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Mirror, Mirror
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If two years feel like an eternity in these fast-paced times, what can be said about the millennia over which we continuously reflect on one another in search of a sense of belonging—or its opposite?
And if no one paints from scratch, as if the canvas were the world—fully pre-defined—but instead like a piece of clay waiting for each brush to decorate (or deform it, depending on the mirror), what drives an artist to literally paint “nothing” during those two years that feel like an eternity?
All questions to ask the mirror.
And while it's true that the material they're truly made of (people, not glass) is quite different in Lisbon, it's equally true that it was in Bonfim that an artist ventured into an artist's life with all its trappings, except for the art-making. From the bohemian lifestyle, anxiety, and restlessness that no mirror can hide, memories were born, whispers and perceptions more vivid than the artist himself, with reflections clearer than his own face, where the struggle to maintain an untainted vision of the world—of "being"—is the primary artwork of an artist who doesn't make art.
“Was it worth it?” the mirror may have asked.
Well… at least he's back to painting again.
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