Opening Remarks at the Exhibition, Bar, 2005

Friends of art, lovers of beauty, Ihave been entrusted with the honour of opening, in our city, the exhibition of paintings by Aldemar Ibrahimović. Do not expect me to deliver a wise and solemn address of the kind that is often heard on such occasions.

I shall tell you a little story about theft, about the robbed, and about thieves. In doing so, I shall confide to you my secret longing for a particular sort of roguery and a particular sort of thief—the kind for whom, to a certain extent, I feel respect, and on whose behalf I “petition for clemency.”

As you know, theft has now become the chosen round-table topic in local taverns, in market squares, and in academies alike. Were any god or devil willing to hear the voice of an incorrigible atheist, I would cast my “curse” upon the painter Ibrahimović, though not in the manner of those contemporary anathemas that have, it must be said, reached an enviable level in our country. Along the way, I would also utter a prayer, as old as the Bible and, like the Bible, just as impossible to fulfil—for this painter, too, and for all the Ibrahimovićs of today and tomorrow in the state of Montenegro.

And now, the promised tale:

Two friends, Frenchmen of worldwide renown, stole a magnificent painting by a celebrated artist from the Louvre Museum. The painting was extremely valuable, yet its creator had spent his life in grinding poverty. The impulse and motive behind the theft, however, had nothing to do with personal gain. The friends of the breed for whom I seek absolution were led to transgress by Beauty itself. The hand simply reached out for what was irresistible, enchanting, and divine, for what their spirit longed to touch and embrace. A hand moved by such a force might even be kissed, though the thieves must still have their ears pulled.

The French press raised the alarm. The public was astounded and offended by the event, though the burglars’ names were not yet known. From the highest authority, the police and the intelligence services were ordered to keep their eyes and ears open and not to sit idly by. Even if they had wished to, thieves bearing such names could not have taken refuge in any foreign land under the sky. Everywhere they would have been asked—from what, for what reason, and from whom do you flee from a homeland that admires you and takes pride in you?

They were exposed by a friend in whom they had confided and whom they had asked to return the stolen painting to the museum without mentioning their names. He did not fully comply. The painting was returned to the museum, but…

The newspapers announced the names of the transgressors—Guillaume Apollinaire, the poet, and Pablo Picasso, the painter.

In Montenegro, the police have recently recovered a painting by Francisco Goya, stolen one hundred and seventy-seven years after the artist’s death. Goya, too, had suffered in his lifetime for his criticism of, and dissatisfaction with, the society in which he lived.

The Montenegrin thieves were motivated exclusively by profit. Hands driven to transgression by such reasons must, without question, be bound. In our time, obviously, the role of the police in the world of painting is growing.

And now, the promised “anathema” upon the artist: God grant that, following the French model (and not the Montenegrin one), a canvas by Aldemar Ibrahimović be stolen one hundred and seventyseven years after the author’s death.

Because of a beauty that does not age and an artistic wonder that will only increase the value of Aldemar Ibrahimović’s work with the passage of time, I am convinced this “curse” shall be fulfilled.

I doubt, however, that the daily prayer would be answered: may God and people at least lift a finger to improve, during the painter’s lifetime, his unenviable toilsome fate, and may the hardships that have held a knife to his throat throughout his life be removed, while he is still alive.

The credit for the fulfillment of the aforementioned “anathema” will go solely to the artist. The sin and the blame for the neglect of the prayer “give us this day” rest, as always, upon the cushioned divan of state authority and in the deaf ear of society and the time in which the artist lived.

I declare Ibrahimović’s exhibition open.

Milika Pavlović Opening address Gallery “Veliša Leković”, Bar, 2 July 2005.