Marcel Proust: “It was Pirandello who for the first time gave me the idea that a person is not as I had believed him, immobile and clear before us, with his qualities, his shortcomings, his projects and his intentions, but it is a shadow in which we will never be able to penetrate.”
Or a light, which leaves in the wake spectra and shadows in our retinas, in our memory and understanding …, as a new invitation, this time, to our own lights.
And something else also tells us, meanwhile, Frédéric Fontenoy.
The saying goes about getting lost, to finally find yourself really. It has its own truth. But as for doing it in communion, or rather to find one in the other, it refers only to an ideal. Albert Cohen points out this, especially in Belle du Seigneur: complete, sublime unity differs from love; Passion, on the other hand, implies abstraction: a thousand times, of death, so close. It is an illusion of affirmation, in reality rejection of the threat we feel, looms over us.
Perhaps this is why the desire to monumentalize moments, often precisely corresponding to this loss, as if it were the key step to the beyond, in –joyous– transcendence…
The work of Juarez Machado provokes in this respect.
Sound. Rather, to the case, to submerge in the dream. Letting ourselves be carried by the current that, outside our intervention, distorts the fiction of memory, this official version in which we play a leading role, and weaves before us a new reality: interpretation in itself of that side of the mirror, where we come from, often exhausted.
You have to know how to abandon yourself. Offer on our part, simply, a little silence. And in the meantime, of course, enjoy.
Evoking a dream is not simple. To revive the satisfaction of the rest of ourselves that it seeks, it is enough at times with the tempting touch of the sign. Of freedom, of distance, of calm or solitude. Activating as with pulling a thread, the saudade. Thus, we answer practically all, in the same sense, with the minimum of references.
Emile Rafael offers in his work for the single Pstereo, a unique, charming opportunity.
It is possible to say events, events, eventualities. On the margin, another term: accidents. Accidents imply a contrary will.
They change with the facts, the scenarios, the conditions; they mutate, they transform. The circumstances, on the other hand, correspond to the perspectives of men. It is on the margin of these that the world, as they say, keeps turning. It is we who establish a separation. Subject of scales and proportions.
There are images that help to understand it better. To ask ourselves better. They say more and open up to more, that cannot be said. They are more than eloquent manifestations of the so-called natural laws. And they leave us without arguments.
It would be more or less easy to say of anguished glances before the images of Alejandra Alarcón. But this would imply that we had fallen, let us say, in the trap: We would say much more of ourselves than of the images, and only a little bit, at a glance, of the relation that it raises. Light and color are her keys. They flow, however, as a sweet savor, of particular charm, crowning the date with that part of ourselves that always knew what the reality was about, from the very children’s stories, those in which elixirs and poisoned apples are offered.
Bea invites. I follow her, always with pleasure. Now, away from the garden. Paths.
Let’s go, more coffee…
By way of introduction,s he tells me a few years ago in a conversation, an Italian architect who specialized in the quatroccento said something that I always remember: “Beatrice, art became textile when it left the wall and went to the canvas…”
And yet – I allow
myself – in the proper representation of robes, special fabrics, dressed in embroidery, in texture, a permanent evocation…
I have often been struck by the passion of some painters (and not minors) for representing the tissues. I remember how, after being totally shaken by Goya’s Fusilamientos in the Prado Museum, I stared at the detailed velvet brocade cloak in the
portrait of Doña Isabel de Francia, a caballo, by Velázquez, in another room.
And there are the paintings of Holbein; even served to name a style of carpets. The list is long, and in modern times the famous versions of Paul Cèzanne on Mount Saint Victoire are of great interest, in which the painter lets the canvas also participate in the work…
The hand opens.
Walking between the images… My dear Beatriz Oggero gives the name. Orlando Alandia. Architect, graduated in Italy. Before us, labyrinths; Enigma and revelation of the minotaur. Exploration that the artist repeats, deepens.