Curated by Alberto Caetano
§ TO LOOK
Canon – The world is made of restlessness.
To look. To look without thinking.
The eye is the tool, it captures the light, the blue, the water of the moon. Real?
The light is the shadow, the imaginary blue, the wind, the fire. Memory as well. The memory before the flood.
What do you see when you look?
Before traveling through space, through time, we must walk the darkness, the Black and shadowless, midday’s mirror to be, when the shadow is at its shortest, launching us under the sun, as Salomon would sing. The Sumerian draws in the tablet a line, one-dimension, cuneiform primordial writing, such as the sacred bull’s horns or the rivers of the underworld; In that thoughtless look lies a landscape, a memory, inevitably, of the future, which isn’t yet, but merely a plasma, traces of stellar dust linked to dark matter, while the landscape is in utero, a spaceless space, primordial brew, clay tablet, henceforth canvas to its many symbols, and Art, that craft in Greek tongue, synthesizes and tears apart that dot which is the real moment, so the look gathers, indifferently, the double cypher, the antediluvian and the posterior being, and Aesthetics, which arises from the game which imagines the creation myths, is both death and nothingness, perhaps a chant echoing an idea, a paradox, an unintelligible language, the phrase that spells: he who increases knowledge, increases suffering; the return to the noir, the artist is a servant, preferably, to an invisible master, euphemism of a black meteoroid, luminous and black.
In its deep ampleness, Acheron crosses arms with Absynthe, the star which falls from the sky, the water and fire solidified, metal alloy, nuclear instant, immortal.
Canon – Art has to be inventive.
The canvas represent the troubled waters of the river, the pathway to an unknown world, whither the human knowledge, occasionally, aspires; Acheron’s Tartarus’ and the canvas colors, finally, are black, symbol of a cypher with demon’s tail and angel’s trunk; there are things better left unknown, untouched, not even idealized; clearly, and beware of the irony here inscribed, the symbiosis of this painting, the opaque, together with thought, the bright, is beyond good and evil; there is no christian Comedy or pagan Eneid, just to sign two cornerstones of the occidental culture; in the beginning, (bereshit), there is a mark, a trace, a line of black ink, thick and wavering, which expands and contracts, a cosmic motion, which as a lightning strikes the depthness of the soul, touching the waters of the hellish river, knees deep in the mud, under the sun’s mourning; the self is here a mirage, unable to recognize itself in the chthonic mirror; outside of identity, of space and time, freed, in heaven and on earth, the look, the movement is the universe.
To become static is to become pathless, but Art, in the end, rescues this fluid, or, according to the Babylonian poem, “it faced the arcane, brought to light the obscured”. In this present case only Black. After all, the masterpiece has but one purpose, to be crossed over.
Canon – Out of order at the moment, we apologize for any inconvenience (euphemism to the utter ignorance we have about death)
Before handing over the golden branch, the prophetess speaks, the descent to Hell is the last limit for the human to attain; the genealogy is short, Orpheus, Theseus, Pollux, Heracles, improbable Odysseus disguised as Eneas and the poet Dante; the return is rare, his will does not move mountains or crosses oceans, knotted in the labyrinth, the contrapunctus is the flaming wheel, father of the centaurs, half man half beast so he will not be scorched by the blind force which creates, indifferently, in its turmoil, the dream’s flower next to the chaos.
At dawn he regains his breath and, under the stars in his escaping motion, matches his step with the rhythm of the core, the foam of reason; after the turn the wheel of time, the circle seemingly opens, if it weren’t for the old silhouette of Charon, electrifying as a proper god, in the river’s mouth, he would be at the gates of eternity; thus Acheron’s face, iron net, still suggests the presence of time; the prayer remains, poetical words of the Florentine, which, in a winged boat, leaves Hell behind, “returning to see the stars”.
Why Music? Because Music is of divine inspiration and, as Black, Pure Energy.
Rodízio, October 2018
(translated by Vicente Rodrigues)