Critics
To my friend Eugenio
It is difficult to go deeply into the nature of the works, since nothing can touch so slightly a work of art such as a critical comment: you can always obtain more or less appropriate misunderstandings. Things cannot be all grasped as usual people would like us to believe; most of the events are indescribable, they occur in a space inaccesible to the word. And the most indescribable are the works of art, existences full of mystery, which life, besides the ephemeral one of ours, persists. That being stated, you know well that the critical texts of Aesthetics are factious conjectures, fossilized, and by now lacking in sense, clever plays on words, in which today prevails an opinion and tomorrow the opposite one. The works of art are of an infinite solitude and nothing can reach them.
To be artists means to neither calculate nor count, to mature
as the tree that presses its fruits, and trustful it stays in the
spring storms without worring that later the summer could
not come. The summer comes, we learn it day by day at
the price of pains, to which we should be grateful.
To be artists means to live this experience, which is incredibly
close the loving one, to its sorrows and pleasures, because
the two phenomena are nothing else than different forms of
an identical wish of beatitude.
To be artists means to live the questions in the solitude and
carry the pain that it causes, perhaps in this way, little by
little, one distant day we will find ourselves living the answers.
Anyway the first impression that the viewer gets in seeing
the works by Eugenio is certainly that they do not stand out
as individuals, but for what they do. In this they are strangely
close, for a western culture, to the conception of the oriental
art, very well theorized by Coomaraswamy, in the
transfiguration of the art nature, which orthodoxy is determined
by the actions that a man fulfils, not by beliefs. And the
artistic productions of the various times stand out much
more for what they have in common than for their personal
variations.
Similar to the twilight fire is the art that with its evening clouds is an insult to everything that is symmetry. And all the fragments of logic, to which the man during the day tenaciously clung, are hit in their entirety. And at that point we can understand the vanity of all the systems. Everything then is consumed and is solved in a moment. Will be there a new beginning? Nothing begins, everything comes to an end.
10/03/2004
T. Shadow