When a man loses the woman who used to own his heart, he shuts down the window onto his soul, truly convinced never to see the sun again. Forever embodying her touch and strength, her lips, her hair. Blows the wind of memories frozen among tears and flesh’s souvenirs.
A secret door half open. A carnal invitation to tenderness and passion. A bouquet of strokes flying above the skin, reminiscing incandescent love, one from a mother to her child. Reassuring and soft, however filling you with strength to keep the flame burning. The romance about it comes from its ephemerality; passed the intimate sphere and its embrace evaporates with memories soon to be written. A drop suffices a complete universe; the portrait of one soul, a heart cherished by your mind and flesh. It takes labour, hours of marriage and divorce to live. The world in a bottle. Exoticism on one’s neck, one’s wrinkle, one’s breast. Embodying sensuality – forever deprived from any materiality – it follows you, carried away by air.
From the flapping of a sleeve to the flicking of hair, it does not leave a trace. Linked to a sound, a view, a touch, a taste, it hypnotises senses, allowing the imagination to wander and eroticise body’s places never thought about as such. Driving to obsession, how to preserve it forever? To keep it eternally? Money can buy it but never endorse its power; money unveils a shape that pre-exists rather than creating it.
The girl. The lover. She takes off her dress, removes her makeup; he is there. Her skin. His touch. She appears naked, denuded of all artifices. Remains her voice and something else, something that manipulates a sense, that whispers through ears and breath; something that hypnotises for a lifetime. It marks the brain, digs under the flesh, and scratches to the bone. Nobody needs it new, but it keeps multiplying, shouting on the streets, in bars, boudoirs and bathrooms. Stronger than money, it buys sensuality on the run, drawing its cosmology, intoxicating emotions, embalming connections. Words keep missing to describe it, the fluency does not develop naturally, but still nourish the language of imagination.
Stairway to the earthy heaven, it ascends like encens on smoke, bringing consideration and love, as soon as death passes by. Triangle anchors its favourite shape: two souls and above, evoking a state of Grace. Its modern twist gets resumed to a liquid entity, attached to the thing, which never actually is; the version of things always it depicts.
Emphatically calling for attention, telling stories of unrecognised horizons, it is his and hers, abstractly painting the beautiful and forbidden. Carrying with it an obsession of humanity in its most carnal shapes, it runs, runs, and assembles human invisible imprints. The impossible materialises, born from mutual attraction, attempting to appeal Love itself.
It brings humanity back to its vampiric instinct, avid of sucking every inch of souls wandering around; it is one thing to claim deserving this fluid of life, but this is another that of looking back at it. Gratefully. We cage the sparkle – how well we do! – leave it in boredom’s hands, reassured to be living a new renaissance. We love a cult, the one of perversity and artifice; convinced to establish a trans-era, indestructible. We are zombies of a creativity that failed, that somewhere crashed against the wall. The track towards some idealistic space got lost, as the concept follows the form. Or, the aesthetics sit on the former. Imagery seems to be preserving its veil, refusing to publicly abandon any clue. Can we still dance with scent though? Perfume, its modern term.