"… I want to sing the praises of pure love, blind love, stupid, love sick, the only true love there, I’m sick of talking, tired of understandings, sick of convenience of service. I never saw boyfriends so brutalized, so cowardly and so indulgent as they are today. Incapable of a sweeping gesture, taking a risk, a dash of daring, gang of “okay, okay”, makers of pipes, made of commitment, goofy , killers of romance, romanticism. Nobody falls in love? Nobody accepts the pure passion, the endless longing, sadness, imbalance, fear, cost, love, disease that is like a cancer eating our hearts and we sing in the chest at the same time?
Love is one thing, life is another. Love is not to be a little help. Not for relief, rest, break, pat on the back, the pause that refreshes, the emergency department of the tortuous road of life, our “gives there a knack sentimental.” I hate this modern mania for soups and rest. I hate the new happy wedded. Wherever one looks, one sees no longer novel, screaming, crazy, stab, hugs, flowers. Love closed the shop. Was pierced to the staff of slippers and serenity. Love is love.It is this beauty. It is this danger. Our love is not for us to understand, not to help us, not to make us happy. Both can and can not. Whatever. It is a matter of chance.
Our love is to love us, to suddenly take us to heaven, in time to catch a bit of hell opened. Love is one thing, life is another. Life sometimes kills love. A “little life” is a living killer. Pure love is not a means, not an end, not a principle, not a destination. Pure love is a condition. Has much to do with the life of each one like the weather. Love does not realize. Not to realize. Love is a state of one who feels. Love is our soul. It is our soul to untie. The untie the chase than not know, do not pick up, not large, does not understand.
Love is true. That is why the illusion is necessary. The illusion is pretty, it does not matter.Who lie and invent and dream what you want. Love is one thing, life is another. Reality can kill, love is more beautiful than life. Life fuck. In a moment, a look, picks up his heart forever. If someone loves you. By far, however difficult, however desperately. The heart is what keeps us out of hand. And during the day and throughout life, when there is not one you love, that she is not with us – is our love, the love that you have. Not to realize. A sign of pure love does not understand, love and do not have, and do not want to keep hope, hurt without being hurt, live alone, sad, but most of those who live together happily. You can not give up. One can not resist. Life is one thing, love is another. Life lasts a lifetime, love does. Only a world of love can last a lifetime. And worth it too.”
“J’aime l’autorité du noir, sa gravité, son évidence, sa radicalité . Son puissant pouvoir de contraste donne un présence intense à toutes les couleurs et lorsqu’il illumine les plus obscures, il leur confère une grandeur sombre. Le noir a des possibiltés insoupçonnées et, attentif à ce que j’ignore, je vais à leur rencontre.”—
This was originally a part of an earlier post, from last year I think, inspired by an art exhibit I saw in early 2011 at the Centre Pompidou. The artist was Pierre Soulages and the paintings were primarily in black with the few exceptions being black and white. This quote struck me for its applicability across disciplines. It is simultaneously a commentary on black as color, art and for me also black as understood to mean people of African descent. No matter the interpretation, I absolutely love it.
I like the authority of black, it’s severity, it’s obviousness, it’s radicalism. It’s powerful ability of contrast provides an intense presence to all colors and when it illuminates the darkest colors, it gives them a somber grandeur. Black has unimagined possibilities and, attentive to that which I do not know, I am going to find them.
“Perhaps art is just taking out
what you don’t like
and putting in what you do.
There is no such thing
It is extraction,
gravitation toward a
It is nearer to music,
not the music of the ears,
just the music of the eyes.”—