‘What lies behind us and what lies before us are small matters
compared to what lies within us.’
– Ralph Waldo Emerson

works by Ilexa Inmudwalker
‘What lies behind us and what lies before us are small matters
compared to what lies within us.’
– Ralph Waldo Emerson
Souvenirs de Caracas y las ollas reventaban de tanto latir de disparos, pero no pasaba nada.
Seguían, como una historia de Arepas del tercer milenio.
Everyone is someone’s hero.
I like the idea of focusing on it. Trying to imagine what kind of hero is hiding and seeking in the lovely, ugly, beautiful, disgusting sentient being considered, imagined, as a ‘hero for someone’, maybe also for oneself, is generally a challenging part when ordinary life stinks of ordinariness. Not to mention of dramas, with villains. Sometimes, a lot of imagination is needed. Other times, it’s so obvious it’s difficult not to try to perceive the darkest face of the obvious hero instead of staying focused on ordinary heroism, if not extraordinary. Anyway, ‘everyone is someone’s hero’ is comforting, mainly because of the good company one finds everywhere. If ‘everyone is someone’s hero’ is actually not true (which can’t but could be), someone can start being a hero just because of being perceived as having the potential to be one, and encouraged as such. But then, what is a hero and who actually wants to be one? It sounds like spontaneous hard work, on a daily basis, or a miracle. Too much. Some worlds have very little heroes because of being too busy dimming away their lives. Never enough.
‘Drugs don’t work, you work’ probably doesn’t need much of a conceptual explanation.
The vertical brown stick behind the odd face was meant to be similar, as well as different, to the horizontal cloud to express the illusory nature of (self-induced) delusions. That illusory nature of a form of reality can be a buoy for some busy ones covered in muck, stuck in ice, their backs to the cycles of the rest of the natural world and life. If perceived, it gets easier to consider the diminished and dim self in the mirror as someone’s hero. And that’s some connection. A passport to extraordinary ordinary life.
Le gardien des terres brûlées… au travail.
De l’agriculture, un peu de Jacques Brel chantant ‘Ne me quitte pas’, des couches et des couches de peinture. Un visage de paysan estompé par le temps des changements, changé en oiseau, en berge, en aile de papillon, en rouge, en noir, en feu, en cendres, en demain à l’aube; et au soir, une fontaine filtre, en pierre, les tracés dans le ciel, en histoires.
Pauvre homme, tu n’es sûr de rien.
On te promet le paradis…
Tâche plutôt, je te le dis,
Ici-bas de créer le tien.
Omar Khayyam
Conversations au-dessus d’une falaise est un peu de méduse, un peu de silence, et une falaise. Des choix. Quelques plumes perdues et une blessure dans différents plans superposés, traversé par un courant d’air frais, une brise de conversation.
Finalement… ‘On peut vivre sans musique, sans philosophie, sans joie et sans amour. Mais, pas si bien.’ – Jankélévitch
Tout comme vivre sans altérité, sans l’autre, différent de soi mais néanmoins antidote à certains poisons et vues limitées de ‘soi’. Peut-être que le plus dur à vivre est de trop aimer, de gagner à un jeu comparatif avec l’autre, un ‘autre’ qui pour soi serait plus, mais aussi moins, que ‘soi’.
Ex Nihilo Nihil was first called ‘Eclosion’, in reference to blooming flowers and dreams. The flowers ended up being carnivorous traps and the dreams never came true. That’s how the painting got its new name, an extra layer of paint and more (red) flowers – that haven’t been carnivorous traps yet, thankfully.
(Switching to French now because, in the frame of this painting, it all happened in French-speaking contexts.)
‘Ex nihilo nihil’, ‘Rien [ne vient] de rien’, est un aphorisme, résumant la philosophie de Lucrèce et d’Épicure pour certains, tiré d’un vers de Perse (Satires, III, 84), qui commence par De nihilo nihil. Rien ne vient de rien, c’est-à-dire Rien n’a été tiré de rien. Rien n’a été créé, mais tout ce qui existe existait déjà en quelque manière de toute éternité.
