Walking down the ancient streets of Florence I once met a painter. He only had one arm, with his long mustaches and his brown beret looked like he had come out of a painting himself! His work was different from all the other artists’: he was not interested in drawing landscapes or portraits he would only paint beautiful castles made of ice, stones, marble or flowers. And in order to make people believe those castles were real he would include furniture of all époques and a full floor plan of course. Observing him from the side he seemed like the type of person that, regardless of his misfortune, would never run out of colours.
“Castles, I sell castles,” He would shout every now and then to the crowd of tourists around him before painting his silent notes and thoughts back on canvas. Isn’t what art is all about? Depicting yourself raw and sour?
“Wish such palace did exist,” I whispered
“It does!” He exclaimed. “I built it! I can built more sequoia and a marble fountain in the middle of the garden if you like…it would be the envy of all the world.”
“No, thank you” I chuckled amused. “You have built an imaginary castle.”
“Isn’t it all we have sometimes?”
“Maybe,” I looked down. “Sometimes is just the image in our mind of how things are supposed to go or be.”
“Signorina, somebody once said that only reality must prove itself again and again to questioners,” He said without never taking his eyes off his canvas. “It is the fantasy which goes on without contradiction, without having to prove itself (…)”
And it’s in a day like this where I feel the need to lock myself out in a magic bubble that looking back to the sunny afternoon in Florence I could not agree the most. And now thanks to the painter who never runs out of colours I can lock myself out in my beautiful castle with sequoia all around and a marble fountain in the middle of the garden. I picked the finest Cantonese desk and chair made of Rosewood inlaid with mother of pearl. There’s a big Renaissance fresco decorating the ceiling and a small marble fireplace with a gold detail cornice warming my thoughts as they pour down like silent notes of colours on this white paper.
And I do not feel the need to justify myself anymore, I do not feel the need to explain the reason why…