The comic strip was a means of transposing my film scripts and a link to pop art, to the art that was my model. The comic strip teaches you how to draw something ugly, which is very important in the epoch of the homage.
We draw nearer the window of a house with our telephoto, keeping away from the trees. A swing is hanging from the roof. The child, about 12, keeps turning around himself clockwise. At one time he turns in profile and looks right; we follow his look. A rudimentary drawing on a wall. A construction. We make our way back through the palace. We go out and the doors keep banging behind us, by themselves. In the grassy ditch, a peasant, with baggy trousers and boots. He examines his feet. To the right, a poplar alley. A man crosses the ditch slowly, takes one step, takes two and remains still, motionless. A bird flies from the valley, descends on his shoulder, then on a pillar and into the void. The man makes large gestures in this rhythm, jumps into the air, goes farther away. We take the camera down on the sandy road. The sand starts gliding downhill in front of us. Across the ditch a whitewashed stone fence, a lattice structure, the black garden, cattle coming out, licking the posts. The valley again, the road, the posts, greyish black yard to the right, black woods to the left. Fog, black, dark grey sky ahead. Two men pull at a cord stretching it on the ground. The man looks at each of them by turns, then starts running and trips up with both legs, but somehow manages not to fall. He regains posture and hits it again (uphill) slightly brighter. An utterly fake God (engraved, animated), kitsch, takes him by the hand and drags him beyond the hill.
The social classes are walking in parallel on a cobblestone street (Barbu Văcărescu Street). Focus on the man wallowing through the ditch, through puddles, streams, garbage, detritus. On the sidewalk: a bourgeois family standing, young, carefree people staring around and gulping down food. Near them, advancing slowly, the car. Solemn air. Inside, a guy with a hat.
A labour celebration. Hard work was put in to pave Roma Street. People in coarse woollen coats in the ditch (freeze frame). The crane, the pneumatic hammer drill. The dirty table. A guy comes in with the water. A cable is being laid, pipes are being mounted with the help of the crane. Asphalt chunks are thrown into trucks. Rubber boots. The beneficiaries have come to thank them. A common lunch in the road blocking area. One in a private car, another, on a motorcycle go down the street. A militiaman smoking with a worker.
The gloomy world of registers. The storehouse. Piles of forms, the table in the back. Modern cabinets, in a new section. Opens a metal one. Spring folders. We are shown different separate social groups. The sellers (in plastic), the militia officers.
Ion Grigorescu was born in 1945 in Bucharest, where he currently lives and works. He is one of the best known artists of the Romanian Neo-avantgarde. Proposing a wide range of works—from painting to photography to (video) performance to diary—which do not necessarily comply with the historical canons of art, Grigorescu is permanently on the lookout for “roads and exits from roads.”