Daniel Bozga

About Daniel Bozga
Born on 29th November 1982 in Baia Mare city, Maramures county, Romania. I am a graduate of "Universitatea de Vest"(Western University) Timisoara the university of Arts and Design. Now I am a teacher of plastic ...
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Education
2002-2005 Graduated School of Arts "Liviu Borlan" with Magna Cum Laude.
2005-2008 Graduated the Western Faculty of Timisoara specialised in Visual Arts
Exhibitions
2005-2011 Group exibition organised by Onisa Cultural Foundation, France, Germany, England
2007 Group exibition Bavaria, Germany
2017- Group exibition Moldavian Saloons Chisinau
2017- Carpathian Space exibition, Ukraine

My story
Inside Epilogue

The nightmare of the alienation
I was born at the end of a forgotten story. It was late. A winter day in a medieval old town that remained almost intact ... And some vestiges of the forgotten and past world were still standing. The gate of the fortress still retained a part of the forgotten past and a part of the inheritance left for the posterity. To be able to explain the complexity of my creation and what motivated me to create I have to go back to the time when I was three years old. Then my creation, seen through a child’s eyes, started to take shape ... I started to see the people’s faces, at that time, I could say quite strangely. I looked at them, and I could see their strange, washy, blank, expressionless eyes… Those I avoided. But I could feel their pain ... though it was hidden for most of them (although I could not understand what does it mean at that time) I tried to represent it on a piece of paper with a small pencil ... everything with the innocence of an unwitting child. To be able to express myself I need to say the beginning of my story, to explain the originality, the birth of my personality and my unique way of looking at the world (at that time) through the child's eye ...
... Painting, drawing ... I learned all these with my great grandmother by my side... Sometimes searching deep inside me ... I closed my eyes and drew what I really felt, what I could visualize.. I could imagine anything. ... The people I met were looking at me strangely, thinking that I was just a child. I looked at their faces, their eyes, hands, every wrinkle, each involuntary struggle eye or I watched the "eye of glass." I was trying to look beyond them. I felt so sad, I felt the pain from their eyes, from the shimmering light with a strange and lonely glow. Later, I understood what that state actually means ... Alienation was already part of my being, and I, through the eyes of a child represented it in every object, man or animal ... I could perceive that state ... describing in detail through hundreds of details gathered on the sheets that now, looking at them I realize my purpose - the purpose of the one who creates and gives life through the unimportant pencil ... Painting means not just painting what you see in a banal, common, ordinary way. Painting means to give a little bit of yourself, of your existence, of what really defines you ... to render the truth ... without falsifying it, copying it ... Passing everything you see through the affective filter, and loving it - means to love the color, and the color now, more than ever, lives on the face of the inspirer.
My childhood dream was and still is to paint without constraints and constraints (of people or of a society too ill or narrow to understand). I feel a painting. A painting I'm working on is like a child now sending me a feel, through her eyes I transmit what I feel, tell a story using alter-images that are playing me ... Without the muse of my creation , I'm nothing. Every time I look inside me ... contemplating my forgotten childhood ... its brawls ... now appear as a dream or nightmare ... Each moment-sequence now resumed inside the alienation ...
In fact, I was a little bigger, when I wrote down in one of my notebooks – I restore of those thoughts as an epitaph of forgetting - “Love is everything. Without love you have nothing – Loving you are released from the "claws" of alienation ... Loving you will see Life ... and through Life - the present. It is all that matters. Then I see the cold and dead hand of the past ... I reproduced it many times on the canvas and appears as an Achilles bony heel ... The past is dead - do not wake him up! Because that cold hand always grabs Achilles' heel - - we all have one that only takes you down to that place of forgetfulness, of alienation and makes you relive to infinite, repetitive frames that upset me, both me and your being. Afflicted images kill us. They are part of us - but we can win!
... Lost then found ... I return as a prodigal son ... we all can go back ... The windows seemingly closed ...walled ... looking at the place where they used to be ... I try to reproduce on the canvas the image of an innocent smile... ... I dissipate myself like a steam! Maybe not today in the loneliness of the white, circular, cold room. I wonder in front of the white canvas: “Would I disappear?” But not before I see and love you! Then I wonder if I would not look ... I would be tortured by dozens of pictures ... Every nightmare would stop. The Metaphor of Alienation - suspended somewhere beyond the wall of forgetting ... Then I feel that I can reproduce my story… in some clues.
