The Sketches: Words
All words, either written or spoken, ought to remind us to be awake.
Although a picture is worth more than a thousand words, a word, I think, ought to be worth the Truth. To speak as such is difficult, not to mention to write as such. But when writing with light is concerned, I think, lies have no place and the so called relative truth is but the Truth.
What about a literary composition? A novel, in such case? Is fiction really a lie? Some call it fantasy because it involves imagination, it springs from one’s own imagination and has no reality of its own. That’s what they call fiction. Not the Truth. But what if those fictious writings speak symbolically of the Truth, using one’s own imagination to comprise the message? In other words, what is the Truth? Sadly, it cannot be said. It can only be exemplified so we can see and understand it.
The road was hard, difficult to climb till my point of rest. Tired I felt in the mountains that afternoon and I felt the chill of the winter air trying to reach my insides. Wind wasn’t blowing much since I was still in the forest, at the shelter of the trees. The thing that I felt was the chill of the tireness of my body from all the physical effort. And so, I reached the opening in the mountains, the high fells and meadows. There were high and low clouds moving about. Some windy breeze was moving them here and there. The landscape was changing constantly every minute and every second.
A band of evergreen trees was standing there as if they were watching every tourist go by. Decades have passed and they are still there, a small patch literally apart from the forest. How they survived? I do not know. Another path, the hardest one, the most difficult passes by them and they are practically domiciled on a level curve.
The tableland formed there, some thousands, maybe tens of thousands of years ago, with the meadows and all, with the small creek running through the middle of it gave us a piece of paradise all year round. It doesn’t matter the season nor the weather caprices, its settlement onto the Earth is exquisite nonetheless. These mountains ooze mystery with every of their pieces des resistance, from small cracks and crevices to large tablelands, plateus and the high fells and ranges some thousands of metres above the sea level.
But the chilled air and the myst, due to the low clouds travelling through the woodlands, reveals majestic endurance of nature doing it onto itself: rain and wind, snow and ice, and the hot summer sunrays cast onto the lands. The spectacles of change.
Having reached the chalet I took down my heavy backpack and changed in more comfortable clothes, warm and all, after drying myself of all the sweat.
Then I went into the tables room, sat down on a bench and looked at the paintings and photographs on the wall. I’ve noticed how beautiful they were, depicting the landscape with the chalet as usual. I, then, remembered the very old landscape paintings by american artists two centuries ago and have noticed that they sometimes contained both the human element as well as the animal, plant and the land element. They are a balanced mixture between these and they seem to make the landscape picture complete. Take one element from these compositions and they become incomplete, as is logical. Our landscape pictures, especially those that I’ve seen on the walls of that chalet, contain only one or two of the said compositional elements and this is a shame. I love looking at those grand landscapes of North America, a continent very similar to Europe. It is larger, though, but majestic nevertheless. In fact, all landscape paintings in the world contain the said elements, are complete, and I wonder, due to this fact alone: why can’t landscape photographs be complete as such? Why can’t they have the human element as well and still be called landscape photographs? I wonder…
But what if the real landscape, what we see, what’s out there, in Nature, would be humanless? Would trees be still trees? Would grass, flowers..? Would mountains? Would the water of the creek running be heard? Would animals hear? Who would “paint the landscape”?
I cannot live without painting. I cannot live without photographing. I cannot live without sketching, nor without making music? To me is the Universe. To me is life.
I make life and life makes me…