I look at this shriveling rose in my garden, shriveled by an indistinct dissatisfaction, by the fear of some future pain. Its body still has a lot to bear. It feels my silent, discreet, thoughtful presence, as if we were both trapped in a psychological labyrinth, artificially maintained, in which once you get lost you forget any kind of selfishness and personal interests.
Indeed, when you feel abandoned, bewildered, forgotten, you feel an acute need to know more about the world, about life itself, with its fragments of chiaroscuro framed in a picture with many bizarre, unexpected and atypical contrasts. I feel that this is how it must have been, that the forgotten one should be remembered and ennobled with that mysterious sparkle, destined only to beings predestined with grace, and the one promised to a great artist’s destiny to successfully post in the catalog of immortality an almost stellar beauty.
The honesty with which I write down and research my visual experience, the feeling of belonging to the same reality, restores the solemn bridge that unites us. Being an artist of well-chosen colors and shades, and the rose being a model of great inspiration, this complicity in building a metauniverse in which even death is relative makes us not turn our eyes away from reality itself – to abysmal obsessive perspectives of the fears of beings alienated from their true identity.
I don’t believe anything anymore, not even if I have to put myself in his place to realize that, no matter how much of an artist I am, I tremble at the parting of a new friend. Maybe, however, I was a rose in another life, and not just any rose, but a splendid “Double Delight”. That’s why I say, and often I repeat, that I can’t separate myself from myself, because I’m made up of another half in a different plane of vibration.
In order to be better informed with myself, I would advise my heart to research what it sees well, before it is truly ready to beat by checking the existence of someone else’s pulse. The rose belongs to an interiority that only partially understands what is happening to it, while I belong to the experience of living the internalization of the idea of qualitative non-differentiation between parts, as an inseparable continuum between the concept of “destiny” and that of “creator”.
The rose shows no sign of being clear today, but I could remind them of the gentle sun of yesterday. And since we are both bound by a vast area of transition to maturity, by a kind of unseen, energetic, and spiritual thread, I would ask my heart for guidance in the sources of an art far superior to what was once offered by Schelling’s teachings: “the humblest became the supreme, and the faintest portrait became a multicolored poetic universe.”
Moreover, I would ask my heart to research life on Earth with the help of the sight of a rose, through the lens of a photographer who captures that area of the visual field outside the ordinary sight of the ordinary mortal. Here I think the words of Mika Waltari from the novel “The Etruscan” are moralizing:
“Treasures and riches perish. Wonderful painted amphorae, delicate statuettes, what do you have left of them? Only the painting on the stone walls of the tombs will be preserved. Because no one steals walls from graves. And the precious stones will remain in their place. But no one will be able to read them.
I am sure that after I bend down to pick up these smooth stones from the dust in which they will be buried for centuries, I will find myself. I will climb the narrow staircase and come to light again. My eyes will be alive again and see the sacred cone of the goddess on the mountain in front of the tomb. I will recognize myself, I will remember myself, the one I am now. And then… after that, everything will be decided.”
What did I notice? The rose is able to understand life on earth, history as well as the present, without having to define it in any way, being itself a concentration of expressive culture, incorporating stories, ideas, symbols. As such, in a parallel aesthetic universe, closely linked by a conditional connection, in a single pale concentration manifested against the backdrop of a fairytale setting, it is precisely that perspective on life from which we never look at things. like an ocean from which there is no way out…
From time to time, the rose glanced around, its eyes involuntarily lit by a strange twinkle. And what does it see? It sees the accomplishments, only dreamed of, of thoughts which are certainly momentary, thoughts which belong to all, but which few have the courage to put into words. Perhaps, it too cannot detach itself from a reality contained in a picture with many nuances, that reality of a human life experienced through art, through symbol, through comparisons, which, although belonging to the past, is present precisely through the form given to the objective world.
I’m still trying to read my own life in its eyes, with the little deeds of the talking brush that knows how to write on the canvas the story of a small trace of the present in the entire history of the Earth. And, at least for a moment, I see myself in the position of that creator who, being able to animate a flower, a stone or a metal, and everything else around him, still cannot change his destiny. I have only the right to consume my destiny the way I feel, or felt like regarding a happenstance…
The Principle Of Looking Beyond Sight refers to the means by which an artist breathes life into any body in the environment, accepting the idea that everything comes from matter and transforms into matter on another level. Basically, the artist can turn everything into a complete picture which, as an exercise in imagination, can function on its own.