Slave To Love

Concentrate your efforts on exploring a reality beyond immediate reach, directing your attention to contemplation of a painting centered on the fine-grained chromaticity of human existence available in its many aspects.

Any gesture of hers seems an invitation to read. Everything, in the precise lines of her delightful gaze, in the grace of her body’s movements, seems confident in life, the result of wise choices. The eyes betray the most hidden thoughts, signs and symptoms of the presence of a gentle and quiet spirit, but who wants to keep in servitude, in the darkness of a living labyrinth, all those who live in an image of perfection. This is how the artistic form of an enlivening writing is born.

The expressionist phenomenon is infinitely more differentiated when updating an "expectation". Our encounter seems to be the response of her mind to a life situation she has not encountered before, an attempt to explore how emotion has shaped her artistic thinking, just like experiencing a play filled with the unexpected from which a masterpiece of drama can emerge. Delirium or exaltation?

A story that draws all eyes is a painting that can only be read from up close. Preponderantly creative, I am tempted to think of her as a limitless challenge, that of an irreversible falling in love, looking at her as from the reflection of a mirror without end and hidden things. But at the same time, I look at her with the fear with which the artist experiences a new combination of colors to enhance the effect of space.

In an act of deep creation, true influence lies in the ability to transform a simple decision into a masterpiece that reveals hidden truths.

The living impulse that asks to be exteriorized, based on the added value of a painting that wants itself discovered to the smallest detail, in the serene economy of tonal subtlety, denotes something mortgaged to the unknown, the mysterious, the enigmatic. She does not seem to be absorbed merely by the obsessive thought of some ardent passion, encouraged by the attachment to the particular way of dealing with a different story, in an aspect of the feelings embraced by the concept of aesthetic experience. Rather she seems to betray a weakness, an unusual attraction to the beautiful artistic that overcomes that relativity of the young girl’s beauty.

Perhaps, in her mind full of desires, Proust’s words concerning me torment: "Your work turns out to be an infinitely more real thing than the rest, as a renewal of the world, as a surprise in the universe, offering that joy you experience when you see a work of your favorite painter that differs from what you know."

Can you successfully demonstrate that the reality increased by adding unpredictable elements can help you expand the story of an artistic creation without compromising the image of an emotion immortalized in all its splendor?

Thanks to you, especially to what my imagination invents in the target of all the gazed you give me with such sincerity, I reconstituted my name and life. Yes, from these letters, from this word pronounced in an English fashion: "in private". No wonder my art tends to correlate with the increase in the concentration of hidden challenges that only a compiler of new universes is experiencing.

My efforts to probe a psychic that I will never really truly know, seem to be oriented towards a painting centered on the finely chromated chromaticity of human existence available in its many aspects, from loneliness to happiness, to rivalry of friendship, from low affinity to high.

Much more important is the soul that you have carefully read to me, looking at me as when you have to enrich the content of a pastel aesthetic with the very imaginary content of a nostalgic narrative, to make sense of a sensibility inspired by the faithful film of a possible but intangible reality.

Do you have the ability to notice and capitalize on subtle details, avoiding the superficiality caused by inattention to the complexity of a deep content in an uninterrupted "present"?

I am not amazed because you have mastered an image, but because you have taken that image to the forefront of a universe that has emerged from nothing, that continues to expand.

For a moment, you turned your attention to the rustic landscape in my mother’s painting, with small houses covered with snow, sprinkled here and there in the way of the one who traverses the wide plain into the persistent and infinite azure of a sky without clouds and without… pain. No, I did not paint it, but you would’ve wanted me to give it to you as a memory of a world that fascinates you, as a content representation of an area of knowledge thrilling in the heart of a dream creation.

There are poets of great virtuosity and plastic fantasy who do not seek to be just a memory but want to live in an eternal "today", in an uninterrupted "present" in which the colors, their contrasts and their bold combinations, create inspiration for all beings who come in contact with them.

Can you vibrate with the pregnancy of an image filled with hidden meanings, having previously been exalted by participating in its visual content in the cause of a spiritual wound?

It is still hard for me, same as when we met daily, to accept a praise from her for the sake of flattery. Still, she lived an intense inner life, with fantasies and dreams of a rebellious poet who seems to want to revive that contrast of colors and forms unrecognizable to the reticent eye of the creation of an Art Nouveau. Nothing in the world could contradict her convictions surrounded only by the hidden truth behind appearances.

She wouldn’t allow me the respite to feel full of energy, often suppressing my temptation to aspire to any glory I could capitalize upon through creation, obviously mocking me with every addition (with a hint of criticism) that she brought to the force of my imagination. When you want to search a drop of blood, first find out who stabs who with the knife. I can hear your laughter. I can see your smile.

She seemed to be overcome by a knowledge she could not bear. It was a kind of envy that drove her to make me feel inferior to her, a sorrow for her well-being, the more dangerous as from her would emerge an entire chain of circumstances that would worsen one-another. Here the limit of the impossible was drawn by a drop of irony at a time, a less honest appreciation, seeking to cancel my self-esteem from the emotional sphere of the word written with the stamp of the colors that flood spring. You’ve got to know how the strong get weak.

"Nicu, I hoped you would only be an artist of the beautiful, but you rather look like a summary of the personal details you collect in a formula that does not tell the world the story of a sense-seeking imagination."

In what category could you include, in extenso, the whole area of ​​your artistic creation whose meaningful content refers implicitly to an act of transcendence and symbolizing of a moment that is never forgotten?

I have not seen her since that day, but she still lives in my memory. And I’m sure she’s still silencing my inner vibe in the emotional sphere of my words that accompany the colors of a poetic art.

The beauty of a memory corresponds to the decipherment of a mystery found between the delicate fading of contrasts that seem to find peace under the grace of the expressiveness of a supersensible experience, making you wonder with that sweet reluctance of writer Anais Nin: "How many times have we rebuilt the way from the beginning? Where is the beginning? The beginning of memory or the beginning of suffering…"

If you are still reading these lines, dear reader, I feel obliged to tell you something. If you ever meet this young and beautiful girl whom I have sincerely spoken of to you as a good friend who knows how to listen to the story of a living artist, please tell her the following:

Tell her I’ll be waiting in the usual place, with the tired and weary. There’s no escape. We are too young to reason in the belief of a painting that came from an unknown sender. Your life will always be a perfect reflection of my state of mind and heart, and my true identity.

The image of a memory that is never lost is included in the category of a realism of soul essences, profoundly crafted by a literature capable of rising to the level of the sublime only by analogy with a Creator who never separates from His creation.

Slave To Love is the beginning of memory or the beginning of suffering, depending on the experience you are offered by the telling of a story with a deep, hard-to-reach subject, but which offers an intense relationship with your neighbor.

* Note: Bryan Ferry - Slave To Love