My name was Amleta, I was an artist. I remember few things from that period now. I was in London, I was always away from home, I was in love with art, I was happy, I liked everything. It was a magical city, it was beautiful to see strange dressed people and clubs full of music and artists and everywhere there was beauty and inspiration. I felt satisfied. I felt like myself. It could never be like this again in all my other life. I was 19 and living with a friend of mine. I drank tea every day, ate tofu, bean sprouts, carrots, honey, pizza. I went to the Hare krishna and danced and I was happy and I felt at peace with myself. It was nice to make plans and have so many dreams. It was really nice. I had fun, I went to parties, I had a lot of friends and a job and a great career. Now all dreams are over. Now life has taken everything away. We enthuse, vitality, inspiration, art. Art is dwindling. I feel drained. I made some wax sculptures but nobody cares. Maybe I'll put them here, but I don't know. I have to take pictures, rediscover the desire to photograph some of my things.Sometimes I find it strange to tell my life. It's like I've had two different lives. One life before and one now. It seems to me like I was two different people. Now that girl from before, the artist Hamlet, the black lady, the creative soul, have all disappeared. Who have I become?
I know how important presence is. To be there, what a beautiful word. Beyond distances, time and logic, we are able to carry within us even those we can no longer have close to us, and this strange measure of things betrays the embarrassment that certain distances have, when they forget the infinite importance of memory. . Memory is stubborn and when it takes it into her head to save a memory, it saves it. And he knows how to defend it and he knows how to protect it. For example, I only think of you twice a day. When I’m alone and when I’m with someone else. You are ubiquitous in me. Even now that you are not there and I am writing to you without you knowing. Perhaps, if I had told you, you would have understood that everything I want for me I want for you too and that even if it is often not right, it is always for a good purpose. Of everything I like, I’ve always taken two, one for me and one for you.Sometimes you meet a person who is not meant for you but you keep bumping into that wall. I am tired of apparent solutions. About my stubborn feelings and all the times when reading a message or waiting for it I thought “Maybe I’m the problem”. In the end, I admit, you were right. You were right when you said I was too impatient. Impatient were my feet, my hands. But the heart no, he knew how to wait, to wait for you. And if I think about you, it’s because my organism after a while I’m away needs to think about the things that make it feel alive. I had the words impatient that they could not shut up when they wanted to be right. I had to stop contradicting you when you said you weren’t the right person for me. You were the right person to understand that decisions made when excited then make you feel damn stupid when exhausted. Now I don’t want to be too happy because of you. I always run away and I never have time to get attached “.
Art is his need. An instinctive need to create. An instinctive need to be and communicate one’s being to others. Affirming its existence with the creative act is the only way for Amleta to live. Feeling such a force within oneself, an energy, an immense explosion, a storm that never settles down. A sea that is always stormy to its depths. Being a river in flood, dangerous for others, not accustomed to strong liquid currents, but a natural and splendid element for her. Art is its power. The power to create from nothing. To give life to what has never existed, which has never been seen, which has never been read. A sublime, divine, most envied power. Art feeds on souls. Art is insatiable, it is its fierce demon, and it has walked this path all its life looking for an escape. But you never get rid of art because only art makes it free and alive. It is like a second skin and if you take it off you become skinned and you cannot live anymore. Amleta has art in every cell, like a deadly virus, which never becomes a disease but which accompanies it throughout its life as a faithful travel companion. Art grinds the flesh, the spirit, the whole life. He raises it in the highest sky, being able to see without eyes, hear without ears, draw without using his fingers; and then makes it descend into the most terrible depths of the human abyss. Art is a miracle of life and death. Whoever possesses the gift is condemned to a parallel life. Amleta goes in and out as if from a window. She enters and exits herself, feeds herself to the pigs, gives her vital breath, remains in pieces and then begins again. Who would ever want such a life? Yet many envy it and do not know what it means to have the fire of inspiration that consumes! Art is its condemnation. She didn’t choose to start drawing, then painting, writing and playing at the same time. A dark force took his hands, and guided his dark energy. He was thus able to empty the pain he felt while living and to enclose it within his creations. Nothing remains of that period: everything burned. Unfortunately, something was saved from his subsequent dark periods, still not gone and up in smoke. Hamlet was born on a cursed island, in a sick country, and soon she got rid of her life and the pain took her far away, where she continued to suffer and create, create and destroy, herself, paintings, installations, plays, notebooks, sculptures, … Amleta creates and destroys what he creates. Hamlet is and is not at the same time. He yearns for this perennial creation and has tried several times to free himself from his prison without success. This gift, this power, this torment of colors and words, is the nectar of his days. Everything else is just a bitter side dish.
I’ve received the first mail from feminist editors.
If any of you know a best feminist editor in US or CANADA or somewhere else, please tell me. I need your help.
I’m searching for a new publisher 😊
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 