JOAQUIM PIJOAN's psychoneoexpressionist manifest

In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth... we can read in the Torah, the holy book we all have glanced at at least once, but in the beginning of this psychoneoexpressionist manifest I must say I'm not a real creator, I hate creation as a human term for art work, my faith in the Mystery of Yahweh is a non human matter, therefore the only true God in whom I believe remains the only Creator. That is to say, I, JOAQUIM PIJOAN, in God I trust, and apologize to you all if my announcement hurts your beliefs or feelings. I'm a devoted and humble servant of any believer in any true faith related to the greatest Mystery of the universe, God's word. I'm aware that this may be irrespectful in an art manifest. But art is the first link between humanity and Mystery, the beginning of a serious life adventure worth to study and full of controversy, for the best and for the worse. That is to say, and if nothing is added against me and my foolish irresponsability, I'll continue with my precise finality, more human than divine, I must say, of this my first and last manifest, God willing.

Ladies and gentlement, dealears, collectors, curators, amateurs, connaisseurs, fine arts and antiques devoted lovers, Art Council public servants, scholars, art critics welcome too, genuine New Yorkers and all the human beings related to the nowadays most devaluated of the arts: painting. Because that's just a painting opening show time! My main reason for a personal work WWW preview exhibition is as simple as follows: Once upon a time there was true art and then came entertainement ( I agree with you our Lord has nothing to do with that, even Woody Allen is innocent and free to hate my foolish assertion and me...) But really, I'm fed up with boring artistic neodada movies, performances, happenings, videoart & conceptual silly and childish workshops, popcorn moron art, hardcore DVDs wrapped in sexshop red silk paper, pseudoartists making their living from irresponsable foundations nobody knows on Earth, maybe in hell if it still does exist, surely not in heaven, where their dollars come from, how they manage to store so horrible artifacts full of metal strings & neon light stuff, all kind of rubbish going on which has been seen and seen again and again from the sixties, and repeated and cloned and collected by snobbish, decadent art suckers... I'm really tired of losing my time in an endless collection of meaningless images frozen as ice and cold as steel, an ugly and entropic world of nonsense and fake madness without aesthetical emotion (real madness is much more intelligent and mentally expressive than conceptual art... ) I just try to let you know I'm just a painter. A brush painter. Like my dad, my grandfather and my grandfather's father were. Grown up in a Dalí landscape near Port LLigat, north-east of Catalonia, the persistence of their memory indulges me to paint a landscape or something similar, I'm not an urban Canaletto either, Barcelona is the red rose town, not Bizantine Venise, for Christ's sake! I assure you that I'm the last painter from my family, the true last one, the M..., ( I beg your pardon) I'm the lover of  my mother country's sky, moon, stars and  sun, because this land is my land, and I have nothing , nothing at all, just PSYCHOPORTRAITS made as precisely and mastered as faithfully like Fra Angelico painted the Virgin and her Son according to his ora et labora  and golden angels and falling stars in the Florentian Renaissance. Believe me, I'm just that: a humble painter devoted to his schizoneoexpressionist way of painting human silent faces...

Let's say that you believe me. And you trust me and you agree with me if I tell you I was born as every human creature from female and male sexual union many years ago. My portrait as an adolescent artist was pictured by a nouvelle vague cameraman from Parisian May 68, but nevermind, forget it, I've paid for it ( a very expensive fee...) I was born again in Barcelona 7 years later as an Arte Povera follower, in a real Franciscan way, barefoot, devoted to Romanesque paintings of the Pyrenees small churches, with Taüll  Pantocrator frescos, pilgrimage to Avignon demoiselles by master Picasso, but always with an eye on my real target, a mystycal painting never made before, every true artist and devoted believer's real dream... That's a love story it will take a long time to put down on this screen. I'm not a storyteller. I'm just a brush painter dripping acrylic colours on canvas as rain falls in a winter's fairy tale day. Let's go west after an east dream has ended happily even if my inner neurotical je pense, donc je suis horrible nightmare is fulfilled. I shall do my best. Fasten your seat belt. Smoke a toscanelli, not required but allowed. My last 10 years' work is an endless infinity of faces and portraits of unknown people fixed on my mind as I walk through the subway corridors of my new life's town, coming and going from here to nowhere, as I'm doing my work gratia et amore, as love and some other few great things in life must be done. That's the expression of my inner feelings, the unique raison d'être of my existance, the argument of my whole artistic work, the nature and nurture of my destiny in this planet. Believe it or not, that's my mental paraphernalia and only ambition, the only one, my heart's deep only real love affair.