Sometimes the inner epilogue is just the "beginning". I note now, just like then: The revealed truth brings with it the true revelation - of my being ... I could be called a painter of the Alienation – of the wanderings in the universe of forgotten minds, preoccupied by the uncertainty of a consuming world ... Only art is not consumed ... Perpetually creating to exist ... My art, a rich and varied universe in thousands of insidious nuances of the human condition ... all this compose my entire creation ... All extracted from the true human nature... All these elements bring me into existence as a prophet of the color and of the forgotten and alienated human condition. All this interpenetrates to the exact overlap with the joys and sorrows that surround us. The elements make up the unit as a whole, as a unitary being in the body of my art, of what signifies the true experience ... Every touch line exists to give me the story every time that becomes synonymous with what I am ... the one that gives life to the deepest experiences ...
I can assert with an undeniable certainty that what I have created is at the same time Appearance and Symbol ... I can bring to life and express what I feel, like a poem that appears now forgotten, it opens out, then we can look at that fragment - the pain in my models’ life…a moral life- a retrieved part ... but the morality of the art consists in the perfect use of a material without perfection .
Another part of my dream: to teach. To teach the others how to have a view of the painting. Teach them to feel and express through color. Working with children of different ages, from kindergarten to gymnasium and high school, I was able to pass down the love for beauty, authentic painting, sensitizing the heart by color.
There is a story in each of my creations. Beyond this "Alienation of the World" - I found Her love as a source of inspiration, which saved me - and the eternity of love gave me the remaining hope.
The originality of my creation consists in seeing beyond the turbulent eyes of the world - surrounded by a monstrous wall of suffering. Before painting, I only look – to see beyond the person’s eyes... as a premonition, I “SEE” the Past, the Present, the Future … They appear like a revelation I lay on the canvas… I transmit with every touch up what I feel. Then I work on the compositional elements that are related to a part of the past or present or even of the future.
The human figure brings me the greatest satisfaction, helping me express most convincing what it has to offer ... Since I was born, I felt like I had a gift - to see beyond the appearances. This gift allows me to go beyond the trivial appearance that we each show as a mask.
I create to be able to exist - so I can recreate every picture. My originality is revealed by "extracting" the images around me ... General medicine and pharmacy studies have made me through my periods of practice, come into contact with people, listen to them, talk to them, feel the pain, the truth of their story as an epitaph in their hearts . Among the patients I have chosen expressive models that I have noted, cataloged, sketched. I knew almost all about them: what do they feel, the food they like, whether they are loved or not, and the most important thing: why do they suffer from. I knew how the disease was manifested (in fact, many of them were not sick, the theory we later concluded - those around us, too much insensitive society, made them sick). Then the obsessions, as an escape beyond the real. They no longer made illusions for a better future.
Talking to them seemed that time was returning, projecting itself with a paradoxical slowness, an alarm signal, a deafening siren of ambulance, which extended into my heart like a deep dagger blow. Each model I was able to get to know was a more or less expressive pattern. In fact, I do not even call them expressive models but characters who became actors on the great scene of the world ... which I describe with great detail.
Many of the patients, or characters as I call them, speak to me with great sincerity, they look stunned at the sketches from my sketchbook with a black leather cover. They look… Their gaze in my eyes testifies so much pain, so much perplexity that I'm sure they expect a sign of compassion for their illness from me, for their destroyed life, for unhappiness. I had to live with my sketches, with my obsessions, with the thought of preparing the canvas for painting, thinking of the joy of painting, letting the colors bite and painfully unleash.
There is a world inside me. I know it! As an artist, I explore it. The world I created is me. This world owes me its existence. I created it with my senses, with my gifts. It's my slave. And nothing has power over it.
The evil, that is the disease, turns into long white rays of hope. Hope and love - now like an Exodus from Alienation ... I see a man in front of me. Dressed elegantly in a tuxedo and a bowtie, he gestures like me, has a brush in his mouth and a brush in his right hand. The man is painting. Colors bite each other, devour themselves.
That man is Me. I have been released from the "Claws of Alienation" – now, I am free! ... What can be more soul-uplifting than living for painting and painting in order to live!

