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Critica-meme

Meme


   There is a kind of art its tradition long in years and venerable in custom which sometimes gets lost in the shuffle of critical estimation.  Perhaps for reasons of ambivalence rather than those of judgement.
    I might call it didactic art. Its claim to instruct, or at least to reveal aspects of human behavior; social, personal, political; to the moral scrutiny we might otherwise neglect.
    This art, narrative and realistic, in modern life is relegated to the bin of "illustration".  Well, so it may be "illustration". It can still move us as art, and sometimes give us a good laugh.
    Who is this man inhabiting the exquisite graphic landscapes and interiors of Meme's world, his eyes drooping with a melencholic acceptance  of his choices, none of which will ever pan out in his lifetime, who, of course, he is "everyman". And "everyman" lives in the existential dilemma, where, as the Roumanian-French philosopher Cioran says: "To wake at three in the morning and contemplate suicide appears to be that which is most normal."  Meme is Godot, and Quixote too, and Dante.  He is Bruno Schulz and Dimitri Haramozov. And he is Adam.
    Look, for example, at the piece called "No_Se_Me_Comprende".   A rendering worthy of Divinci, and the conception worthy of Peter Brughal, Meme gives us the adaptic truth.  Adam could not stand to live in paradise; his curiosity overwhelmed him; his will led to the disaster that replicates this intitial event ten billion times over; expulsion from the garden.
    The philosopher says that "man is, indeed, an extra ordinary apparition, but he is not a success."
    In Meme's pictures the wry humor and tough characterisation sharpen the image into a condensation of wit more punchy than brutal. mems predecessor may be Draumier.  Meme's depiction of his principal protagonists possess both a tenderness and a tension of sexual desire not found in the great French graphic artist.
    In his picture "Tocamela" the 'everyman' looks out on us, aware that what he knows is already destroying his desires; that he knows more about what folows the moment of his action to enjoy it.
    These canvases filled with beautiful, adroit drawing and painted wit lovely care, whose protagonist lives  the existential dilemma of existing as a fugitve in his own body and an emigrant in his own country make us laugh in self-recognition and ask our indulgence to sympathize with the anxiety where the only memories are those of the future.


PETER LEVENTHAL

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