Art and Life

“Art is the lie that tells the truth. Don’t try to understand. You have to feel. And I hope this dove makes people feel. The truth. That we are capable of the most horrible violence.  Which is why we must fight so hard against it." (Genius, Picasso)

http://www.tate.org.uk/art/artworks/picasso-dove-p11366 

Everybody’s waiting …

We are born, we die. The only truth that matters and is always here. Between these two we try to live. And life, in its complexity, is never simple. Some call it ugly, meaningless, unbearable. We search for other people, we search for ourselves, and no matter which road we decide to take, we always ask ourselves questions like “Is this what I wanted to be?” “What have I done with my life?” “Can I do it or can I not?” “What is the sense of all these?”

We become parents and we look, admire, envy the Others, who have their freedom to do something with their lives, to make a difference. Or, we, or our life take us to a road where the word “family” doesn’t exist, and in our turn, we admire the Other one, the ones with kids, photo albums and those simple, sacred things … We look at the Other, we envy them, and probably, if we shift places, we would still want something else.

We fall in love, and then fall out of love. We get married, we get divorced, we become widows, or decide to go on living in a lie. Some are gay, without being their choice, some are addicts, some are damned for a life of misery, some are cursed from the beginning – by illnesses, faith or own relatives.

And in all these, we write our own stories, although they have been written billions of times before us, and shall be written again, after us, and still we feel that they are unique. Because they are ours. And in these his/her-stories everybody is waiting. For the great end. For the final pain.

So, there are a few TV series that I recommend. Six Feet Under is one of them. For those who want a disturbing Story of the human kind, but extremely real and vivid, intelligently made, which depicts Life as it is, that other side, that one that we often call it ugly, miserable, damned, that we cannot understand, nor accept. But there, more present than the (i)reality in which we want, desperately try to escape.  

The Autumn of My Soul

Nu am stiut niciodata daca felul meu de a fi, de a gandi sau de a simti a fost intotdeauna cel corect, cel uman, cel care sa protejeze propria fiinta. Nu stiu daca viata ar trebui judecata in termeni de ,,bine” si de ,,rau”, de ,,corect” si ,,gresit”. Evoluam sau involuam si nu stim exact cum am ajuns pana-n acest punct… Cu totii ne pierdem in goana dupa bani, pentru a avea o casa ,,cat mai frumoasa”, pentru o vacanta pe an cat mai departe de casa, pentru o masina, pentru comfort. Eu, tu, noi, fara exceptii. Renuntam in fiecare zi cate putin la noi, la placerile sau principiile pe care le aveam in adolescenta, devenind una si aceeasi cu cei pe care i-am privit in trecut cu mila, cu teama, cu dorinta de a nu deveni sau de a nu avea viata pe care ei o au.

Ma intreb pentru cine traim cu adevarat. Rapoartele si fisele pe care le facem abia daca sunt citite. Nu putem face o diferenta pentru toti elevii nostri, nu putem avea rabdarea necesara de-a ii asculta si intelege pe toti, nu putem fi acolo, intotdeauna, pentru ei. Si atunci cand ne ciocnim de insiguranta/”inocenta”/problemele parintilor, cand avem atatea ziduri intre noi si ei, cum mai putem lupta in a duce la liman un suflet de om?... Suntem de inlocuit. In meseria noastra. In vietile personale. In ceea ce oferim lumii. In cele zece ore pe care le petrecem lucrand zi de zi. Si cu totii suntem egali in nimicnicirea ce ne asteapta dupa cateva clipe petrecute aici. Indiferent cat ne-am permis sa traim, cat ne-am ascultat pe noi insine, cat ne-am descoperit, cat am iertat, cat de fericiti ne-am ingaduit sa fim sau cat ne-am sacrificat pentru o lume care cu siguranta ne va uita.

