Life. Light. Colors. Mixture. The Indefinied. Monet.
Spring, round, soft, harmonious.
In Monet’s paintings we feel a sense of interior peace, calm, the beauty of a life and a nature in balance with everything, of a humanity included in the Whole.
In hazy outlines, every thing belongs to the other. The sky, the leaves, flowers, grass, trees, the two human figures interpenetrate, as part of a unique, great significance, principle. Maybe that’s why, looking at a Monet’s work and observing his style, we feel this sweet and delicate sense of belonging that should instinctively and constantly resonate in each of our thoughts, feelings, acts.
We are part of the landscape, and the landscape is part of us.
It is comfortable to know. Knowing that every cloud, every blade of grass, every blossom, tells a story that is also a little bit ours.
While Winter leaves us the time to think, reflect and meditate, Spring honors us with time to nourish life, to love and embrace. A rhythm, a music that spreads silently, awakening, for each note, even the most microscopic life forms, that every year find themselves discovering, with the same ardour, the wonderful solemnity of rebirth. A rebirth as a willful act of love, that repopulates the world with awareness, wise beauty, majesty, elegance and harmony. The sense of urgent need and continuity of existance, the result of that as intimate as lonely, winter reflection, that wrapped in itself in the peace of meditation, preludes to the outburst of being, to the creation of light.
Life never stops being such, at every spring stroke choses to bloom again, paint, to smell of rebirth, careless of darkness, even when it comes closer. Like Van Gogh painted light to love every single moment of this life he couldn’t seize in himself, Monet brushed the canvas of his existance with harmony and reassuring peace.
In ourselves too is enclosed this instinct, primitive and clever, to life, to color and to light. A seed, that even without water, without nourishment, grows unpretentious except the one of being, simply and candidly, to be able to give itself, to grant in every shade and nuance, both bright or pale, soft, vibrant or collected, intimate. Even when, without light, the deepest black dominates over everything, decreeing a fears spectral dark, the seed tirelessly grows, in the knowledge of an intense rebirth, steeped in color and substance. A bud wants to rise, a blossom choses to open, nature, the engine that moves and pushes life, never falls in renunciation, although ingesting dark and despite the thickest and densest black of its worst days.
Life is simple, simply exists, gives and devotes itself. To us the duty to receive it, so that it dissipates every cloud, punctuating the borders of our soul with shades of light, renewing the faded colors, damped, mixing and dissolving their borders until making them almost non-existent, useless. As if it to say that our seed is the same of a rose, of a sunbeam, of a seagull’s wings. Everything belongs to each other, everything is spring, everything is Monet.