I’m fascinated by the false existence of the horizon. We see it, we think it exists, but as we get closer to knowing it, it disappears, only to reappear in different shapes and colors. Its concept appears ephemeral, elusive, and spiteful.
We search in vain for a dream that can be achieved, a goal, a chimera, a hope; but when we think we’ve reached it, it slips away. And so we run, seeking courage, strength, and certainties, but it mocks us and applauds us sarcastically.
We experience the incessant and frantic search for the colors, lines, and atmospheres that envelop it, its constant mutability, the vain attempt to imprison it in a canvas.
Its reliability is comforting, as every day it dives eternally into the sea.
I’m fascinated by the mystery of the horizon, which nourishes the utopia of knowing what it is.