Where Do You See, Look?
Each act of artistic creation represents a new life lived in the spiritual plane of the world, provided it transcends the limits of the ego and reaches the universal.
The scribe is silent and notes in a deep and evocative form, but thinks to himself: "In this world where immeasurable fortunes are inherited, the purpose of man, of his deeds, is an imperfect introduction to the work of God."
Basically, what I wrote, putting life on paper as I understood it, in such an imperfect manner, are the thoughts of those I saw, which later became my thoughts. Like a transparent window through which a part of the visible world of soul experiences appears, my pages reflect openness and receptivity to outside influences.
In search of the meaning of existence, man oscillates between everyday banality and aspiration to the divine, finding his immortality in artistic creation and in the unique story of his life. At least I think so. Therefore, before I close the book, the last and the first idea, I have to talk about something specific, something that makes me think that the ones I mentioned do not belong to ordinary books, but to books of the soul. If you know how to look around, your eye tells you a lot, it even forgives you for sacrificing paintings and the glorious future of art. And he always tells me the same thing: to sit in the light, to shine with the longing of those lost in the darkness.
Everything repeats itself, even the eyes that see their tears again. Many times I watched the old people sitting on the bench, bored, repeating the same daily gestures with a constancy bordering on the absurd. He looks at his phone, takes another look at the street, watching passers-by with languid curiosity. But they remain anchored in the same place, in a present of the past, regardless of the weather or season, like sentinels of their own routine. They probably feel deprived of the most valuable good: the hope of the infinite. The bank became an extension of their being, a shrine to monotony. A kind of "Azenthopia Illiersebre", a state of passive acceptance of existence, keeping them captive in a small reality whose acceptance and understanding anchors them in an empty space. Always the comfort of the familiar replaces the adventure of the unknown.
Do you believe that equality with the divine in the act of creation can become an imperative of formation that transforms the ephemeral into the eternal, thus conferring a unique value on every artistic expression in the flow of your life?
"La vie est ailleurs," Rimbaud would say, and these old people, taking on the pattern of being removed from the world, seem to have forgotten this fundamental truth. A refuge or a prison? No, not at all. They don't visit foreign countries, they don't expand their horizons, nothing tries their soul anymore. Sunday finds them either at church or at the cemetery, perpetuating ancestral rituals - a baked bun, a given alms. It awaits its end among tombs and icons, inevitably, as if life were only a prelude to death. They have nothing left to lose. He is waiting to close his eyes, definitively, without having finished his painting, without knowing that only masterpieces are bridges between human and divine.
Are they already thinking about eternal life? What to do in Heaven? To continue to sit on a bench, to glance at passers-by or in the neighbor's yard? In fact, in that mysterious but so serene place, I don't think there are cemeteries, nor churches, nor icons, nor beggars, but only a feeling of immense joy, a release from all constraints. Then what is the essence of paradise? Isn't this where the story of man reaches its creative peak?
The world of art is not an idealized world, but always another world, distinct from the one that pleases the eye.
After all, the only way to be immortal is to live, successively, other lives, more splendid than the others. But how can you achieve this in a seemingly limited existence, within a finite framework?
Through the painting, Michelangelo showed that he is equal to God, that the finger of God, stretched to the maximum, so close to the finger of mortal Adam, is what separates human talent from divine perfection. For his part, Beethoven proved that the "Moon Sonata" is brighter than the sun and that, even being deaf, you can create masterpieces. Sublime talent belies divinity. Artists are translators of the divine language. That's why their life is an immortal story.
Can the way you shape your existence in the world be an inner transfiguration that brings out the truth within you, thus revealing the backstage of a soul that transcends individuality?
As fate would have it, the scribe covered his eyes: I tried to forget the past and everything I knew would follow, keeping only the truth of the present for myself. Yes, I know I will never grow old as long as my writing, preserved in my books, is wrapped in an eternal story, protecting my poor heart burdened with so much anticipation. More than that, I must continue to seek, to hope, to persevere, until my goal becomes God's course.
But in the monotony of everyday life, the soul risks losing its connection with the divine and its creative potential.
I still wonder, what is the use of man for all the work he does under the sun? That's why I write, to reflect, in silence I collect the essence of my thoughts, to find the solution to the great puzzle, the way out of the labyrinth of common existence. Not for nothing, there seems to be a close relationship between me and Mika Waltari's scribe:
"Because I, Sinuhe, am only a man, I lived in every man who lived before me and I will live in every man who will live after me. I will live in the crying and in the joy of every man, I will live in the goodness and in the the wickedness of every man, I will live in the righteousness and in the unrighteousness of man, I will live in his weakness and in his strength. I do not want my name to be immortal, because I, a mere copyist who repeats on a page what is written on another, I will live eternally in every man who reads me."
Do you understand that the act of seeing through artistic imagination can be a vindication of the existence of the divine spirit, transforming each vision into a source of spontaneity of creative sensibility?
Art thus becomes the means of creation of a sacred universe, a way to transcend human limits. In the state of "artheosia" - the fusion of art and theophany - the artist becomes a creator of worlds. And these successive worlds are not what we call "subjects", but rather represent means of conquering, through metamorphosis, a transcendent dimension. Do we accept to be charmed by the world of the show, or by the calling of some unique talent to complete the infinite universe?
And who, in fact, is this spirit called God? Doesn't He live through us, the people, through our story? Doesn't He need us, just to exist forever, through each of us? However, not every narrative can embody it - it has to be a special story, not a boring one. After all, I believe this is the only secret, and the best kept of all. I found it out. To see is, for God, to imagine as art. The world of art is not an idealized world, but always another world, distinct from the one that pleases the eye.
God lives forever, because he has a special way of not getting bored: He lives through each person, another story. And of all the stories, he only relives the amazing ones. That's why certain things seem to repeat themselves, and certain people always seem to come back in different poses. Only when we feel that God has great expectations from us, do we feel a true purpose, a mission, an "Ankh Onnubbal", a call whose echo reverberates in eternity. Of course, happiness comes from fulfilling the purpose. We have the option to choose to believe that there is something worth fulfilling beyond our daily struggle. In this choice lies our power to transcend the mundane and to inscribe ourselves in eternity through the art of our lives.
The embodiment of God through special narratives can represent an exaltation of the continuous struggle for meaning and significance, culminating in a revelation that makes the artist's life an expression of the divine.
Where do you see, look? Do you see the past that shapes you, or the future that is reborn through what only you can give me? To these is added the idea of the famous novel "Egypteanul", written by Mika Waltari, in which the scribe, gripped by that mystery of the divine that we will never guess, expresses his intention to transmit his wisdom to future generations:
"I am keeping these fifteen books carefully, and Muti has sewn for each book a durable sheath of palm fiber. All these books will be placed in a silver box, the silver box will be placed in a hard wooden box, the chest of hard wood in a chest of brass, as of old the books of the god Thoth were fenced up for safekeeping and thrown into the Nile. He will not find them no one, never. But one day, I will return, and no one will recognize me. The one I once was, is only a shadow of the one I will become."
