The Horizon Of A Gaze That Retains Its Expressiveness

That he surpassed not only everyone, but also himself…

To understand a part of what the complexity of a remarkable work means, through the eyes of a writer whose vision outlines an entire symbolic world, and to become enlightened in this world, this is the true measure of a look thrown feverishly into the whirlpool of art. I understood everything, because I am an enlightened, a creator of surreal images, accustomed to the gaze of an eye that observes everything from the height of an integrative vision in the field of fine arts, un frammento del sogno di un momento senza pari, where nothing is the same as in the previous version.

Here is the sight of a special writer, the unique project of an enlightened, in the grandeur of a world full of skillful, suggestive, invigorating words, beating in the heart of an art book: it begins with a leaf so warm to look at, so graceful in a snapshot of random observations, entered under the incidence of art and science, so that it is confused with the explosion of colors offered by the easel of a fragile eternity capable of giving the impression of an “intangible” plan of the Universal Essence.

A look beyond imagination. It begins with a leaf left over from autumn, and continues with the petal of a dear, charming, quiet rose, which comes to life in a timeless story, so close to the stories of Scheherazade, full of teachings, leaving you enveloped in absolutely delightful scents, as if pulled straight out of a thousand and one nights.

Both the leaf, so pleasing to the eye, and the rose petal, so in love with the sun, are part of the recreated atmosphere of a world that the writer’s imagination and sensitivity continually shape in the deep plane of practicing a memorable art: Elassfenthil, or manifestation of the affective soul in the concrete of a universal reality.

Can you stimulate the development of a spiritual creation that is “above the turmoil”, where there is no clear image of yourself, in an attempt to go beyond the accepted boundaries of art?

But it wasn’t always like that. For a long time, I did not know how to see, I did not know how, I could not extract from the essence of a look thrown “from here to there” the sublime message of a work of art: background, content, meaning. I didn’t always know how to write, I didn’t know how to connect even the simplest conversation with angels, with the wind, with flowers, with everything that the charm of nature had in store for me, and maybe that’s why my eyes were so sad, tired, discouraged, just like seeing a photo that you feel is missing something special: life.

The leaves were just colorful polka dots that I literally stepped on, just to fill them with mud, or to gather them together with the rake before setting them on fire to breathe in the pleasant smoke of the autumn fire. And the roses smelled nice, and that’s it. I was probably just as insignificant as I considered them to be.

I never listened to their voice, I never saw their true spiritual face, because my eyes lacked the depth so necessary for the development of emotional, chromatic, literary sensitivity, meant to manifest between the temptations of another world, where the eyes of the soul can follow a small part of the plan of another reality. The compromise I endured daily, the primordial chaos of a remnant of respect for the feeling of communion with nature, was the processing of Serbian information, without special significance, arranged in a background that said nothing, that did not highlight the memorable plasticity of a living, un-improvised world. I was numb and blind at the same time.

I assume that the eyes that do not see the affective element in everything around them are the same eyes that do not perceive the difference between lucidity and expressiveness.

How does your mind and soul react to the sight of a brilliant creation accompanied by an image whose message you have to discover, to unravel its story in the great transfiguration of art?

Nothing in my leaf betrays any emotion, yet it exists as the mystery of all things. Next to it, the red rose cannot build the ideal work of the creative god, hence the causes of happiness or unhappiness, of harmony or intimate discord between the viewer and the object of the gaze. However, the appearance of the rose causes the representation of a phenomenon considered pleasant, called painting in the words, by means of fine movements of the artist which in his mind are precious stones, flowing waters, or whirlwinds.

I confess. My only bridge with art, with representations of nature through images, paintings, stories, dreams and emotions, before learning about this world as a life lived in another life, in another space and another time, was the novel “The Egyptian”, written by Mika Waltari. If it were not for this book, also founded by the will of nature, with the acceptance of the higher spirits who always earn another life, other new lives, other bodies, other missions, mediating the understanding between the worlds, you probably would not have come to read my works.

Neither the leaves, nor the roses, nor the wind led me to its pages, but only that mystery of nature which lies hidden in the souls of the saints, foretells great confessions, and which makes an ordinary man, without standing out in any way, transform almost imperceptibly into a legendary En Soph invested with the power to write in the universal voice. I did not reach this book, nature gave it to me as inspiration when the heart of the right time beat for me, and I beat the impossible.

Transfiguration is, according to the dictionary, a process specific to the creative process by which the elements of external reality, filtered by the vision of the imagination and the power of expression of the artist, are transformed into a new reality. In this case, I have risen to the level of a creator who can give life to an otherness in a literary condition.

Does the aesthetic of your creation broaden its horizon beyond the art world, to the sphere of a life detached as if from the imaginary reversibility of all the world’s histories?

And this universal voice that taught me the language of nature, to cherish a leaf as much as a rose, to raise the wind like a paper kite, to turn everything around into something more than it is, in a spiritual context, superior and unadulterated, it has brought me even now, towards the reconsolidation of an affective memory, the precious words from the heart of a book, which someday, if not today, someone will open:

“All these books are written by me, Sinuhe, the Egyptian, just for me. Not for the gods, not for other people, not for my name to be kept for eternity. I wrote them only for my poor heart full of bitterness and sadness.

I keep these books carefully, and the wise Muti sewed for each book a durable palm-fiber cover. All these books will be put in a silver box, the silver box will be put in a hardwood box, the hardwood box in a copper box, as the books of the god Thoth were once guarded to be kept and were thrown into the Nile.

I don’t know if Muti will be able to put the books in my grave without the guards seeing her, but this does not trouble me. Because I, Sinuhe, am only a man, I have lived in every man who lived before me and I will live in every man who will live after me.”

So, between me and the little leaf, just as between me and the rose petal, as well as between me and the desert wind, a book full of lessons was interposed, written with a pen, with magic and openness, with the same sensitivity with which the leaf, taken by the wind, turned into a rose petal which, in turn, ignited the spark of inspiration in the emanation of a character (self) located in different evolutionary phases.

The purity of a vast creation can be acquired only by the subjectivity of the artist, sensitive and empathetic, who knows how to look beyond the history of art, beyond the space of a single body, to open the gates of a story world that never ends.

The Horizon Of A Gaze That Retains Its Expressiveness is open to the reading of an authentic creation, sometimes remembered by the destiny of a double personality: one that manifests itself through the written word and one that manifests itself through an eternal spirit.

I, Neculai Fântânaru, embrace the spiritual destiny of Sinuhe, the image of the union of the soul with the resurrected body of one who could see at will all the histories of the worlds, according to the script written by a hand of an artist who sees, feels, deepening again and again under the copper cloak of nature prone to take on the outline of a story with metaphorical interpretation.

Please, stay by my side throughout the boundlessness of time…