Freedom (which includes the panorama of any smiling country) is the only way we can gain enough subsidies from the spirit world, but for now are unable to reach it.
“The subject of painting remains important today. It gives us a reference to what in nature can we determine the value of. And, in nature can we determine drama, beauty or a lyric, conducting the creation of a new model of art that might be a new angle on the evolving back story of our history.” (page 329)
And then they try to thrust her into the breach by night. This works about half the time. There are risks: The river-bed can fall, and the Italian overseer can get afflicted by some terrible illness.
“When art is romanticized, beauty accounts for the right that is inherent. Beauty of this style or another possesses certain attributes of sensitivity. Such qualities are necessarily and always beneficial for active participation in relation to anti-institutional models.” (page 455)
I write to find out what I’m thinking (intervals of spitting over a cliff’s edge), what I’m looking at (statues and falling buildings), and what I see and what it means (the ominous wracking of a stretched cloud).
I am attempting to rewrite a position without completely disavowing it, but I still lean strongly toward the unfinished letter to your parents. Power structures are not as easily dismantled as with votive pillars of bricks and stone.
“Indeed, for the work of this artist or that artist to be contained in rational thought, criticism can never sweeten or reproach the effect of actually doing the work.” (page 211)
It didn’t reflect any of my beliefs and values. It was only something which grew limply enough. I soon saw a lighted ship sailing upon a canal. It had been a difficult and dangerous time.
“Nor will I ever forget the train that took us to Marseilles, loaded, like a basket of exotic fruit, with a motley crowd of people, country girls, and sailors, with accordions and songs chorused by everyone in the coach. We were heading for the Mediterranean Sea, toward the doors of light . . . This was 1927.” (from ‘Conjieso que he vivido: Memorias’, Pablo Neruda)
running the whole length of the horizon...