ABOUT BEAUTY:
Poor men! For thousands of years under a starry sky. Confused, trying to believe in something that makes sense in the face of so much beauty. Something that fits within our narrow limits. It's always beauty that makes it seem like something makes sense, I think. Maybe it's the aesthetic knot that ties us to our ignorance?
Death itself, complete abstraction, seen from life, is not always beautiful? What is beauty? That which animates and intoxicates, that permeates life from beginning to end? By the way, how beautiful is a birth! It sprouts from living things and passes through a cycle of fruit or flower. But beauty is also in things that are not so alive: in the arrangement of planets, in fire, in the craters of the moon, in sunsets, anyway. It's also in ideas, gestures, words, feelings, intentions, in the interaction between all these things and nowhere. Living things themselves also perceive and nurture their spirit with this beauty. Or is this a privilege of men? Or of poet's souls? Perhaps this is the whole source of our art. Maybe it's the source of our anguish, of our longing for immortality. As if we were deceived by beauty into believing in what it never promised. But that certainly suggested with great subjective force as is its nature. Or is it that in the depths of men, beauty is forged to justify this longing for eternity?
I have the impression that our rational attempts to deal with beauty often lead to religion. Which, in the long run, could result in genocide. But it's always out of love. For love of beauty. But what is beauty? You still don't know? It goes through everything, but it's never in one place. It's not even corresponding among men. And the ultimate subjectivity. Which can be attributed to a great force that rules all things, that is: God. Or to the abyssal depths of our lack of sense of the ridiculous in the face of eternity.
// "Diary of a Painter" book cover.
// Oil on Canvas handmade painted by Susano Correia. The NFT represents the digital piece.