicas y acuarelas. Para las pinturas de taller que dan testimonio de la artesanía, esta atribución debe ser más matizada. Aunque pueden ser menos valiosos por varias razones, las reproducciones y copias had tenido un gran impacto en nuestra experiencia. Llegan a un público más amplio que los originales y actúan como un tónico contra la mercantilización. La obra original también podría referirse a la primera obra, que siempre precede a todas las demás. También puede referirse a un prototipo o modelo a partir del cual se pueden realizar otros trabajos. Cada obra tiene grandes similitudes con el original.
Dimensiones Altura 17,9in, Anchura 21,5in
Categorías Pinturas menos de 500 US$ Arte Outsider

Un homme bleu assis suspendu. Autour de lui des regards. Pas très sympathiques. Et puis, dans sa bulle, un visage apparaît, qui sourit. Acerca de esta obra de arte: Clasificación, Técnicas & Estilos [...]

Eva Mifsud

Francia

"Would you be able to talk about my paintings ?"... These are the words she directed at me, that day, her paintbrush in her hand. Taken aback, I tried to dodge her request, referring,[...]

"Would you be able to talk about my paintings ?"...

These are the words she directed at me, that day, her paintbrush in her hand. Taken aback, I tried to dodge her request, referring, among other things, to my atavistic mistrust of these words which think that they can say everything.

"But I have no mistrust of words, I have none for my paintings", she objected while her paintbrush was moving. "And it would please me to have some words.", she added after a moment of silence.

And as I was searching, these words escaped me, sticky by their insignificance, gummy with vacuity, laden with rationalism, while my eyes wandered over the canvases which disorganised her studio, trying to link her painting to some known artistic movement.

A contemporary she certainly was but nevertheless unclassifiable. Neither academic nor abstract nor realist, nor really figurative. Decidedly, no word could fit this sensation, this intuition I had already experienced, more than already seen. Of that I was certain without a glimmer of knowing why.
Visceral. Violent. Disturbing. Just like her paintings, this reminiscence was all these, just as surely as it was not pictorial. I needed to seek elsewhere.
And as so often, I was about to give up when the answer popped up.

Bukowski !

I was at Bukowski’s, and experiencing again this gut-churning feeling caused by his writings. His words had read something unknown in me.

And her pictures were looking at me. Her paintings could see in me other unexplored things…

Bernard Convers.