Art, from memories to fantasies

There was this little wooden house by the turquoise blue water of the Mediterranean sea. A big green tree burst from the ground and invaded the clean sky scratched by orange mountain tops. The sun caressed my wet skin as I got out of the water. The sand on my feet and the warm wind made me bliss and I decided to go inside. As I opened the door of that small abandoned house the sun invaded an enourmous one division house with nothing inside except a few frames on the wall, some paintings... a dozen works of art I had bought some years before. I remember the light crossing from the door to the Song of the Lark (left) standing in the corner and the shadow dividing the Lorrain (right) in a diagonal. There I was, at home. Art as home.

But let's destroy this clean image of art. As an educated man I developed this sense of art, a taught taste that gives me pleasure. Mozart, Rimbaud and Pousao (portuguese painter), random young men, authors of objects that give me pleasure. No utility, no purpose, no meaning in the works themselves. Men producing objects of pleasure for other men to use.

I think I have more than 2 years "on the road" now (I started blogging a bit late, 2007, while the road started, if a point is needed, on March 11st 2002, Porto-Nice). Six month of life on the road is equivalent to 10 years of life in the office or lab. With such a long road driven, I feel I have memories the same size as an 80 years old man, and as an old man, there's not much difference between very old real memories and very recent fantasies.