No matter how he twisted and turned the glass in front of him it was distorted and slanted. It leaned very heavily, now this way, now that. To stand up straight like a decent glass it could not. The glass had simply straightened itself. As it stood on a stump of at tree that had been sawn against all the rules and contrary to all instructions from the forest companies it had become straight at the top, slanting at the bottom. With its top part it had aimed for the stars, with its base it had been tied to the land and a slave to gravity.
And suddenly it became clear to him – dead matter is not dead.
It was in that moment he became an artist.
The glass had lived its life; it had realized its lopsidedness and its sloping predicament and decided to proudly stand up straight, without really understanding the consequences. If the glass had had a name it would have been Klingsor.
Klingsor had formulated his goals: to open up the objects and show their inner life by using the surgery of painting. That is what all art is basically designed to do. And never can.
Klingsor never developed as an artist. He did not improve, he was none the worse. At the same time this was his greatness, by never betraying himself he remained mediocre and grandiose, no matter how deep one digs in the Swedish art history, deep down in the mightiest depths one always finds Klingsor.
It is not for us to make Klingsor less than he was.
Klingsor and the Last Hash is a novel about the terms of creativity. With the gripping portrait of the artist Klingsor, Torgny Lindgren shows once again that he is one of our greatest storytellers.