Marzo I

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†††All the details of his life I easily recall since, everything related to him, absorbed my supreme attention. † † †
†† It was a night full of angers. Of cosmic neurosis. Black. Like if in the breast of his soul a strident landscape would develop. Sad. All tears. Every now and then a miraculous root of light altered the darkness of that tormented or schizophrenic sky. Always that one of those frenetic scratches of light revealed itself in that rare cristal, it livened in the background of the night the figure of like a sad or melancholic, blue cabin. † † †
†† That night, full of insuperable destinies, Marzo was born. In him was already prefixed, a soul revolutionary and bold like no other that had been. One of those artists that by intuition knows, the brush starts in the soul and the pen in the heart. Of those who make of their art, a dynamic expansion of their self. Each of his paintings would reveal, his highest and lowest spiritual states. Each one would carry the seal of an inescapable confession of how much would happen in the deepest of his self. Like all predestined, heíd take the Future by confessor and his moment, by confessional. † † †
†† Marzo, would take to the canvas in a brilliantly allegoric way, all pain and tragedy of his inconsolable and painful youth. All the blood of his macerated life, would be absorbed with relentless avidity, by the canvases destined to the chromo-caresses and chromo-hits of his brushes. All work of his was a rose, petalized of anguish and violences. His paintings always, achieved the message of his developed soul. Of his spirit always, in supreme states of potency. Of his so, irreverent SELF. † † †
†† Since childhood, he was always a deep and silent soul. His proud lips provided already of great promises, always remained mute. It seemed like since then heíd come accumulating forces for his great explosion. For that so, exorbitant scream. For all those, his terrible notices. That great silence, was the anteroom of the biggest roar to which humanity was destined. From him would come those variations of thunders that later, would deafen us and bring us, a new form of enunciation. All those unused shadows were the metaphysical manure thatíd later feed, that astral tree of light. That billionaire of wings. That taciturn kid that later would be revealed to us, like an inexhaustible source of innovations. † † †  
†† Letís see, some exalted paragraphs of one of his last letters and in which he reveals to us part of his spiritual states, reflections and, weird way of feeling and being. † † †
†† ďThe hard and miraculous reality of life has made me comprehend how idealization can make seem divine, that which seemed monstruos. Thereís no scene however horrific it seems, that isnít capable of inspiring a painting for so beautiful, immortal. The swamp many times, can give us the most beautiful dew drop. In the archemy of thought and nature, however reckless it may seem it isnít impossible, any mutation. The value of beauty is not a fixed one since, beauty is but the consequence of our sensibility or state, constantly subject, to new spins and variations. Itís, in stellar analysis, the interpretation of a fact. Thatís why, a sadist may find beauty and joy in a ruthless amputation or crime, while a laborer of rustic sensibility, may remain indifferent before the splendorous nativity of a sun. One has overflown, the other hasnít even moved. Thatís the reason why itís concept is so controversial. From there, my eagerness to establish through my works a series of inviolable basic principles that lead us to a just estimation of the fact, in tune, with a sensibility as hyperbolic as equilibrated. I esteem it, the only way to tackle the habits of mediocrity. Of restraining, all intelectual abuse or, psychic misbalance. † † †  
†† My paintings, had to habitually be, violent metaphors in forms and colors. They all were, transferences of my great anguishes. The symbol was made urgency in my spirit. The nature of my hues and contrasts always like of aggressivenesses full, responded to a psychoneurotic compensation of my frenetic past and, of that my violent and painful youth. By being forcibly tied to all those experiences, they suffered the absence of pale or dawned colors. All colors, of soft nature, was an inexperience in me. These are the colors to which they go to to express themselves those who havenít suffered or, havenít been defined yet. Those who do not urge revealing themselves because they havenít had like me, a soul overflown with anguish. They result the colors of those who havenít chased a dream, without ever reaching it. † † †
Always that, resulted my case. Thatís why, when I crashed a red over a white I did it in such a way, that itíd suggest a scream. If the brush stroke was thick and contorted, it made us imagine a torso twisting of pain. It compensated me to violent them like, as if through sadism that psycho-esthetic in the highest of my spirit or soul, †would for the first time hoist the flag of joy, achieving it only, through this marvelous and uncontainable, emotion. To each trace, I printed all the impact of my fight and my past. My paintings resulted always, urgent transferences of my self. It was, the only form I had then to scream. The silence often times, is the loudest scream of pain. The most impressive for being, that of the great souls. † † †
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†† † † † † † † † † † † † † † † † † † † † †End of the letter.
Written by Ignoramus
Published | Edited 22nd Feb 2020
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part of a novel
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