Ce n’est pas moi qui le dit, c’est un vieux dictionnaire Larousse aux pages jaunies.
Edith Piaf lisait peut-être beaucoup le Larousse mais ce qui est sûr, c’est qu’à l’école, un poème nous a averti des illusions des éclosions et des dangers de laisser passer les rêves sans les cueillir:
Mignonne, allons voir si la rose
Mais, d’aussi loin que je me souvienne, personne ne m’a clairement avertie du danger de laisser d’autres décider de ses rêves, à la ‘comme tu veux’, ou de celui de perdre les moyens de rêver parce que rêver est exclu face à certaines réalités et qu’il n’est pas ou plus souhaitable de se donner les moyens de rêver. Face à l’impossible, c’est exclu, on ne rêve pas, on ne rêve plus de certaines choses devenues de facto impossibles, et dans le tableau, une vague – coup de poing. Ceci dit, il se peut que j’ai oublié et que je n’ai pas écouté à temps.
Ronsard a conseillé de cueillir, d’autres ont exprimé ce qu’il advient du désir à l’heure d’être là quand il s’agit de faire ce qui est dit, mais il est difficile aussi de dire ce que l’amour peut faire et faire faire.
‘Le désir ne tient jamais ses promesses.’ (Schopenhauer)
L’amour, oui.
Entre vivre ses rêves et cueillir le jour, il me semble qu’il y a la gratitude et l’interdépendance. Si un tableau existe, si la toile existe, si la peinture existe, si les pinceaux existent, si le/la peintre existe, si l’écran existe, si l’autre existe, ce n’est pas tout(e) seul(e), de rien, un rien venant de rien, et ce tout est sans doute plus que le fruit du désir.
Palenque des pendus comes from many sources. ‘Strange Fruit’ by Billie Holiday, palenque songs, pictures of bullfighting – I never saw an actual bullfight and have no intention to go to see one during this life – inspired some of the movements that were expressed in black, red, blue, white. Slavery, inequality, discrimination (in the exclusive and narrow-minded sense of it), and death. The hazy yellows and whites were meant to soften it, a bit like magnolias and candle lights. There’s a lot of dancers in the painting, the ‘hanged devils’ and a few ‘angels’ lost in dark alleys.
Desperate moments can trigger desperate times, but in between:
“When we come to it
We, this people, on this minuscule and kithless globe
Who reach daily for the bomb, the blade and the dagger
Yet who petition in the dark for tokens of peace
We, this people on this mote of matter
In whose mouths abide cankerous words
Which challenge our very existence
Yet out of those same mouths
Come songs of such exquisite sweetness
That the heart falters in its labor
And the body is quieted into awe
We, this people, on this small and drifting planet
Whose hands can strike with such abandon
That in a twinkling, life is sapped from the living
Yet those same hands can touch with such healing, irresistible tenderness
That the haughty neck is happy to bow
And the proud back is glad to bend
Out of such chaos, of such contradiction
We learn that we are neither devils nor divines
When we come to it
We, this people, on this wayward, floating body
Created on this earth, of this earth
Have the power to fashion for this earth
A climate where every man and every woman
Can live freely without sanctimonious piety
Without crippling fear
When we come to it
We must confess that we are the possible
We are the miraculous, the true wonder of this world
That is when, and only when
We come to it.”
– Maya Angelou
And:
‘Just as heat dispels cold, loving-kindness counters anger. We need to learn how to counter our various emotions. Distraction is just a temporary measure. The longer lasting remedy is to be able to see positive qualities in something or someone you otherwise see as negative. Since there is rarely any justification for destructive emotions, we need to become aware of what gives rise to them and what the antidotes are.’
– Dalai Lama
It may still be possible to be in good company among fellow human beings. To add ‘No matter what’ may be pushing it too far, though. Then again… with a lot of efforts and decent teachings, appropriate remedies could function in desperate contexts, no matter what.
This painting comes from a poem, a few words about emotions and remedies I can’t remember now, and some human landscapes lost in mind.
Here goes the poem:
O que nós vemos das cousas são as cousas