Unspoken moans need to be guarded. It serves to resume singing, in the mystery of these months where it seems that the charm of sensitivity wants to fade away. Art needs the courageous echo of those who believe even though they do not see, and we have illustrious examples of this, including biblical examples; this is what art invokes: the propagation of beauty through the treasure chest of the soul of those who produce it.

It is the revelatory sign of the unexpressed, it is the cry of the needy man that opens the scar of the frozen heart. It is that emotion of a miracle wind, which from the primordial groaning looks upwards, not to smell a chimney but to place itself elsewhere, where the view enjoys the brotherly landscapes of our lives, but with a golden halo, which, like an angelic apparition, fills our dark area with consolation and trust. Art has always needed artists, not those by invitation or the latest post. It is perhaps an overused term to describe those who produce things that believe they satisfy our hunger for the different.

Being an artist is a gift that is celebrated every time a dreary figuration becomes a sprout of novelty, even spiritual, because it satisfies that friendly side that sculpts our satisfaction.

It does not care about the exercise but through the conscious soul it overcomes the death of the everyday ego to transfigure itself into an ampoule full of “holy” sensations and vocated to the Infinite. Proceeding in the direction ploughed by art does not mean not looking back, but through the real past, healing the moments and living that possibility that cancels us out of this present-day spirit of “all the same”.

Yes, we are not all the same and I don’t want to be in this uncomfortably comfortable box. There is a need for decisions today, for reflections free of rhetorical and terrible fringes, to rediscover through the paths of artists that verbal “sublime” sometimes without words and which pursues a simple battle against schematism. To recognise oneself as sovereign in search of the “Hopeful” is the real weapon in this narration of life, to be moved because alive is the real victory and nourishment, it is the eternal sensation that explodes in contemplation, it is the sound of the particular, it is the need for revelation.

And if all this means believing, then I believe.