Painting is the language of those who prefer signs and colors to the sterility of certain discourses. Perfect for the deaf and dumb and unknown to the gossips, painting is music for the eyes. Sometimes a song, sometimes it is rock. If jazz is sudden. In its more subtle nuances is a classical sonata.
I'm not a painter, but when I spend every last word and the bottom of the pockets are not that crumbs of syllables, is the color that I need, its natural melody and forms that come out of the shadows.
"His daughter will never learn to draw!" thundered my first teacher of the class. "Have you ever seen a left-handed painter?" Was raging. I'd never seen even a painter, I looked at my left hand and followed the lines of a life that was not all that thing there.
It 's a humid morning in Bologna. The town holds a summer and after the illusion of someone upstairs has already made the coffee warm.
are in an empty room, my future bedroom. A tiled floor looks old ceiling bare four long strides towards the sky. At that height would be a good decoration liberty, simple, floral, I think looking at it. I've already painted ceilings and a frieze of that type is not so difficult to achieve. But my imagination knows no censorship, and in light of a dark blue-stained clouds, I saw two winged cherubs who walked garlands of flowers and leaves intertwined.
"No, you can do it!" Warned a voice from within.
Why not? I ask naively.
"Why have you never painted a body." Retorted the voice.
The painting comes from the observation. I will be meticulous, I assure you.
"not enough to look, you need more experience." Insists arrogant.
I look at the ceiling. The image of little boys back to dominate the leaves laurel and geometric forms that redefine the space. I see them. Half-closed eyes, bodies and prosperous suspended.
I can not leave nothing.
Monto an old scaffolding. The shiny metal alternates dried drops of color elements.
On the wooden table there are three primary colors of powder and a bag of charcoal. A piece of fine sandpaper, jars of natural pigments, brushes, and a bowl of clean water.
I turn up the volume on the radio and I climb up to the last level.
The smell of the dough is colorful and an afternoon of games after trouble in a village school.
I look at my arm. The meat is not pink, I repeat myself. There's yellow, blue veins, the shadow of the folds of the skin. If I had not learned to see I never realized how white is on the wet leaves. I'd never see the shadow shapes. I never noticed that the sea at night can be yellow.
With all the jars are opened like a chef who mixes ingredients and produces attractive and poisonous creams that can not be sampled. The first color is ready. Too dark. Too pink. Too cold. Add a touch of yellow. The color is warm but it is still too heavy. Mingled with white. Add another shadow. Now it is gray. A bit of Magenta and solid returns to relive. Still too dark. Other white. Mingled with water. Too yellow. Cool blue with cyan. Too off. Spice up again with Magenta. Cookin 'raw with the yellow and put it out with the shadow. Last pinch of white: this is it!
Now I just need strength and a good dose of luck to guide me his hand. And if all goes well, soon I'll wake up looking at two little boys who dance, the color of my tan arm.
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