Wanderlino
Arruda
I
remember
as
if
it
were
yesterday,
the
day
that,
at
the
house
of
Samuel
Figueira,
myself,
giving
advice,
more
than
usual,
about
his
style
of
painting,
in
his
use
of
color,
in
the
choice
of
his
themes
and
probably
even
about
the
proper
evolution
of
his
art.
I
really
must
have
exaggerated
in
my
function
of
art
critic,
and
from
that,
came
his
unexpected
challenge:
Why
didn´t
I,
such
an
apparently
big
know-it-all
about
painting,
try
to
paint
a
picture
right
then
and
there
in
front
of
him,
his
wife
Mila
and
Shirley
Durães,
who
was
there
visiting
them
that
Sunday
afternoon?
Insult
or
invitation,
convocation
or
whatever,
he
didn’t
have
to
force
me,
and
with
no
further
ado,
I
immediately
dove
right
into
the
canvas,
creating
my
first
landscape,
blue,
white
and
green,
primitive,
with
no
shade,
completely
smooth,
flat
and
even
a
little
transparent.
For
a
beginner,
I
guess
it
was
a
success.
In
a
little
more
than
two
hours,
with
my
friend
Samuel
guiding
me
along
here
and
there,
and
even
helping
me
out
a
little
with
the
palm
fronds,
because
at
that
moment,
I
didn’t
have
that
certain
light
touch,
which,
by
the
way,
I
still
haven’t
acquired.
Just
a
few
days
ago
in
nearby
Mirabela,
Shirley,
upon
seeing
a
painting
of
mine,
reminded
me
of
that
first
adventure
in
painting,
and
asked
me
if
it
was
worth
it,
after
all
these
years
of
effort
in
the
colorful
world
of
tubes
of
pigment,
brushes,
pallet
knives
and
canvases.
She
also
wanted
to
know
if
I
considered
myself
a
happier
person
after
being
a
painter
for
so
long,
a
profession
in
which
one
suffers
so
much
criticism
from
both
who
know
about
painting
and
also
from
those
who
know
absolutely
nothing
.
And
what
would
I
tell
her?
Of
course,
everything
is
fine,
painting
has
been
a
marvelously,
extraordinary
hobby,
a
significantly
singular
exercise
in
patience,
a
new
source
of
study,
an
encounter
and
reencounter
with
art,
spanning
centuries
of
admiration
and
enchantment.
When
I
am
painting,
the
hours
fly
by
in
true
dreamtime,
fascination,
replete
in
mental
gratification,
captured
in
delicious
feelings
of
joy.
And
about
the
criticism…especially
the
negative
type,
it
has
helped
me
a
lot,
contributing
towards
my
growth,
competence
and
the
search
of
a
better
performance.
In
truth,
I
have
no
idea
whatever,
of
where
I
stand
as
a
painter,
in
the
world
of
art
because
it
has
been
so
long
since
I
have
been
in
the
company
of
Samuel
and
Konstantin
Christoff,
my
two
very
demanding
teachers,
that,
even
when
complementing
my
work,
still
find
some
way
of
making
some
constructive
criticism,
giving
valuable
suggestions
and
never,
never
showing
themselves
to
be
completely
satisfied
with
my
work.
I
don’t
speak
much
of
Godofredo
Guedes,
this
being
because
he
never
thinks
anyone
besides
he
himself
paints
well.
That
is
because
he,
as
a
painter,
never
strayed
away
from
the
academic
school,
and,
therefore
could
not
appreciate
any
other
style
of
painting,
rarely
giving
useful
instruction
or
suggestions,
for
old
or
young
disciples
of
the
art.
It
is
because
good
old
GG
finds
that
the
profession
of
painting
is
too
painful,
too
hard,
and
too
difficult.
He
really
only
gave
worth
to
classic,
academic
painting.
Reality,
in
its
line,
form
and
color.
To
him,
our
newer,
modern
forms
of
expression
are
inventions
created
by
painters
that
think
they
know
what
they
are
doing
but
in
truth,
have
no
idea,
whatever.
Another
important
painting
instructor,
Cristina
Rabelo,
a
few
days
ago,
looked
at
almost
all
the
pictures
which
I
had
prepared
for
my
upcoming
exhibition
on
July
thirteenth,
at
the
Culture
Center,
here
in
Montes
Claros,
said
that
she
liked
them,
but
still
asked
me
why
I
had
abandoned
still
life
painting
of
flowers…On
the
other
hand,
our
family´s
criticism,
from
which
there
is
absolutely
no
escape,
my
wife,
Olímpia
and
daughters
Wladênia
and
Rizzia
and
also
my
daughter
in
law,
Nádia
closely
follow
each
and
every
painting
I
do,
summarily
presenting
their
feedback
in
the
exact
minute
of
each
request
of
evaluation.
My
sons,
João
Wlader,
Danilo,
Denilson
and
Wanderlino
Jr.
find
themselves
somewhat
absent
and
aloof
from
these
sessions
of
critical
evaluation.
These
are
the
happenings
in
my
world
of
pigments
and
I
must
admit
that
I
have
no
complaints.
Better
and
more
profitable
moments
have
never
been
found
during
these
wonderful
ten
years
of
painting,
exactly
when
I
am
completing
my
first
half-century
of
existence
on
this
earthly
plane.
Painting
has
been
a
happy
blooming
of
life,
a
form
of
internal
and
external
peace,
an
evocation
of
past
memories
of
my
travels
and
remembrance
of
those
lovely
dream
landscapes.
After
I
started
painting,
I
have
never
passed
by
nature,
or
her
by
me,
as
if
existence
was
a
blank
page.
Each
and
every
road,
each
piece
of
sky,
each
tree,
every
leaf,
the
silver
mirror
of
the
waters,
however
tiny
as
it
may
be,
has
been
a
celebration
to
my
thirsty
eyes
and
imagination.
The
painter
is
a
color,
form
and
movement-reader,
the
visualization
of
dimensions
that
exist
and
do
not
exist.
I
was
almost
forgetting
to
make
an
apology
about
Godofredo
and
his
lesser
collegues
of
fine
art.
What
he
just
doesn’t
like
is
anybody
else’s
painting.
To
them,
he
is
and
has
remained
a
good
friend.
In
what
it
concerns
me,
he
has
given
me
only
enthusiastic
words
of
encouragement.
Perhaps
I
am
the
only
person
that
he
has
actually
tried
to
teach
his
painting
techniques.
This,
he
said
was
because
he
feels
that
painters
in
general,
suffer
tremendously,
since
very
young,
and
that
I,
had
no
need
to
work
as
a
painter
to
survive,
and
therefore,
it
was
all
right,
and
I
have
since
been
eternally
grateful.
