THE SECRETS OF TIME HIDDEN IN COLOUR

 His canvases, in their nature carry something essential, passionate and eruptive, an explosive character entirely turned to the primordial life energy.

Kada tebe branim od snova

 

Soba dječakovih želja

 

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Milutin Obradovic is above all an artist of exciting artistic expression. His canvases, in their nature carry something essential, passionate and eruptive, an explosive character entirely turned to the primordial life energy. He feels nature with open senses. It is a fatal power dramatically confined to a narrow space. When encountering these works for the first time you only feel that you have come across a colouristic bang which attacked you, encroached and overwhelmed you instantly making you feel conquered and a little bit feeble to take upon yourself such a coloured force. The technique is complex, the knowledge of art is rich and confirmed through experience. This artist possesses intellectual brightness with which he understands the world, but also the courage to rush into the deepest whirlpools of life.

Pondering solely on the technique, craft or painting virtuosity would mean everything else but getting to the point. A moment when both the rational and the words are unable to translate the forms of the artistic language occurs very quickly, because they are, first of all, psychological and then visual phenomena. Any valid conclusion cannot be reached without sense and emotional perception of his canvases. In the titles and the content of his works such as Returned love, Encounter is a boy just like me,Where we have forgotten our halves, Regrets are carefully listened to, Unfaithfulness is faithful to me, Yellow loves are red, And I do not have ordinary wishes and ordinary sins, etc. it is clearly noticeable that the emotion is the primary force of these paintings.

The artist paints a dramatic world, powerful in tension, sonorous in colour. Sometimes it seems that the ultimate problem of his being is to extract a red-hot inner core out of himself. It is an entire arsenal of the most different emotional states. He skillfully finds means and appropriate artistic language for joy, sadness, melancholy and successfully reconciles them with his feelings at that particular moment.

The colour is definitely the primary force, it has freed the nature of this untamed temperament and cleared the way for it, it is a releasing vent which keeps the artist unharmed. It is a colouristic fire which had to break out somewhere in a personal score-settling in the states of high emotional tension. The colours are mature, sonorous and marked, the colours of personal and instinctive states. This colouristic vegetation could only grow out of a well-soaked canvas. The artist is permanently intoxicated with colour, every tone is spiced up and accentuated. The colour moves freely on a painting, comes into being and disappears, springs and sinks underground, encourages rhythm and expression, calms down and provokes conflicts.

It seems that Obradovic paints only when it is 40 degrees Celsius, at noon. This is the art of painting in overripe, August colours which keep this painting organism in the state of tension and overfullness. These are the colours of ripening, intensive radiation, golden confluence, temperature changes, colours of passing summer and early autumn, these fresh colours make you take a deep breath.

Nevertheless, we wonder what is hidden behind this impulse which is followed by the torrent of emotions in its unstoppable development. Beneath this whirled up mass of colours, under the epidermis of a painting, dense matter, there is an area of a personal, sensitive, intimate confession. Although he paints with ease and inspiration, this colouristic relief contains complex paths. Behind this robust form a discreet personal poetry is hidden: countless coloured hills, turned over, irregular, full of sinews and cracks which allow one to glimpse at secrets that hide a completely different nature of this artist. All these reds, greens and yellows travel into an invisible world below where they come from, everything that happens on the surface of the canvas is fed by the underground waters.

The artist tames this wild colouristic mass which threatens to get out of control with long nervous lines. As if these white reins wanted to calm down the temperament and bring down the temperature, to divert the attention from the main events on the surface. His lines are without a stop, long, nervous, persistent, conquering, resolute and daring, precise and movable, they are this painting’s ECG. These are the prints of the same life lines on his palm. This stretched net is nothing else but a skeleton which supports the wild massive body of the painting. The drawing is pliable, precise and shows confidence.

The head of a horse is a dominant, unavoidable motif in all Obradovic’s paintings. It is there to tell as the other side of the story. It is not a horse for a parade whose strength lies in speed, emphasized massiveness and hemoglobin overfillness. It is a taciturn hero, modest, a bit shy, aloof, stooped under the load of colouristic occurrences. His strength lies in an unassuming and reserved wisdom, in silent breathing. His eyes are wise, touched with suffering, big Byzantine endless eyes. His trot is silent, unknown, but it has always been known that in silence we hear the most silent sounds, that only in solitude we come to know and learn the unseen and essential in ourselves. This head is the artist’s self-portrait, it is the Obradovic on his own, in the absence of others, in the silence of some white empty metaphysical room, where windows face the sea horizon, the horizon of underwater solitude. The head of a horse is the artist’s mask, because the artist knows that only under masks and tears one can mature and reach completeness under suffering and pain. It is the reflection of Milutin the man, but also Milutin the boy.

In the midst of all what is happening the horse is standing alone, isolated. He is pondering himself, listening, as if he had a strong desire to communicate its thoughts and experiences, to shout them to itself.

Read more: http://www.milutinobradovicart.com/en/reviews/