References and stories

I would like to open this page with a story that a dear and important friend once wrote to me. He wrote it to me as a reaction to my pictures and therefore it can actually be equated with a reference, a wonderful, dazzling reference that is unparalleled as an opening. Have fun while reading!

About the author:

Werner Kafka, has been working as a photographer, journalist and author for a wide variety of media for over 30 years. For more than ten years he was under contract with the largest photo agency in Japan and made reports in many countries around the world. In Germany he worked for television, taught a wide variety of subjects related to image design and gave numerous lectures. 22 books have been published by Werner Kafka, including 19 titles on the subject of photography.

A woman who paints

 

A few years ago I wrote a story about a mysterious woman who painted the light on a wonderful sea beach. It turned into a colorful, mystical fairy tale and whenever I see Ute's pictures, I think of this little story. Whatever this woman paints, light seems to be her central theme. Be it flowers, people or abstract works. Fascinating is the radiance of her pictures, the glow of the figures, the wonderful juggling with color and - with light.

I like to see these pictures. On days when things don't go that way, when everything around me seems to be getting dark, when the world once again seems to firmly believe that it is best for everyone to kill themselves - on such days I watch them Take pictures of Ute Bivona, immerse yourself in these colors, search for and find the pure blue of the sky or the color of love. Feel the swaying grass, feel the bark of an old olive tree and listen to the stories in these pictures.

Often I think why didn't she become famous? Why are your pictures not represented at international exhibitions?

She would have the ability, also the imagination and the visual power.

What is it that makes some famous and leaves others in the shadows?

I have never been able to solve this riddle.

It is possible that this is why I enjoy Ute Bivona's pictures all the more. Because they are images that come from the depths of their being, that push themselves to the surface, as if spring and the warm air were luring them out of the earth. No picture does one think of commerce or money.

One thinks of colors, of warmth, of light and of the reason why such images, why art is created in the first place: Because man has a soul!

And Ute Bivona's artist soul is of rare beauty!

Occasionally I try to get into one of your pictures, like in one of those fairy tale mirrors or in the old children's films. I want to discover the world behind. Like a tourist, I would like to travel from place to place in the pictures, look at Ute's colors and shapes, feel the life and the dynamics immediately, so to speak.

Let yourself be drawn to their pictures. Find yourself a quiet hour without “I should still do that” or “actually I don't have any time”. Put your cell phone where it will not bother anyone and allow yourself these moments of contemplation. You will find a lot here, a lot that you already knew and a lot new. You will discover a lot of yourself and a lot too

 

of the woman who paints.

 

 

 

WATER COLORS OR THE PAINTER

 

12/24 2012 For Ute

 

She was a painter. An artist. Yes. You had to say that. The boy saw her sitting in the same place every day. Every day. In the small village by the sea, a little south of the big Florence. At the edge of the small, light pine forest in the shade, she looked out at the sea and thought about it. Sometimes, however, he saw her on the beach. Then the dark-eyed woman sat on a worn folding chair in front of her wooden easel, the curved palette in her left hand and a fine brush in her right hand. And she painted. Painted constantly, quickly, with large flowing movements. It gave the impression that during these hours she did not perceive the world around her, as if the woman  would have sunk into these images that began to glow on the canvas. As if she was just living for this one picture.

With great momentum the woman dipped the brush into a large glass, peered across the canvas at the magnificent coastal landscape and then moved resolutely with quick, safe brushstrokes over the whitewashed canvas. Her face glowed with happiness, passion and the energy of creation. Her black hair tucked behind her ears, her mouth slightly open, her eyes watched what her hand conjured up on the screen. And how sure these hands were!

As in complicated figures, as in a mysterious dance, they hurried over the empty surfaces of the canvas to breathe life into their shape. It shone and glittered and glistened in front of the artist, who at difficult points pushed her lower lip over her upper lip with excitement and thus got a little sea salt in her mouth.

 

What a wonderful painting shone in front of the boy on the canvas. He was fascinated that with a little paint you could paint life on a little whitewashed fabric. It was magic…. He had never seen anything more beautiful. The image sparkled and shone before him. The contours were sharp, everything was wonderfully clear and clearly recognizable. As if you could step into this wonderful land behind the screen.

 

After a few minutes, however, the image began to dull. Lines faded or disappeared entirely. Colors became pale and invisible. The picture seemed to dissolve. And indeed:  A short time later the sun had soaked up the whole wonderful painting and what remained was a white dry canvas on which nothing else could be seen but chalky, chalky white.

The painter sat exhausted and slumped on her folding chair. But her eyes still shone and saw colors, arches, weathered rock overgrown with ivy, glowing colored flowers, pine groves, rolling hills and a wonderfully wide, high, bright sky.

“Wasn't it wonderful? She muttered to the boy.

He didn't seem to understand. and kept looking into the glass. And then onto the canvas.

“Watercolor!” Said the artist.

“Or better: The colors that the water makes when it is lit. There's nothing more beautiful."

"But the picture," complained the boy. "It's gone. Disappeared. And it was so beautiful. ”The boy looked sadly at the screen, as if he had lost something incredibly valuable.

“Why?” Asked the painter. "Why should it be gone? Do you think you will ever forget this picture? That you could ever lose it? "

And then the boy saw how this glow rose again inside him, he almost smelled that one ecstatic moment in which the screen glowed as if a fairy had sprayed stardust over the picture.

The boy's eyes began to sparkle too. He thought he understood at least a little.

"No," he said. “I can't imagine that I can ever forget your picture because it was as beautiful as a wish. When will you paint another picture? "

"I think in about two weeks, when the canvas is completely dry," replied the woman with the dark eyes.

"I'll be there! I'll be there for sure! ”Said the boy happily. But then he frowned. A thought furrowed his little forehead.

“And the others? What about all the others? ”He asked.

“What about the others?” Asked the painter.

"Oh well. Nobody else will be able to see your picture. Just you and me."

 

"Ah. I understand, ”said the woman with a smile. "A good question. So. I also ask you a question in this context. What do you think it depends on? To painting? On painting as such? Or painting for one or many viewers? Or because you want to paint. Because it's so inside you that you couldn't help it. You have to think about that before you start unpacking the brushes. "

 

The boy went home thoughtfully. And before he went into the house for supper, he sat on the little bench by the door and looked up at the little summer clouds.

“I think I'll write one day,” he thought to himself. “I'm not good for painting. But I could write about it. About pictures. About creating. And maybe, if I have a really good moment, then ... yes, then maybe I'll even manage to write a nice picture ... "