,,Suntem de inlocuit”. Probabil ca aceasta este marea mea problema. Sunt de inlocuit in meseria pe care o practic, in ciuda daralor de amintiri ce poate le las in urma. In munca titanica, sisifica, pe care incerc sa o duc pana la capat. In inimile oamenilor mei, care insa pentru mine sunt de neinlocuit. …

Suntem mai obositi cu fiecare an ce trece. Mai infranti. Mai vulnerabili. Ne intrebam daca lumea si Dumnezeii in care am crezut de mici exista oare pe undeva prin lumea asta mica. Ne intrebam daca basmele acelea pe care le-am purtat mereu in noi insine pot face parte din realitatea noastra. Daca miturile in care ne-am refugiat sau pe care le-am tot cautat prin carti si-n ochii celorlalti chiar exista. Pentru ca, vezi tu, le-am vrut mereu parte din viata mea. Daca acea ,,vesnicie” in care am tot crezut nu e doar un alt lucru evanescent, firav, plapand…. Daca drumul spre Ithaca e o alta absurditate nascocita si daca toti oamenii din acest loc, pe care i-ai asezat ca temelie, sunt vii, reali, calzi, prezenti sau doar o alta iluzie la strigatele tuturor de a nu fi de-a pururi singuri … de a fi vazuti, de a fi iubiti, indragiti, apreciati, de a umple golurile prezente-n fiecare dintre noi.

In plina iarna si-n plin viscol, ma intorc spre toamna mea. Ca un fluture ce zboara pentru o ultima data, constient dar incercand sa ignore cat de scurte sunt momentele pe acest pamant. M-am tolanit in pat, uitand de intregul cenusiu de-afara si din mine, cu o carte de Marquez in brate. M-a facut sa privesc inapoi, sa simt cum timpul nu a trecut pe langa mine, cum acele lucruri pe care le-am vrut, pe care le simt ca ma definesc, in care cred, au ramas acolo … prafuite, ciobite de timp, dar inca in picioare… Si sunt cea de acum zece ani si cea de acum, cu un roman de Marquez alaturi. La fel ca atunci, la fel ca acum, prinsa in delirul acestuia, in lungile sale fraze, in vraja acelor cuvinte, lasand orele si oricare alta obligatie sa treaca pe langa mine si pe toate acele cuvinte. Intelegandu-l pe Faust inca o data in dorinta de-a opri Timpul. Simtindu-ma inca o data acel copil ce-a tot asteptat un urs de plus, captiva intr-o lume ce-a fascinat-o dintotdeauna, in acel tip de literatura altfel, puternic, de neinteles poate de unii, in fata caruia insa tu ingenunchiezi, pe care-l resimti atat de aproape de tine, atat de cunoscut,  in propriile vene …

Se spune ca ne schimbam. Ca una citim in copilarie, adolescenta, alta in anii de viitor. Ca altfel privim lucrurile. Numai ca literatura mea de suflet a ramas mereu aceeasi – trecand bineinteles peste cartile din ,,frageda pruncie". Inca o schimbare ce nu s-a produs in mine. Aceeasi regasire, aceleasi sentimente, aceeasi sete de nastavilit, aceeasi dragoste pentru Marquez. Sunt conexiunile care au tot aparut, cuvintele care se perinda dintr-o carte-n alta, stilurile care-ti amintesc si de celelalte carti citite…. Dar nucleul, esenta, si ceea ce ma defineste, au ramas aceleasi.

Mereu m-am jucat printre cuvinte. In jocurile de nisip, pe tobogane scrijelite, pe bancile liceului sau gonind spre ele in facultate. Mereu m-au facut sa ma simt Acasa si mereu m-au indepartat de-o lume din care voiam atat de mult sa fac parte … Mereu m-am refugiat in ele, cautandu-le, ascultandu-le, nesimtindu-ma atat de singura, alaturi de ele, incercand din rasputeri sa le prind si sa-i fac pe cei dragi mie sa inteleaga aceasta dependenta/nevoie/parte din mine… Nu cred ca am reusit asta vreodata.

Marquez a ramas neschimbat in mine. Unul dintre oamenii de neinlocuit pentru mine, unul dintre pilonii identitatii mele, cel putin atunci cand vorbesc despre literatura, unul dintre aspectele ramase neschimbate, neclintite in mine. Privesc un deja-vu, intr-o oglinda ciclica a timpului, intr-un Eu inca prezent si viu, intr-o energie/nebunie pe care vrei s-o scoti la suprafata si nu stii cum, in ,,acel ceva” ce-l simti, ce-l vezi, ce-l intelegi, dar de care ti-e atat de greu sa te aproprii, sa-l identifici, sa imblanzesti cuvintele pentru a le gasi pe cele potrivite …

Virginia Woolf a spus ca words live in our minds: 

"It is words that are to blame. They are the wildest, freest, most irresponsible, most unteachable of all things. Of course, you can catch them and sort them and place them in alphabetical order in dictionaries. But words do not live in dictionaries; they live in the mind." (On Craftsmanship...)

