of the imaginary side unreal ...
is the imagination but imaging? When I paint I think I cook, when I cook I think I paint,
when I write I think I glimpse from the void of nothingness
images suspended for poetry like a crystal pendant it were
... I do not know if I invoke the I or I it is as if the wreck
of my soul, I send a Ulysses lost in mental and poetic evocations
some new images of unexplored landscapes moon but alive,
transparencies, mysterious waters, golden, light or heavy
... visions of another shore, other sea ... another time and
place where the soul gravitates and lives.
Am platonic? Maybe I do not know, maybe like Platon looking those ideas
I find those images. Those images that speak to me and I will
not stop like a music, a symphony without a sound, like a
symphony of pure color and uninterrupted concerned.In my novel "Return to Ithaca after a millennium"
Tristan says that art is the only thing that transcends eternalizes
us, makes us co-creators ... and not only for him but also
for the runs that drinks it, it absorbs as a filter heady
mystical life ... that says Tristan who is a painter, a Ithaca
Odysseus where his heart is and I also want to express my
painting in the beating of my emotions.
Tristan says that for art escape death, and I say that we
travel to a fullness of consciousness, our consciousness above
... and there in that spirit Ithaca, no death, only beauty
that expands like the stars forever and inconceivable and
mysterious matter of the universe. Inma Rosillo-Daoiz.