The idea is inexpressible. Its beauty contours the soul. At once, held softly. At once, slipping from the grasp. It is a howling whisper; it is a hoarse shriek.
In poverty of the idea with a mere spectre of sense, the artist succumbs into hope: what is unseen can be envisioned; what is unfelt can be touched. It is a hopeful destitution.
In the humility of darkness, the artist creates concrete abstractions—searches for light. The artist wants to be seen, desperately; the artist wants to be hidden, seductively. The paradox of desire is the expression of the artist.
Do not listen to those that clamour and proclaim singular reality. They are too rich to know real multiplicity. They are too blind to admit their own blindness.
The artist must be shorn from life, from reality, so that blindness is all seeing in hope, so that what is hidden, lives, so that what is unreal is made real.
The artist is grounded in the physicality of the dream, in the intangibility of the actual.
It is in the return to reality that the artist reshapes reality and realizes the image.
For the image to be achieved, plot must be subverted—character made sublime in the image of the idea.
Beauty is not surface driven in particular objective. It is compelled unto the paradox of the soul: its individual reality; its communal union; its conflicting empathy.
Each movement of the art (however abstract; however concrete) must be struggled for, unhinged from reality. So that the unreal may be brought forth in the realness of beauty.
Fear, pain and hope live in the heart of the artist.
Please, accept your shorn blindness. Please, accept your destitute hope.
For beauty is that which wrinkles the soul.
And I intend to wrinkle your soul.