Aurel Cojan (1914-2004) born in Romania, exiled in France in 1957, was a true anarchist, seductive and difficult to bear, multiplying botched works in a few minutes that his merchants did not look at, playing the tramp, gambling all the money he earned, never paying his charges, but funny, sensitive to irony, having also left sensitive, invented, magnificent works that Romanian museums were looking for 20 years ago, which they no longer want due to inappropriate rigorism, until the cultural lead that has just weighed down on Bucharest jumps back to the richness of its cultural tradition.
An artist impossible to defend, in a context where it is the rating of a work that has become the selection criterion? If an artist's production escapes fungibility, his is the prototype.
Yet at different periods, especially at the end of his life, when, exclusively at the gallery, we tried, as best we could, to drive him, and as death approached, Aurel Cojan no longer cheated, making street scenes, portraits, nudes, self-portraits, which his hand traced with lightness, poetry, the squeaky humor and irony of Romanians. These works translate the enchantment of the daily discovery of the beauty of living.
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