Lavínia
plalace
- Feb 19, 2024
- 58
I was reading a book, a scrap, a collection of grafts from a sick person. 'The Trouble With Being Born', I'm enjoying it. In one part he says that the refusal of lyricism can hinder, condemn, the act of writing, because there is no reason to write if the expression is the same as what we could say, spit in the ears.
I feel this same painting, false expression, with poetry and philosophy. The transformation of simple things into complex and rich expressions. We are not petty, we have a fragile spirit, low sensitivity. We are not cowards, incapable, we are victims, repressed, we have so much mental complexity and divergence from the common that we are left on the sidelines. We are not cruel, we worship pain... let us learn that evolution is born from challenge, and only in discomfort is there energy for a sense of satisfaction. Art reassembles, sews our flesh with ornate lines, beautiful ornaments that do not have our smell, our taste or appearance. We do not have a complex smell, arrogant perhaps, I am a person not a race, I mean, I do not have a complex smell. Simple feelings, like primary colors, which mix and form some paints. Writing makes the Louvre, a section dedicated only to paintings of screams and autophagy, metaphysical paintings that portray the impossibility of reproducing shrill sound, horrifying song, with the act of eating. Eating while screaming, at the same time. The paintings make others feel when the flesh, from their own arm or neck, is swallowed. The contraction of the throat is felt and does not interrupt the act of screaming. Impossible, and therefore false.
Writing is the form of expression that I have the most affinity with, and comfort in, because it is the home for the most disgusting and cynical lies that exist.
I feel this same painting, false expression, with poetry and philosophy. The transformation of simple things into complex and rich expressions. We are not petty, we have a fragile spirit, low sensitivity. We are not cowards, incapable, we are victims, repressed, we have so much mental complexity and divergence from the common that we are left on the sidelines. We are not cruel, we worship pain... let us learn that evolution is born from challenge, and only in discomfort is there energy for a sense of satisfaction. Art reassembles, sews our flesh with ornate lines, beautiful ornaments that do not have our smell, our taste or appearance. We do not have a complex smell, arrogant perhaps, I am a person not a race, I mean, I do not have a complex smell. Simple feelings, like primary colors, which mix and form some paints. Writing makes the Louvre, a section dedicated only to paintings of screams and autophagy, metaphysical paintings that portray the impossibility of reproducing shrill sound, horrifying song, with the act of eating. Eating while screaming, at the same time. The paintings make others feel when the flesh, from their own arm or neck, is swallowed. The contraction of the throat is felt and does not interrupt the act of screaming. Impossible, and therefore false.
Writing is the form of expression that I have the most affinity with, and comfort in, because it is the home for the most disgusting and cynical lies that exist.
