All great artists are shrouded in mystery. There are secret corridors where the origins and motivating forces of their art fade into the twilight of yesterday.

Where, in the mind and destiny of Isaac Celnikier, can one find the seeds and beginnings of his painted light—that sincere, glowing, red-gold hue, hovering like an arc between arm and cheek, pressing against the heart of the bodice like a warm breath? Where did he obtain the building stones for this pictorial chamber of warmth and trust, where light comes from no lamp but emanates from the objects themselves, as an intrinsic force of truth and compassion?

Even if one could grasp the blending of colors and determine their chemistry, the mystery would remain just as impenetrable. For what we see is nothing less than the marvel of creation—the breaking of the boundaries of matter itself, when paint from tubes, that malleable and sticky substance, becomes spiritualized on the canvas.

This is the enigma of art: that nothing is lost, that everything—everything—can serve the work. When the artist stands before a blank canvas, it is not only with knowledge and skill but also with all the weaknesses and errors of their life. Yet the work that emerges can encapsulate and unfold the most noble and inalienable qualities of humanity. There are doors, within the mechanism of inspiration, that in due time can shut against deceit, allowing the candlelight to pass through the four winds without being extinguished.

The world of Isaac Celnikier’s paintings comes to us in a great stream of impressions, a pictorial testament to our shared condition, our hopes and aspirations, our daily courage to live—a world where we can rediscover meaning and strength. As a man, this artist is still illuminated by the rays of light emanating from the holy Shabbat candles of his childhood. This light flows from his paintings like a warm breath in the cold.