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Real art is not an innovation race, nor an eccentricity show and being so it is not something built by self will. Real art is some kind of cry which springs by itself spontaneously from the depths of being, finding a way to come out by an existential crack in the wall of life, appeared from a marginal suffering of the feel of separateness and inability. It can be said that it is an ecstatic formation born not from an individual but from fate itself. In this case man is only a channel used by the mysterious and indescribable workings of this cosmic holy fool, fate, or, if you prefer so, divine wisdom and providence.
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The life of the authentic artist is consumed totally from a divine illness which gives him no chance of selecting another kind of life, except this somehow anchoritic (even if he lives in the midst of a superbly urbanized social environment), revelationary one.
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Therefore the real artist is a seer and a hierophant who having no will of himself begets icons which suggest the freedom of the all pervading divine wisdom. Icons that once revealed under his hands even himself becomes dazzled and wonders before the sight of them.
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Hence the reason that real art is so obsessive, even if sometimes feels as disturbing. To experience a suggestion of divine freedom can not be less than a most serious burden, a saving obsession that every human being consciously or unconsciously yearns for.
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