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Dear friends,
I have never opened an exhibition before.
I didn’t want to invoke Pippi Longstocking right away, but I did want to start cautiously—with an open door:
… upon the turbulent waves of the internet
floats a plastic soup
of red hearts.
That soup grows thicker and thicker,
expanding in all directions,
becoming overwhelming.
And let’s not beat around the bush—a significant portion of that overwhelming soup comes straight from Tali’s kitchen.
I don’t know anyone who scatters hearts as generously as she does.
I have seen her paint en plein air many times,
but when I quietly took in her exhibition this week,
I realized once again:
her work follows the same principle as her iPhone.
When Tali finds her subject,
sets up her easel,
and fixes her gaze on a cluster of trees…
a reed bank…
a few hills…
a winding path…
her heart reaches out to the landscape surrounding her.
She looks, and looks,
chooses a brush,
and as she lays down the first strokes on the canvas,
something happens.
On the canvas, yes,
but also in the landscape itself.
That landscape, under her gaze,
awakens as if from a dream,
and lo—
it begins to beckon…
Gradually,
it unfolds around her
like a leporello (accordion book).
The love is mutual!
Every brushstroke on her canvases
is a frozen caress,
and every landscape you see here
has responded to those caresses
by presenting itself at its very best.
If life were an animated film,
you would see a stream of hearts
flowing back and forth.
And if you are patient,
if you listen closely,
you will hear it…
Yes, you will hear the rustling of leaves,
the whisper of reeds,
the murmur of a stream,
and let’s not forget the birds,
singing at the top of their voices.
But if you listen even more intently,
you will hear the landscape itself,
ever so softly…
whispering a poem.
So softly, that Tali herself doesn’t seem to hear it.
But she feels it,
and she responds instantly,
because all her painting
is a dialogue.
And as she brings what she sees to life,
color by color,
the landscape whispers:
"Everything has a beginning,
a middle,
and an end.
The beginning is easy to recognize:
something appears that wasn’t there before—
a buttercup, perhaps,
or a tadpole.
Or our love.
The middle is also clear:
something is simply there.
Or no, not simply—
but profoundly,
as if it had always been.
That could be a language,
or a cathedral.
Or our love.
The end is recognized
by what comes after:
something that was,
is suddenly gone.
A snail shell, a wasp’s nest,
the echoes of a celebration, a brass band—
it could be anything.
Except… our love.”
……………………………………
And thus whispers the landscape.
Every painting here is the crowning of a love.
I declare the exhibition open.
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