Stories of an agreement: Milton Sanz writes about his piece, The Homeland of the spirit

Argentina-based 3D artist Milton Sanz recently dropped his abstract piece, The homeland of the spirit, to be accompanied by this poetic piece reflecting the emotion of his artwork.

By Milton Sanz

All the pieces of my life carry its spark. My atoms fraught with moments in which I was not being myself, its gestures turned me into a pacified being. My skin used to be a clean surface for today’s shadows; these substances summarize the moment in which life touched my body and changed forever an endless number of cells. These scars are the truth in a place where you can’t say it all. I am concerned about them but not determined by them. How could that nature alter my senses? I’m trying to find that moment in which the outside became so intimate, traces of existence between my skin and flesh.

That scene preserved its prägnanz. It is pointless to go against my will as the invisible points eagerly move on. It is useless to make an effort to forget or to relocate my senses as all the plots play the same scenes, and all the landscapes contemplate analogous reflections. These movements have been trying to find their rhythm for years, they only predict disproportionated experiences. My serenity becomes constant abandonment and my hope becomes ashes. 

In a moment of mental enlightment -no malice intended- I reveal against the most sordid conditioning and I resolve to melt these old feelings. I decide to open doors in my perception; I tune sounds that resound in my consciousness or silences that raise returning questions: Is it possible to live in an impure body? How can I visit other gardens if I am still dealing with my own weed?

I am aware of the fact that only my resources can save me from the serious grievance inside me. I know that getting close to the area where the fiction was built requires a great deal of loneliness and bravery. These comebacks prevented me from moving on and finding a way out. Why do I go back to the same place over and over again? Why does my body work in such a weird way? I have to face the nonsense that lives in me; I have to stand the greed for delusion and take them on as preexistent knots of my mere perceptions. In other words, I have to capture the pulsing emptiness without judgments or evaluations.

So, I guess that a biography is not just a body but a life worth living. So, I dare to look with different eyes at the pervasive truth. I realize that I have paid with my own desires for my fake identity and that a lifetime sentence leads me to open windows instead of doors. In this troubled path, I’m just left with the impulse to seed my future in new lands. At the end of the way, the circle will close on its own so that the word “refugee” won’t necessarily mean “guarantee” and my idea of salvation will finally be gone. My days will be full of beautiful sunrises. Life will become lighter. And new ways will show up.