But better than words are images when talking about paintings. I'll like to explain you everything but as you probably still know art is a Mystery. It always has been and it shall always be. That's its main and only reason to exist. In a crowded and nonsense civilization nobody knows where next stop is, Mystery is the Light of our soul. Therefore art is my guide to the holy land, my path of glory. (No jokes about it, please). That's the difference between true art and fake art. And I know it is difficult to explain and to understand the difference, as it is dangerous to walk on a razor's edge... Art is imposible to reduce to words, even if Mr. Gates has produced this marvellous Windows (Word Office) with which help, right now, I'm producing this winter's windy day's mad dream in a Catalan landscape by the seaside of the Aro valley. It happens the same in literary universe. No images worthy of the beginning of James Joyce's Ulysses: Stately, plump  Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed. A yellow dressing- gown, ungirdled, was sustained genlyl behind him by the mild morning air. He held the bowl aloft and intoned: - Introito ad altare Dei. "

Never. Never. Never. What's the South without Faulkner? Black and white havoc. What's new about XXth century painting without Pollock and De Kooning? Right, you are quite precisely right, it isn't a question of Black & White, you are quite cute. And then, what? What shall we do with the drunken poet sailor? Let him sleep peacefully. And Joyce, Proust, Kafka, Beckett and so on, be proud of them, but let's feel and follow our own stream of consciousness. Life and art are endless ways of failure and more failure, vanished glory and hard suffering, blood and tears, as human nature is damned to be. Nothing new under the sun. Let's talk frankly: Do you like Schönberg's music? Don't worry about it. Be happy. My only attempt in this meaningless website is to show you what I'm painting and what's my personal state of mind, how my portraits had been going on during last months, and why I'm living and struggling and dreaming night and day reaching my now peaceful spirit's emptiness from alpha to omega. Let's listen to Goldberg Variations by Glenn Gould, and call it a day. Well done. Silence, please. No, I'm not the phantom of another surrealist paranoic artist looking for his Freudian healing ego through the writing of his Secret Life. That's done. And well done. I'm not, and pretend not, to be a Sunday morning watercolour amateur as Prince of Wales is. Not an accidental churchgoer of I don't know which last new Messiah. I'm an uncritical pure reason follower and a practical and reasonable brush painter offering his last psychoneoexpressionist portraits preview show in the WWW. I'm a Gaudí and Miró's dinasty follower, a citizen of the land Orwell praised in his Homage to Catalonia. I'm a Catalan. I'm a pilgrim among this humanity collage of foolish Quixotic artists who are working for the Light of a day which their eyes will never be able to see. In front of me I've Kaflka's Castle's outlook. No more. No less. And I'm proud of it. Lets talk frankly again. Look at my psychoportraits. It takes ten minutes to have a wide impression of the images and some few words about them. If any feedback arises between them and you let me know it. Now or never. Maybe we are reflected in the same narcissus lake waters. That's my Munch scream: drop me a line with your opinion. There is a time for life and a time for death, and it must be a time to talk about my paintings. Will you? The answer my friend is blowing in your brain... Have a nice trip. Don't forget to fullfil your days and nights with some moments of leisure. Maybe one day we will meet in Samarcanda or Tumbuctu. Who knows. Until then, work hard and read a psalm for me and my schizoportraiture adventure every night. It has been a pleasure to be read by you.

Bye Bye unknown navigator... JP