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Translated from the Galerie Daniel Cordier catalogue
The French Exposition of paintings and sculpture 8 rue de Miromesnil, Paris, summer of 1960
"Art is a crime," said Dado. Created against all odds, art is essentially on the margins, controversial, submitting only to dreams, obsessing over nostalgia. When I met Dado for the first time about five years ago in a cold attic of a small house in Belgrade, I had already been captivated by the violent passion and anticonformity of his paintings. Thereafter, this young Montenegrin came to live in Paris, persevering to paint his inner dreams with relentless continuity. His images of fetuses and babies, whether dead or alive, painted with an inimitable pale pink, at once haunted me, images of that which has never been or will never be. Challenging without doubt and challenging a bit perversely, but with an intense degree of difficulty — Set in the static immobility of the image where the elusive point of life and death confront each other, no one manages to discern where one begins or the other ends. Dado dances on a tightrope, flippantly, skillfully, but not without lucidity, which even so, may allow him one day to perpetrate "the perfect crime."