L’Apple Du Vide
«Do you remember? The body in the water. The only sound that was silence. Floating. Then, arriving at the dryness of time. Waiting for the sky and the cliff, the music of the hours and those blues, those purples, the yellows of the sun and the fields. Come.
To look at the sea is to understand without words. The waters embrace.
Boys play on the rocks. One turns away from the group and looks towards the horizon, with a gesture as old as the squawking of the seagulls. His eyes sparkle with the desire of one who has heard the songs of no return. He raises his arms, clasps his hands together, bends his knees and propels himself. He is still in the air.
To write, to paint, to listen – to want the voices to enter and flood us with their song, to respond to them with the body. To go.
To live is an excess, a plunge. The horizon promises feet like wings, like fins, come.
The stones and trees contemplate your leap, they leave their greys and greens in your hands, they listen with you, they jump with you.
Writing, painting, listening, being reckless.
A painter is a swimmer approaching the water. He has not yet arrived, but he brings the brush closer.»
Esther Zarraluki
