“… Enter the kingdom of words as if you were deaf…”
My imagination floats through the words of the poet Drummond (Brazilian, 1902-1987), goes on a way it has never imagined, looks for a sense, sometimes in the contrast of black sumi with the white rice, sometimes in the pink cherry, sweet like the red of its fruits but soft as its flowers. Shy in the profusion of the gold, noble and untouchable gold, symbol of Buddhism and Oriental aesthetic concepts.
My words go through the words of the poet, but I find their forms and colors in the Japanese Gardens of the Meiji Period (1868-1912). Between thousands of words, organics and botanicals shapes, sometimes amorphous, spread and metamorphose…
They don’t belong to the poet anymore, the hybrid words are mine, only mine, and become the place of someone; of the spectator, who in the game of understanding participates in my game of words. He plays the game of the painted word; “…A text is not a text unless it hides from the first comer, from the first glance, the law of its composition and the rules of its game…” (Jacques Derrida, Plato’s Pharmacy)