Once painted, color is never innocent
Caio Fernando Abreu Berlim – 09/07/93
I feel an immense enchantment for the imagery of Walmor Correa. Much more than admiration or respect, which I also feel, but enchantment is the proper word.
In a vaguely associative manner, it transports me to the world of fairy tales, music, and poetry. Perhaps it is his birds, sheep or delicately drawn stars, that filter the weight of life and transforms it into flight. Here lead becomes a wing. Walmor turns shadows into light. His blues and yellows carry through them a sweet melancholy, more intense than pain. Which does not mean naive; such as the written word, the painted color is never innocent.
One can touch the real with iron hands, but to touch his world, Walmor’s choice are hands of glass. There is something which is almost breaking in his work, more like Marc Chagall than Francis Bacon; delicate, lyrical, serene and dreamlike. This is what I call a “style”. and it is this style that throws clean fresh air over stale human emotions. this style i call art. Walmor is an artist.
My own awareness that only part of it is rational prevents me from saying more, and so, I remain, enchanted.
Berlin, July 9, 1993.