Silviu Dumitrache: From your first solo exhibition, Gili Died, here we are now at Don't Cry Anymore, Gili. What is the connection between the two Gilis?
Gili Mocanu: In a way, I gave the current show its title with Gili Died in mind. At that point, I felt I had closed the Gili Died series. Except he died about five or six times. The exhibitions kept extending because I couldn't manage to kill him. Eventually, I succeeded. I wanted to kill a Gili who was still clinging on — who still reminded me of my artistic training, or of my relationship with art. For a long time I felt I was one with art, in the sense that I didn't make it as something external to myself. I was at the same temperature as what I was making, and I wanted to achieve that kind of state, that stillness — because every artist is haunted by the desire or ambition to reach a certain level, to compare themselves with other artists, to keep pace with the artistic fashions of their century, and so on. I wanted to transcend my century; I was doing it without realizing it. But I wasn't calm enough — I was troubled by the desire to be relevant. I was an artist appreciated more by other artists than by broader audiences. I noticed this, even though it wasn't something I had sought. I would have liked to be a normal artist. I felt I carried with me the problem of being too subjective, too hermetic — all those kinds of terms that were attributed to me. That I didn't fit. I didn't come across as a generous artist who would please the viewer.
Nor was I a cynical artist. I simply wanted to be equal to myself, to pursue freedom. To do what I want to do, to say what I want to say, to have no regrets about that before I die. At the very least, not to have the feeling that you compromised yourself in some way. That was the Gili I wanted to kill — the one who still carried all that restlessness. And at a certain point, after quite a few years, in an unexpected way, I felt that Gili had finally died, and that I had been born a second time. (...)
