Muradif Cerimagic is one this first and best generation of the academy of the forming arts in Sarajevo, and he has himself with his work always taken off from the others. While the others dreamed about this special academy, he selected the separatingness and peace of Lastva - fallen in love with the mountains of its place of birth; and today he paints masterfully and mutely an other large city in a foreign country. Therefore this certain truth in its new work however probably agitates: from its passionate solidarity to the pictures of the lost homeland, in which it is reminded of its brother - two small boys, who belonged together in the lost years...
Now however all that is not more than one photography; a picture in a photo album is only the memory remained: that is the heraldry of his melacholy, his self oblivion; Memory of everything that it remained and which does not exist any longer. Memory of a secret, of his family, to his homeland, to his wrong, to his crucufied Jesus, with whom he actually already anticipated the today's time and his fate before ten years. His whole life is reflected in this impressive black canvas, which dominated the exhibition at that time "Collegium Artisticum", and these last small pictures: the intimate diary of the painter. If one reads Cerimagics handwriting now, one is able to detect his respectable view of art. Such a thing however is not only then possible, "if we do not understand the language, in which the things and situations have no names, but are only opened by prevailing conditions in this world, this however again only in a hieroglyphic writing, to which one needs a translation. And for such a relationship with the world it requires both a relationship with the human one and with inhuman one and beyond that also a relationship of humans with one himself... " (W. Biemel, philosophical analysis of modern art) And therefore, who did not feel such a proximity, this proximity, which actually formed this painter, his topics and his type does not know, is also not able to see anything - even not his “Sarajevo 1996”: neither the bleeding sun, nor the marvelous, lighting up jet, which break at the coffin, ready to wrap the deceased into the white linen, neither the used proximity and then the loss, still the silhouette at the door, a door, where it waits, death or not death - all the same.
Dedicated to "my dear brother"... From the end of this large picture with the small format one can read off his whole life, it peels itselve from this picture layer for layer; and the layers lead directly to Baseskije (writer from that 17. century) and the writings from another time and over other humans, those at that time just as actually "nothing at all falsely made", they had only "no luck; and only for this reason they were killed".
If humans lose their homeland, their history is very tragic in its finalness. But even if one takes away the right to homeland to a painter - he carries nevertheless his homeland forward and lets awake this in his fantasy to new life, only in the memory, but always in the dialog with his actual origin, where everything begins...
And in such a way Lastva becomes the center of his again created world, Lastva, where he walked, where he painted his precious pictures, where he spent his term holidays as a student, where he could withdraw himself into the separatingness and where his best works of art developed. Into this Lastva come barons, professors, painters, the most beautiful women, actresses and critics... Magic pictograms and lines open other worlds - to mysteries and secrets from his still alive memory, where large yellow suns emerge and strengthens itself at the bright firmament... And slowly clarity spreads. The grass, a beautiful branch, the roots - everything is reflected in that clear water.
What made Muradif Cerimagic in his exile, embodies a deep nostalgia, is as picture concrete printout of feelings. So that we can say however that a painting is really art, it must be free of pathetic, needs the intellectual synthesis. Once another very large painter from Bosnia said to me: "there is not even one line in feeling seeds a world, it is rather a magic pictogram and a small longing of the human soul, something, which writes secret tracks and any outlines on a white piece paper. As I began to paint, I understood that a work of art is actually only my sign, my only legacy, everything which a father leave can, my condemned will before the eyes of this world... my picture. That is like a bunch dry Rosmarins in a brown Filjan (traditionel cup to drink coffee) on the sideboard of my most loved ones, who are not longer alive."
And Cerimagic ist drawing exactly such paintings, paintings of truth. That is the truth of life and of death, of love and of indifferent feeling, of beauty and of not beauty, of glory and of nothing, of forced lonelyness, of faith and of doubts. Clear and not clear looses. And victories. And all that contains “Sarajevo 1996”, leads the anonymous deceased to unmortilaty. With his painting intention he is creating a new time by treating different styles he is printing his own style, marking up painted traces and signs ...
