(A poem written by the Argentinean painter Juan Carlos AZNAR, for Onay Akbas's work -1992)
Lines, bursting from his brush strokes,
Flowing through the roads, strong,
Pulling off, a young man who had found the sun (I saw his sun,
while he was smiling),
His orange face!
I saw him as well, when he was mad about dark blue,
And while he was on the prairies to rest,
I saw him crying for his sun.
But this optimistic, bearded young man,
Doesn't like sorrows,
His musketeery act,
Immediately dips the hair of his brush,
Scattering drops towards the sun all the way
Just like a tropical flower in the air
Painting everything to lemon yellow orange:
People endeavouring under the sun,
Insisting upon their existence,
Little people as short as our feet,
But elephant-like giant lads too
Want their mothers with childish expressions.
And it's turning,
His universe is spinning as if it was imitating,
Or it seems Iike they are spinning;
And here is the space,
And there is the space,
A harmony, painting
Painted by the bearded man,
In which creatures live, coloured.
Saw them dancing,
This, is what happens to every painter that I know,
The one that sees the sun at the tip of a dripping
A sun, and it's proven reality:
Paris, February, year ninety two.