EVOCATION - THE PESTILENCE III
“THE BODY ABDUCTION”

I was painting without stopping. The pain was beginning. The day before or maybe a few seconds I had a feeling ... I could not find myself. Neglected, lost, I come back and can not forget. That nasty, whitish moon, that sense of guilt. I wonder whydo I have to suffer? “Daniel”- I hear my name. I paint.
"This is a mystic sky," my father added.
“Yes, it really is”.
A pale color like sulfur or leather was dressing the stone of the surrounding buildings.
Sometimes that building was used as an asylum, then as a town hall, later on as a boarding school ... Now, it’s just a stately, bare, cold building with a rusty metal door - with a white paint still visible on the plaster ... Today only the echoes of the lost voices get into it.
“Daniel, why are the characters full of suffering, infirmity and loneliness?”
“They are telling their story. Each of them contributes with a little detail.”
“Why did you paint the sky so agitated, cloudy and full of sorrow? Is there no hope?”
“Dad, I felt this is the way I have to paint!”
That month… I tried to forget its diffuse and ugly light ... I do not know what is going to happen…
The long building from the left with imposing marble stairs, elongated windows with stone embroidery, in a Gothic style are now empty and shabby... Only the echoes of a dead past remain there.
A young man with a well-defined massive body carries his weakened and dying father, humped, with his dry hand stretched out …the pain in the old man's eyes "devoured" by the disease inside, says: “Son, it’s me ...”.
For a few seconds I was standing motionless.. My father resumed: “I am that old man. You're carrying me on your back. That's your burden. You have assume it.”
That imposing building had been used as a prison, then as a school ... I still hear the children’s voices impregnated in the thick and swollen walls... I expressed them through light purple touches.
In the background, agitation is very advanced - through a gang a man struggles to ride an equally agitated horse ... Whitish flares seem to cover the gang inside. He wants to escape, he does not look back. Fire and smoke follow him ... Imagine - the road to freedom or an illusory hope?!
…A gramophone - tortures silently the loneliness ... The same song is infinitely repeated . It repeats a part of hope.
…A war veteran with a bandaged eye is fallen down. Next to him an old man is standing up, …his mind is lost. Near him some victims of the Holocaust. A father with a bandaged eye and a burn on his face, lost, seems to say: "Do not get me ...”
… An old man in his nightgown, beside him a child with a drawn face, as if aged, is shouting luridly, naked and neglected.
… On the diagonal, an old man with a rare beard and two false friends, the third squatting in front of a blackboard - pushes a piece.
…... A mother yells with a desperate gesture, stretches her hand, her face and eyes are struck by helplessness, hopelessly squeezes hope... She grips on a blanket the cold and inert body of her child... He is no longer ... A half- metal covered plate hides the little spilled blood. The mad woman looks toward a man lifting the coffin from the open pit….. The half-open coffin - the skeletal body of the baby wrapped in a purple-bloody curtain ... will be taken ... The woman is crying ... She no longer has tears ... That cruel pain kills any hope in her ...
… Then my father said, "The kid was your brother”
. In the back, an old man, pained, forgotten, left, surrounded by vacuum and the night wall, so empty and cold ... The old man, with his body eaten by the disease, says: “It’s me, son!”
“A mystical sky, Daniel.”
“That's true, dad! A heaven that says it's just the beginning and yet there is hope! The light of truth inside us !!!”

FATHER’S PORTRAIT
“WITH THE INSIDE DESEASE”
Orange – Its mild and researching light – the inner light - the state of the character - The Disease from inside ... State otherwise visible outside the character , too...
Drug receptacles ... symbolize the way ... Apples represent the sense of free will ... An open window behind ... A shabby building - They compose and amplify the state of disquiet in the subconscious.
One day I asked myself a question: “How should I behave with the characters on the canvas?” Not to be influenced by thousands of contradictory tendencies ... I had to develop a strange and effective attitude…
To suffer due to the colors from the canvas, but never to get the truth out of them ... Then my dad resumed with an extinguished voice:
“You get used to hunger, you get used to stomachaches, headaches or helplessness, even with the absence of inspiration you daily fight with - but you can not get used not to love one day, one hour, one minute, or second…”
“Yes, dad, you’re right! Love is everything! Now, I’m happy, dad, I’m in love! My wife is everything for me!”
The world inside me has created the outside, too…
Internal illness was just the beginning - now it's over ... Then Hope!!!

AN ADULT’S SINS- STUDY/SKETCH OF INNER SUFFERING NEAR A GREEN METAL LADDER”

No one has forgotten the rejected man.The man next to you. The man killed by the ignorance of others. Man of the crowd. The Man of Reality - reproduced in an in-depth study.
Nobody has forgotten - how "you lay like a dead" swinging - how "you lay like a dead" killed by doubts on the green, metallic, cold stairs ... impregnated by that "plague" of the metal...
The motion is crying like a study - deep suffering like a sonnet of pain ... in the place where the moon is overflowing from a pale orange to an earth green... The body is full of the rejection marks.
I can not look at you ... But you know I love you by the end of this dead time. I have wondered. You asked me too: “Why did you reveal your inner suffering in this sketch?”
The nail of suffering blocked my nerve… The twilight like a fan, covers and holds me aside as in a mahogany shell ... then it seems to cover my suffering. I wonder in this study - no one has forgotten that the heartbeat to infinity breathes ...?! Then you remind me that you chased me ... to fill yourself with each brush stroke, to become more … Then the traces of suffering on your face ... the shadows of the past that hurt me ... They bring rejection ... A red mass is draining, forming a liquefied material - symbolizing the Past ... here with a repetitive role. Look at my face - to the flame of the sound - from the inside the sufferings spring now ... the sun - Sadness looks as a bed of hearts… The past is kept in the retina of sadness ... Past can kill ... I am forgotten because I was rejected ... My chest lays as dead ... the small and cold glass eye keeps a part of the forgotten memories, kept in the contours closed without any escape.