Dear Tamam, dear Ismail,
I met your way of painting, interpreting what you have in soul and spirit. I know who is now swinging drops of heaven in their hands ready to be one of your sketches striving for life honest acquainted redemption. My Italian lines could not be but next to it as such.
I was really happy to meet and face your art language: I realized I had in front of myself an already percieved and known world, warmly peered-in in its thin depth. To verify the tiniest inner signs and expressions which splendidly turn into grading chromatic tones, heaven spot calls, growing of pain shapes, strength, suffering, a downtrodden humanity ...and handed on with dignity by powerful touches to the innocent and afflicted generations who, in spite of that, carry lights of hopes and quietness in wisdom and crying and emotion and human tenderness.
I felt myself running into the poppy-red fields, my Sicilian spring-time blossom (how much it is equal to Palestine’s).
I felt myself in the bush prickly pear running from its usual vermilion joy into meanings of narrow limits and confinement, hidden emotion, bowed heads in deep inner sufference.
I saw myself in those powerfull hands, witness of silences and lived-through life: the same hands discovered in my soul and in my mind as my ancestry.
I saw myself in that ever-longing-for beauty shaped in young tender faces of sweet ladies hiding life and nature’s signs.
More and more I recognized myself where the violet colours play, the blue shades dwell, the caressing folds of pinks and indefinite darks roaming into years.