Weight and feather
Sometimes I think great artists weigh less than the rest of the people. Or you ever noticed how Horowitz slides his fingers on the keyboard? Seems to me he caresses the piano…
And Baryshnikov, who suddenly leaves the floor, opens wings and launches itself into space – bright bird – subverting the gravity?
I also think that Leonardo´s hands should be almost feather – the thin layer of ink bringing forth the face of the madonnas, making them live suddenly, almost translucent, jellyfishes on canvas. Anything convinces me that expressions like those – away from material things – could only come from a brush smooth as breeze.
The Swan by Saint-Saens? Swimming as floating between harps and cello. And Kurosawa? He dreamt of a place made of flowers and water, where people sing joyfully for the dead brothers and sisters.
I´m sure true art disguises itself as weight. It happens when you see ink spilling on Van Gogh´s voluptuous paintings, swallowing everything in its colors that burst all the world.
Vincent, who loved the colors… He loved them so much that he left them free and scandalous. Stars spinning in canvas, trees turning into rolls, suns screwing, drenched of luminous ink.
Sometimes art falls in love with a nagging pain that bites the soul. And it only soothes when is mixed to paint and songs, handcuffed to music and words.
(By Sonia Zaghetto)