CIELOS LÍQUIDOS
Empecé a escribir Cielos líquidos en 1995. Quise imponerme un modo distinto de ver; de mirar, de sentir lo poético. Me resultaba tan tedi...
POETRY
FOR AN ARS POETICA
The position of the artist, his scenic space (aesthetic), corresponds to his conception of the creative act. Me, in particular, I feel the uselessness of existence when I write because I know too well that, when literature begins, life ends. And, if I write, it is to flee from the place where I am. Our work, once published, or better, once we decide to stop reviewing it in order to correct it, generates its own theory and determines, whether we like it or not, our position before art. That jungle delirium that constitutes every artistic message and that made Baudelaire scream, in a terrifying and sublime way, Tout pour moi deviens allégorie, is what confirms the modernity of our creations.
My position in front of the poetic fact has been, ever since, that of an esthete that tends to create an ideal form of the self by the act of writing itself. Beautiful and inaccurate truth, lie or illusion, I do not feel otherwise the very objective of art, of the poetic.
I conceive artistic creation as a “perverse” game ―in its etymological meaning of “return” or “regression”, and of “deviation”― in whose artifice one seeks to recover that original phantasm of the enjoyment of the primordial fusion between the ideal and the Non-Self, identical to the fusion of the child with its progenitor in the intrauterine state.
I never worried about having an ars amandi; one loves, that is everything. And one writes, it is written. One writes to himself. My ars poetica is my ars vivendi. The art of living is, for me, the art of cultivating what is criticized of myself. My extremes, my insecurity, my infidelity to myself. For an art of confusion, confusion of others. It is the ars of an undisciplined person without convictions, because all discipline and all conviction age the form. It is the ars of an unrooted artist, always foreign like the clouds. Because the artist dies when he gets comfortable.
My ars poetica emerges from my work as the momentary response I give to myself, pointing to a reading proposal and then shooting elsewhere.
P.G., 1990
