“Sovereignty of the void”
The happiest moments of a life are those that we live at once. They are the ones that light our chest as if it were a stained glass window.
There are even those that are monumental, so happy, that then our body becomes a great cathedral and we are filled with light like stained glass. Those moments are unrepeatable, unmistakable, they are called the firefly moments. Escape, sometimes you look, because you are too busy living your life, that of someone else you thought you were, and you do not pay attention to what is coming your way, you let it pass you by. Often the happiest moments in a life are brief. They last forty-five seconds, when you enter an infinite cube of light, in a museum, hand in hand with the woman you love and who loves you. They last as long as a man enters a woman, or as long as a kiss long like a tunnel.
Often the happiest moments in a life are then shared moments. It is a face that opens and illuminates you for life, you speak to it, you laugh, and it is always the same miracle, the same sun that gives you. Those moments, some of them may even be the happiest of your whole life, but for now you don’t know, you just live it, you will know it when you reach the end, and, within the memories, you discover it bright among all, like a pearl on the face of memory.
There are also happier moments that have to do, not so much with the other, a daughter, a beloved, a friend, but with the world, out there, that also offers you its face. Then you think of the low skies of the Castilian plateaus that you crossed at night, at dawn, or in full sun, that you traveled from end to end in midsummer, you think of the smooth belly of those blond fields that the sun hardly ruffled and that are still there as if they were a Van Gogh.
The measurements of time are all wrong, the years do not count for anything unless they are lived, if they are not full of days that illuminate. The seasons always return, like faithful dogs, and we insist on throwing the ball to them so that they can pick it up, as if life were a game, but life is serious. And so they come back, with the ball on their noses, because we don’t understand what they mean to us, paradise is not a place, it is the emotion of the place, of the face, of the moment, it is a Rothko that leaves you lying down, turned, re – Succitated, because there are works of art that kill you and instantly resuscitate you, take your life and make it stronger, more cardiac.
And then, yes, also, I think of the paradises that are sometimes works of art. I think of Diego Benéitez and his crushed fields, I think of the sovereignty of the emptiness that reigns in his works.
They are like walls, facades, awnings, on which the colors undulate and, in the middle, a dividing line, thin like the black pencil that the women sometimes pass over their lips, to highlight the horizon that crosses the entire canvas horizontally. as if it were a powder match. The look is elmechero, the cerilla, that will set fire to that horizon, where the grays, the blues, undulate as if the wind were passing its hand over them.
We all carry with us flashes of eternity, the happiest moments of our lives, they are the ones that tear you from life forever. Some rip your heart out, like love does, others rip your gaze out, like a work of art does. That is what Diego’s works do, they tear your gaze away, they make it grow like the high-ceilinged skies he paints. To be alive is to be immortal for a second: if you are fully in it, then not even death can beat you. That is what Diego’s canvases do, they make you immortal, the time your gaze lasts, a few seconds, a few minutes, a lifetime, every time you look at them. They make you climb several steps, and even make you reborn, the sun makes you dizzy, the wind turns you around, a caravan of clouds goes through the sky in search of a river, a pond, a swamp, something that turns off the thirst.
I imagine then other fields, made a few nerves, with crows flying overhead like fetuses of black truffles, I imagine then the gray meadows that burst, with their red eyes, the poppies, I imagine the valley sleeper waking up and discovering how beautiful the world is, when seeing go by, Above his head, a singing bird chasing the daylight. So I know that I can live like a bear, my face all smeared with honey, climb trees, fly like an eagle, art can do anything. Living is nothing more than looking at a painting that is filled with fields and horizons, but looking at it with the whole body and, then, remembering how happy you have been one day, in front of that painting, in front of that field, because in that moment, at that very moment, you were a thousand years old and then you were immortal again. The only thing in front of our eyes is life.
Every day we know that she does not last, even if everything lasts. But death does not alone have the privilege of eternity. That is why art matters: when you look at Diego’s skyline it is like stealing particles of light from time, on the horizon, look, how a lamp trembles, it is a house lost in the valley, which awaits him also the happiest moment of his life, a brushstroke that makes blackness and if it makes it exist in our gazes May she also make her immortal.
Calle San Antonio, 5
33201 – Gijón, Asturias