par Magdalena Benavente
What is hidden must never be touched by the sun’s fire, by the day’s ray pierced by orange trees. To conceal something there is the night with its ashen light and the gray mantle of eclipses. Indeterminate language of the swamp, when scars emerge from their leather cases to breathe, softened in the depths of the stars. Hidden from external images, from the crude imitation of a given archetype, we lower our shields upon the skin of the night, until we are naked; yet no one escapes so easily from the forms they consider their prison in this world, and which, in the daily routine, unfold at the heart of our days. The meaninglessness of life is reversed by the darkness of the night, where all wounds dance beautifully.
Peinure du haut, Shyness. Ci-dessous, Beings of the moon ©Magdalena Benavente
