Building up the village of childhood once again, clearing it of the grayness of the eastern pre-fabricated aesthetics, as a model of a cultural accomplishment of rediscovered nature. The straw-covered servants’ houses free of activities, the country once again cultivated with old hedges and meadows and thorn-bushes of blackthorns and pools or reeds before the beech woods on the level land, the gardens and the park, the house and the farm with the stables and barns under the straw roofs for the storks once again and the community of life, like an earth without contagion. Cobblestone pavements and country roads, the church steeple once again brought to its old height, opposite the house, centuries retrieved once again, as if for a film, the serial of the lost life. Lost also for Poland and, as one hears, in Bohemia and not only in Romania, so also for us in another way. This, instead of “art,” that of our time, art which becomes culture, as earlier art from culture, so that culture aids and once again nurtures itself in the future from the culture of the nature of our hearts? Like a childhood in the simple countryside, lost, like a forbidden homeland in which we were, all — as a film of thoughts and feelings, as from losses and prohibitions, however arduous — become our art of the future.