I can’t imagine our world without fog in it. Much less the works of art that are full of clarity. Maybe that’s because fog is ever ambigious, unclear and touching. In our overstimulated lifes it’s a nature’s way of letting us have some peace of mind, separating us from the excess of the objects in the background. Imagination as well as Goya’s demons come into play, the scene is set just for them.
I like that. I like it that my country’s people have such empty, bulging eyes. This instills in me a feeling of legitimate pride. You can imagine what the eyes are like where everything is bought and sold – deeply hidden, secretive, predatory and frightening.
I’d agree to live on the earth for an eternity if they’d show me first a corner where there’s not always room for valor. ‘Universal chicken-heartedness.’ Indeed, this is the panacea, this is the predicate to sublime perfection.