Dima Antadze

The principal characteristic of the works of Dima Antadze is certainly his enchanting dimension. Close to a fairy tale, inspired by a baroque surrealism, this work is sprinkled with universal fetishes drawn up from the real life. “Parallel to a real life, the mythological world that I paint is in between culture and emotion, between intellect and passion. Because for me the technique does not exist independently from the rest. The most important thing for me is certainly to feel the evolution of my work. Sometimes my unconscious goes so fast that my works advance by themselves and that I even do not have an impression to work. Sometimes on the contrary when I throw myself in a new technique or I discover a new material, the process of creation becomes so unexpected and from that interesting. But sometimes also, it blocks completely and what I do is worth nothing to my eyes. What makes me paint? I could answer that question exactly, but if I know something of my way of working it’s that the hand alone is leading everything”.

Even if it is naïve, the stylisation if these dream-like scenes seems to be of rigour. Brought up by fluttering, by an elsewhere, here is an indication which touches by its metaphor the world in the spirit of Chagall. As though the painter gathers together his intimate methodology, a methodology nourished by cosmopolitan signs that are explicit like in Red Autumn.

Brought to saturation of the extremely coloured side of this palette, mentally disturbed and ostensibly fluorescent animals (Carnival) try to get attention. Other simply participate in allegories whose logical outreach matters less than visual limpidity : carrying a rooster in her arms like one carries children, a woman with red skin seems to stare at us with a mocking air. She seems to be waiting for something, a decisive event. Or perhaps its our reaction to her strange presence. The road at the board of which she is waiting fades in the background. A dark and desolated background, dalinian, almost disturbing. A fantastical desert of a solitude with no echo. Only two trees, the last rampart of the humanity shelter paradise birds that keep the edge. Farther away another woman with an improbable headgear on crosses a dream-like valley over which fishes are flying in a black sky. And if she catches something in a giant shell, we will never know what. Spring, one of the recent works, locates on a celestial terrace: a woman gives birth to a child who flies straight away on a balloon, while two ludicrous hens are riding a bike. Farther away again is a throughback to the political universe of the XX century, do not we see Lenin fishing with his family in the middle of the river, Lenin happily turning his back to the river sheltering a carnival deserted party? Could it be an allegory to the condition of communism?

Stéphan Lévy-Kuenz