What is freedom if you can’t let go, abdicate and surrender to your surroundings? What is pleasure then?
I When I was a young girl I remember being subjugated by the paintings of Hubert Robert. It was a long time ago before the recent fashion of photographing abandon buildings.
I always felt welcome in these remains of ancient civilizations, the moldy taste of decadence, the lush vegetation reassuring me that nature always prevails no matter.
Art was always present: marble flesh much more beautiful in their decay than in their glory, lonely wall of porous golden stones climbing a pale blue sky or a tormented distant storm.
These paintings were more home than my own bedroom. I could run free there with all my ghosts listening to their tales of lust and war, learning how their greed ate their own heart in a poisonous long death.
I was not scared of them, I let them sip into my senses, touch and pinch, caress and poke.
You were absent, it was not about you or me it was about them, and I was learning.
They had left their frame of heavy gold, escape pretention, control and power and in return they had found beauty. At first it was against their grain and their will but then…magic set in.
Life within death. Reality within dream.
At least I am not trapped, just abandoned.