“An expensive illusion of immortality?”
Oh my God, no. I’m just a collector and as a collector I plumb the depth of life through art.
At that time, I was more than that. I was some sort of faithless mystic man. Someone who stands between coexisting contrasts: the plan and the act, the charm and the revulsion, the routine and the unknown.
The picture suited me and I bought it. I was still persuaded that key events could block the clock and beauty unveil the truth. I believed artworks needed the hand, other than the viewer’s eye, to get a motion. And it was not for passion or lust if I dared to touch the line of that pale back far beyond the frame; rather a way to ignite the sacred fire of inspiration.
Then, life taught me I was wrong and man is nothing more that a bright reflection the moment before diving into dark waters. And history lies heavy on his shoulders. How could art represent him without darker, more tangible and denser colors?
It had nothing to do with the photo. I got rid of it ‘cause I changed school of thought.
MicroFICTION # 20