The Eyes Full Of Art Of A Life-Giving Rose

You are truly a master only if it has been granted to you to master the world of creation.

I was in the garden, trying to fight the good thoughts of those who are always watching over me. The roses, their green leaves, the fresh sprouted buds. I imagined that I was surrounded by living beings, detached from the very poetry of nature, from its unknown things, from its senses full of mystery, full of sea and wind, with which my reality and that of the whole world are delivered, in a beautiful story of the current state of things.

And I also know that in all this splendid garden, which was rather a cumulation of my attempts to define myself, but also to redefine myself, a single voice was always echoed in my thoughts, a sensitive voice full of compassion, full of expressiveness, which seemed to stir up the personal quality of a living being, repeating to me loudly: “A happy man is a skilled gardener.”

Somehow, I think I was a kind of exception in the beautiful world of art, thinking of myself as the echo of a free entry into the space of nature, in a fabulous landscape, more like in a painting by Joachim Patenier, because everything that existed in my garden was an exception, like any other subjective equivalence. They were all pencil notes done with a master’s pen, then outlined with a fine brush, full of life-giving colors in another plane of the staging of the universal Creation.

The exceptional nature of your art is expressed through an allegory projected into a crystal-clear image, synthesized in the message: 'Nothing changes unless you transform yourself'?

Perhaps, however, I am still an exception, being present in these well-crafted, well-felt lines, as the author of some thoughts transposed in a work of art, in a symbolized universe, through an effort to deepen the meaning given to the mystical word: Misarenkthiss, or the turn of the road that takes you to heaven. And if the art of my own existence resides in the conception of a universe suspended between dream and reality, the meaning of which is interpreted in the word “Sky”, then it is justified as a whim of the gardener to be himself the reflection of nature in the consciousness of the world.

This is how we got from a garden full of roses, to a universe full of matter and radiation, full of stars and galaxies, full of spiritual and artistic significance. In the same way that Paracelsus explained to his disciple the mystery of the rose in the universal : “If you were to throw this rose into the embers, you might think that the flames had completely consumed it and that the ashes were real. I tell you that the rose is eternal and that only its appearance can change. One word would be enough for you, then, to have it in front of your eyes again, under a different identity, in a different form.”

Every miracle of nature requires, in order to subsist, a gardener who is simultaneously an alchemist, a painter who beautifies the symbol, and a writer who gives it a new name. And the more a world avoids the aesthetic explosion of nature and the symbolic dream, the more it is condemned to the status of a passing experience of an ordinary mortal.

Do you embrace the fleeting nature of existence as a necessary perspective to clarify the vision and the fragile balance of your own becoming, rooted in the continuity of the spirit?

I suppose that a world that avoids at all costs the evocation of a story from a dream of nature, and that does not behave like an explosion of colors and intoxicating scents, in the month of May, is the very world of an ordinary mortal for whom everything is merely in a state of transience. Everything is possible only in the space of a Creator of universes, where the painter is a writer, and where the writer is a painter, both being compatible with the existence of an immortal alchemist, like Paracelsus, who knows how to cross worlds, space, time, being able to and preserves existence in a certain destiny, in every element of nature.

Paracelsus lives as a miracle of nature in the world of a pure rose, rare, very pleasing in appearance, cared for by a gardener as skilled as he is in alchemy. Also in the same world, of the repeated processes of distillation, crystallization, sublimation, evaporation, essential in the research of chemistry, in the global circuit of transfigured matter, one can see the existence of a skilled painter who knows how to considerably beautify the existence of a rose presented as symbols and seen as part of an inner space. But, also here, one can see the existence of a writer who knows how to give the symbol a characteristic image of the living man, a new name and a new appearance.

I’m not Paracelsus, but he’s not like me either, because he can’t talk about me the way I can talk about him as if about a rose that looks gorgeous and never withers. However, we both understood roses, their purity, their tenderness, he through the atomistic conception of matter and biological transmutation, I through the prism of art that often incorporates a reflection of ageless beauty, of a double personality in one person, in relation to the level of reflection of a shooting star that lasts a fraction of a second, but delights the eye every year.

Does the visual impact you imprint upon your creation take precedence over the synchronicity suggested by your relation to a reality filtered through an imaginary universe?

Together forever, and perhaps together we will change the dimensions of the world, of science, of art and of beauty. The rose, its leaves and buds form the essence of my being, the same essence that makes a painter an alchemist, and a writer a Creator of pure, living, evolutionary art, so that it integrates into the expressive equation of nature’s perfection that part of a living being which exists before it came into the world, which dwells in the physical body during mortal life, and which exists after death, beyond the boundaries of the worlds.

The rose changes the color of its leaves, as its buds sprout with every whisper my heart tells me, with the pride of the most vital of meanings of my existence: Esyallestrum, representing a spiritual motivation applied in the experience of the art of representing the destiny of a flower on the path of the unity between language and thought, making it viable in the destiny of a man who is more than a man, he is an artist immersed in the adventures of alchemy, in its secrets, in the symbolism of the synchronicity between the harmony of nature and the universe.

To what extent does the creative process of distilling your own experiences contribute to achieving a compositional balance between form and essence?

I do not know if my rose, with its leaves and buds so vivid, so tender, so elegant, will be able to be visualized by you with the same gaze with which I supervise the sensitive field of art, developing a different way of thinking, without contradicting various theories, hypotheses or views previously expressed by other artists. I don’t even know if the rose understands me, as I understand it, with that extremely sensitive, calm, patient sense of modeling, which is somewhat akin to the art of a musical symphony, or the art of a deep reader of the human soul.

All I know is that a meticulously painted rose delights your eyes and calms your soul. And I am a splendid, human, universal rose, and this is because my soul longs to be a Creator invested by nature with a supreme right: the power to continually access other worlds.

The creator of a universe suspended between dream and reality draws their greatness from the capacity to transmute life experience into beauty, cultivating the sublime of nature within the fertile space of art.

The Eyes Full Of Art Of A Life-Giving Rose are the mirror of the soul of a skilled Creator who knows how to make his life rosy according to the artistic excellence of adorning a certain reality with the emotion transmitted by the trembling of a metaphor, the trembling of an embodied adult mind in a beautiful body of nature.