Cred ca traiesc si-n sufletele noastre, puse acolo de cine stie ce divinitate plictisita, curgandu-ne uneori prin vene. E poate acest triunghi mind-soul-veins ce ne chinuie, ce trebuie inteles, cautat, descoperit ………   

Andre Derain - L'estaque

ACCEPTANCE in an Upside-Down World

"Life is mostly froth and bubble, two things stand like stone, KINDNESS in another's trouble, COURAGE in your own."

Adam L. Gordon

Every minute counts. We talk about Earth, God, Society. As Emerson points out in “The American Scholar”, not classification is the primary source of knowledge, but the wholeness, what these divided minuscule parts form. A tree, a wave, a land, an island, the blue sky, the storm, the seasons = Earth. Atomas are essential, but their union shape the Life. Society is formed by individuals, most of the time different in their thinking, and God cannot be understood if we don’t understand the human being. What if God was one of us? In each of us, and in order to see/love Him, we must see the ones around us …

Life is made of hours, years, happy and sad moments. Life is build up from seconds, from breathes, from bubbles. One second here, mingled with another one and another one, mixed with breathing. This is how Life begins. Every minute counts. And in this harmony of Life, of the perfection buried inside Life, we, human beings, divide ourselves, forget ourselves, we, human beings, let other feelings govern our lives. Because we forget that our time is limited, that we have only a life; we forget the dear ones, thinking that we shall have enough time to tell them how much we love them, and we consume our energy with knick-knocks, with insignificant people.

Acceptance in an Upside-Down world. Is this world insane or am I the one who has got problems? More and more people think only of money. No matter if they have enough, they always want more. And if they could win this money without working, they would be happier. People don’t have a goal in their lives … what would I like to be? What suits me best? What is my meaning in life? We are afraid of loneliness, and we accept any person in our lives. So that we won’t be lonely to the end. And let’s just think … they have happiness: money, love, family. Let’s look in the life of the people who are fair to themselves to the end … besides TRUTH, what do they have?

We spend our life discussing about the others, hunting grades/scholarships/career/fame, etc. We gossip, we live without thinking, without the conscience of clocks, and most of the time, we are haunted by happiness. This is the first level of acceptance in the world.

The second level of acceptance relates to me, the relation between me and the Others. All my life I have been searching for ACCEPTANCE, to be accepted as a whole, with all my defects and qualities. We are afraid to show the others who we really are, to show the beast inside us, to make the beast inside us kneel in front of dear ones. Will you hug this beast? Being different is a disease; we boast ourselves, saying that “differences are nice”, but in fact we do not accept our oppositions, other thinking systems, other shapes. We are afraid of what is different and we search, all of us search, for people like us.

On a third level, I think we have acceptance towards us. I and Me. Do we really accept our own beings? Do I? When I feel not accepted by the people from the first bubble, people that I don’t give a damn on them, I rarely feel something. When I feel judged by my people, no matter how strongly I scream at them, no matter how strongly I hit them, saying "YOU don't have this right!", I actually hit myself. We judge every difference, every tiny piece from our being, and we judge at the same time the fire that burns our hearts, the fire that says NO, the difference itself. We build up our land, our dear and safe land, based on the inner fire, on the inner energy, on the struggle of conscience. Being the person who you feel to be vs. being the person that the others want to see/have.

Roads. We take a road, we take another, we fall, and we kill minutes. Have you ever thought that in a way or another we are ALL a sort of suicides? Because we kill our Time with all the trifles, not worth-reading books, not-worth talking people, and so on.

The world in which we live is turned upside-down, it is a tango or a play danced/written by Someone with a black humor. But this Someone lives in bubbles, in a me, a you, a we, a they, and I guess this Someone searches also for ACCEPTANCE.