art
is infinity. creativity is a void. or, art is an infinite creative
void. art is passion, and as stated by Winterson, passion is somewhere
between God and the Devil, pleasure and pain. art approves only of
itself, contradicts only itself, and stands alone as itself. thus it is
the nature of art to be natureless, and its interpretation is endless.
art is violator to the senses, elixir to the soul, wound and healer to
the heart.
Poetry by Pablo
Neruda
And it was at that age... Poetry arrived
In search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
It came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
But from a street I was summoned,
From the branches of night,
Abruptly from the others,
Among violent fires
Or returning alone,
There I was without a face
And it touched me.
I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
With names,
My eyes were blind,
And something started in my soul,
Fever or forgotten wings,
And I made my own way,
Deciphering
That fire,
And I wrote the first faint line,
Faint, without substance, pure
Nonsense,
Pure wisdom
Of someone who knows nothing,
And suddenly I saw
The heavens
Unfastened
And open,
Planets,
Palpitating plantations,
Shadow perforated,
Riddled
With arrows, fires and flowers,
The winding night, the universe.
And I, infinitesimal being,
Drunk with the great starry
Void,
Likeness, image of
Mystery.
Felt myself a pure part
Of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
My heart broke loose on the wind.*
and so it was, i discovered my art. next to the sea on a balmy night,
encircled by a dancing ring of fire, didgeridoo vibrating through my
weary sun-kissed body, he kissed me on the forehead and awoke me. or
perhaps it wasn't then. perhaps it was when i discovered my life as
metaphor. or
perhaps it was when they stopped making sense of what i spoke and
labelled me sensitive. it could even have been the day my body forced
me to be still. art is expression. art in its true form, is naked expression
uninhibited.
art is before and after the biting of the apple. art is anything that
possesses form, and also that which does not. what is art?
people ask me what it is exactly that i write. is it love stories? i
was hesitant to define it at all, let alone categorise it into
something so banal to me as romance. yet i can humbly now say that in
my opinion, everything ever written is a love story.
art is love. love is art. seeing as they are both impossible to
categorically define, as human beings we must keep on trying - after
all, it is in our nature...
*Translation by Anthony Kerrigan
Published by the Penguin Group. |
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