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.
A panic attack causes certain specific symptoms such as tachycardia and the feeling of having a heart attack, wheezing and cold sweats. When you try it for the first time and arrive in the emergency room, not knowing what is happening to you, doctors mislead the conversation by talking about stress as if the word panic were taboo. However, panic often comes with images, sometimes at the same time of the day and sometimes as a surprise. The attack of anguish is very different. It is as if a hole is opened in the diaphragm and this is about to absorb all the vital strenght. All you can do is lie down and wait for it to pass. There is no tachycardia and no images or sweats. Just the feeling that something inside you is about to be absorbed or poisoned. I describe this distinction because they are such profound personal experiences that after so many years I can distinguish them well. I have seen, reading many texts, that hardly anyone ever talks about images referring to states of anxiety. I do not know if research has been done in this regard but I have not found any feedback. Yet in me the attacks have always been preceded by images, blurred, but which were repeated every time.
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 