With: Luisa Deguile
Among the paintings, it is clear, this is a confrontation. Like the challenge of holding the look of a madman with eyes composed of insect. But it takes only a few seconds in each image to see the distortion of the meaning of madness.
The questions arise.
Art and what for. What is the meaning. Recurring and yet recurring questions grab pen, and rip sheet…
Mere vanity? Need?
Marcelo Stella pours out, with great care, the essence of this supposed tribulation. Violence, then contained, will have full effect with the communication to which it gives rise and as it develops.
Again, it renders our vision crooked. The light we expected to have to cover ourselves does not emanate from the object and, therefore, there is no attack; the pictures open up as we see ourselves, in a particular lens version and yet malleable to our circumstances.
Is it the way to interpret my putting into the world, to order it, to encode it and to transmit it with a certain purpose?
By pure sensitivity?
Transfer of political, social experiences and never species apart?
Maybe he does not have the answer, maybe this one is simply assuming the role with which, in some way, we come “formatted” to this life.
Identity. Thought is actually a discourse of consciousness, not oneself.
The characters here portrayed, say, obey conventions or challenge them, but nothing more to consider the enormous difficulty of accepting that their conditions – ours, therefore – only happen, regardless of our will, or with this acting as the mere conduit. It forces us to take responsibility.
Who are we and to what extent we determine ourselves? If this determination reaches to be projected, does it do it also according to our will?
The artist does not escape his social place, with his customs, religion, education, tradition in his small space, everything that identifies him in his daily pulse, with his local color, in the movement of his people.
That is their homeland; there is no big country, that is a fraud, a deception.
The matter, of course, reached such a point, becomes dense, much. The term fatherland, in this context, exceeds the margins that would conventionally correspond to it. We certainly speak of origin; in extremis, of creation.
Faced with such problems, the force with which the line, the force that absorbs from its proper place, the color and, more, the volume itself, is counteracted in each painting. The emptiness, the silence. Both are fundamental basis for all authentic communication. It is in their field that the understanding really develops, always above the possession.
What is painting, today? A brief passage in history.
Today we talk about banalization, demystification, irony, post-truth, what I know; I am not a theorist… On one occasion, during a debate that took place for the delivery of a certain prize to a young artist, while some rebuked her saying that her work was not art and others defended it, I said that I believed a priori in her honesty. If the artist is not honest, I am no longer concerned.
A message in a bottle. It contains a question. This is formulated through an affirmation: affirmation of the line, color and form, for example, but certainly we cannot guarantee that it is interpreted as perhaps we ourselves were posing it by giving it form (betraying ourselves, of course, in the process , for greater fidelity to what from the outset escaped the logic of formulation)…
Marcelo is tremendously cordial.
In his paintings lives, lives and projects, also, a certain tenderness. In fact, it is an open, vulnerable work. (But we must remember where the light comes from.)
It is difficult to stimulate, as my host does, the exchange at a level, let us call it personal, to open our eyes, but also to let our own voice be heard, with the certainty that it will be received, with its message still undeciphered, and only then it will be refracted. Today, more than ever before, it seems complicated to welcome and criticize.
Before a serious proposal, you commune in silence.
The soul is eloquent, silent, but not mute.
I would reflect on what, and life with everything that comes in the jar …
An artist translates it into something expressive, communicating, subject to debate. And that for me is Art.
Where am I going now?
Step by step, trying to be more reflective in my impulses.
Somewhere I heard that an uncritical society is easily manipulated.
And you say it to those “couples” of yours, those “women in their houses,” when everyone fights instead of discussing, because the ironic portrait, the questioning, can only be offense, more and more people shoot the alarm that proclaims victim more and more quickly and with more clatter; you say it when today people are what they wear, and not only clothes, but also states in social networks, and shirts of causes (most serious, since most of them are not that in reality, if you do not fight anti- something, purely defensive eagerness to define them).
The glue already reeks from so many labels…
I doubt people, not criticism.
Milorad Pavic, in his Dictionary of the Khazars says by the pen of one of his characters that perhaps the ideas navigate in the authentic sea, that is the intelligence…
Ah, back to scratching the paper…
(Translation, by: María Eugenia Mendoza)