On my dying day, I know that I will lament, for not have been able to express all that I wanted or had to say.
Either we like it or not, the "others", are a fundamental pillar to the sustaining basis of all we are while individuals. The more we want to demarcate ourselves, the figure of the other remains inevitably always there in our objective, even when that need impels us to mark our egocentric points of view. The existence of numerous forms of language, is plain simply, the cabal proof that nobody is by its own, an absolute valor. The complexity of our existence, inevitably, aroused the search for some more complex forms of communication, to which we are hopelessly attached by our own essence.
Art, was probably born, on the account of these tortuous ways, so tortuous as the complexity of the emotions, that fascinate as much as dominate us.
If to some, it's easiest to offer a flower, than to say "I love you", to others that simple and sensible phrase, is not clearly sufficient. The delicacy or even discomfort of a direct confrontation with our most intimate and personal sentiments, must have had also an important role in the need of establishing a superior and neutral kind of language, perhaps more complex, but acceptable. The poetry and music, poetry more than music perhaps, are, in my view, a part of that greater effort.
The idea that, to the artist, everything is permitted, is not surely a premise but, has consequently some legitimacy. Quite often, the socially troublesome and uncomfortable, acquires through the art forms, a new meaning and therefore a new valor. And I think that its legitimacy, resides in the fact that any effort of communication, must aim to go always further ahead... or the work and the artist itself, will run the risk of becoming a mere "nameless instrument" of art and of all the notions and concepts, that generated its own existence.
What art enables, is something larger than our existence, because it subsists beyond all our pettiness and vanity.
Blessed are therefore, those to whom the existence provided such a great gift... because... on my dying day, I know that I will lament, for not have been able to express all that I wanted or had to say...
... since on my birth day and a being came to this world, was not in his destiny, the proposition to become an artist.
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