I believe in art, creating awareness and collecting knowledge.
I believe in it as an aesthetic practice and a lifestyle.
I believe that every human being carries within him a nomad, a heritage from Cain and Abel, with the need to move, rediscovering new horizons, apprehending and distributing knowledge.
Each conversation constitutes highly nutritious food for personal growth… but conversation must be understood as a two-faced and topological process full of complex systems, where speech (individual product) is planted at the root, in the diversity of languages (social product) that we encounter every day, in every space and time.
L + 23
The land of countries with invisible cities, the one on highways to the south, and so many other streets, all the land under their feet, is nothing more than a huge newspaper displayed in the pages of classifieds and offers. Sometimes a photograph in that newspaper, which was taken or will be taken, a curiosity for all its flowery idiosyncrasy, is all it needs to create. As if he were plucking the flowers for a vase, and from his flowers there arises uniformly, that fragrance that delights with the unusual and the absurd to his wanderings through the cities, the perfume emanating from all the pores, like the good perfume of printing ink for letters with correspondence of sensations *, letters that will fly to him again through the air of his liquid places. **
It is then the wandering spleenful that transforms the world into its stage.
Spleen remembering Baudelaire, spleenful remembering me.
* Correspondence of sensations, in relation to the synesthesia or in words of the dictionary “secondary or associated sensation that is produced in a part of the body as a result of a stimulus applied in another part of it”.
** Assaulted text by Andrè Breton, whose original is:
The earth, under my feet, is nothing more than an immense unfolded newspaper. Sometimes a photograph passes by, it’s just an ordinary curiosity. And from the flowers comes the perfume, the good perfume of printing ink.