The Rustle Of An Artist's Mind Embodied In A Beautiful Body Of Nature

Art is the creator’s means of constituting himself in a vision which the eye calls “comparison”.

It was something spiritual, mystical, difficult to understand by the world around me, because everything around me fell into the category of things accessible only to the brave, to those able to be part of a fiction such as: “All the characters and deeds present in this work are fictional, and all the protagonists are pages full of gratitude from a history of treating nature with the respect that a Creator of beauty deserves.”

Probably because of this, I was constantly drawn to nature, with an irresistible power over everything that was noble and worthy of artistic admiration, engaging in an increasingly comprehensive debate about the origin of a Creation that claims the term “Perfection” in the level of characters and roles called to interpret the subject of flowers in a surprisingly different way. The metamorphosis of flowers into people, and the dream of flowers continued in the ascension of a living vision, unfolded only in my head, as an unreal, fictitious, flowing world, capable of influencing only the events in the world of an artist who looks at himself as in a mirror which encloses in it the spirits of nature.

Facing the sun, I closed my eyes slowly, with emotion, with that smile of dominating satisfaction in the corner of my mouth that seemed to want to denote that duality of the true artist, whose inspiration comes from a space that is only his. Or, perhaps, in another way, I was suffering from that condition of the artist who has reached the age of the wise old age of dreaming at the heights that expression through art offers, taking the freedom to dream of what is hidden beyond which cannot be penetrated with the eye.

Basically, I felt like in an escapade of the artist in the middle of nature, where everything seemed extracted from an excerpt from “On the spider’s web of memory”, by Cella Serghi: “The modern painting that I didn’t know, or, for convenience, I refused to understand, started with a strange force now and it was taking me with it to another universe, it was imposing a different reality on me.”

Does the effort to spiritualize a world reduced to an association between images and words tend to reveal what is essential in your soul, as a landmark of what is common to creation passed through the filter of a refined sensibility?

I looked at everything around me with different eyes, as an admirer of visionary worlds captured in impressive chromatic metamorphoses. Roses, their fragile leaves, I was trying to gather their spring fragrance in an extremely refined and elegant unitary whole, in an agreement between earth and sun. And behold, the rose, with its green leaves, full of dew, hears me as if I were a part of the soul of nature, as if I existed through someone else, a kind of reincarnation of a soul from another life.

Are my thoughts not equivalent to the power of art to bring back to life a sensitive world, almost forgotten by those of us who struggle in the whirlwind of overcrowded cities?

The gaze leads the soul to the greatness of nature. In fact, the rose believes that I am part of nature’s great plan, that I am the unseen voice of nature. From the meticulous observations I have very skillfully extracted a generous testimony of the wonders of nature, a declaration of life that will move an entire world, through which I try to get closer to the masterpiece of the artist, to his inner rustle. Maybe that’s why I think I’m worthy only of the attention of a painter who sensitively analyzes each element of nature before personifying it in a dream character, revealing a deep mystery that touches the sense of amazement and admiration in that dance of the balance between beauty and form.

Yes, I strongly admit, I am the possessor of a mysterious inner universe, a being who knows how to experience everything intensely, facing general apathy, the creator of a universe suspended between dream and reality, considering that everything in art must have at the same time explosive force and sensitivity, like when you sit and admire a panoramic landscape. Or like when you get lost in the depths of the starry sky waiting, at any moment, for a very bright shooting star to fulfill your last wish: to be able to feel the bustle of life on the surface of things that cannot be seen, that will not pass, rather than on things that are seen and that are fleeting.

Can the extent and depth of the reality in which you live generate an echo in a world where everything unites and identifies with the sublime act of an instant creation?

In the end, even their thoughts, feelings, confrontation, feel the need for paint, brush, everything the artist needs to be able to express himself in front of an easel and a white canvas on which nature imprints its soul; emotional, sensitive, memorable. You hear your heartbeat when you feel the vibe of vivid colors, the irresistible energy of emotionally printed symbols in a moment of a successful, almost photographic artistic snapshot. Get your hands on the true passion of a Universe Creator, with a delicate finish of refined features and expression, on the glossy surface of a crystal canvas, part of a representation of the Tayana constellation built to the rhythm of Yakuro’s music.

I cannot get used to the banal, I am not content to be just a man, I tend to be a creator of great purity of soul, invested with the power to penetrate the heart of nature. Not even my special rose, with its delicate leaves, will not change, will not confess in a much larger ensemble of creation, unless we exist through each other, I as an artist always surrounded by beauty who daily discovers a dose of artistic experience, and he as an expression of a singular creative consciousness. Maybe you’ll believe me, maybe not, but I’m definitely right.

The charm of the rose, which always orients its leaves towards the light, allows me to understand that an artist can be an exceptional creator only if he expresses himself simpler, freer, more natural, through the beauties of nature. Perhaps the rose itself reveals part of the substance of its own soul in relation to a creator accustomed to the pictorial technique of representing sensible appearances, from the perspective of revealing his inner life that sets the tone of infinite freedom, of interactions with nature in a spiritual or poetic way.

The sublime act of an instant creation values ​​the thoughts and feelings manifested by an artist who puts in new agreements the purity of a harmony with himself, which he translates into the rustle of a rare emotion in the sphere of personification of a nature that constantly asks man to string and assert one’s instincts, especially the instinct of metamorphosis.

The Rustle Of An Artist’s Mind Embodied In A Beautiful Body Of Nature is sometimes subdued in literary imaginations, sensitive aesthetics, of pure fantasy, where any resemblance becomes a new form of union between the Creator and the High Spirit, in the silence of an unforgettable moment, stirred by the warmth of trembling words that seem to say:

Nothing is more uninhabitable than that “yourself” in a place where you are always blessed: in the midst of nature.

The rose, which I often perceive as the best option to improve my image, imposes itself as a means of human, spiritual, artistic transformation, especially if I take into account the words of the Romanian aesthetician Liviu Rusu:

“The artist, truly creative, penetrates so deeply into his being, that he reveals the roots of existence itself and thus perceives what binds us more closely to the earth. The spirituality he discovers is an earthly spirituality, because what he reveals to us is not a world above us, but an inner dynamism, which animates the most intimate mysteries of our soul, the original background of our kind.”