"We can not always look to the tops, no matter what the lure of whiteness, we can not always take care of the spectacle of human misery devouring itself, irrespective of the fact that it entails. There is a limit to our ability to rise, there is a limit to our resistance to the unclean. We are in the middle, and life itself, in its innermost nature, is the granting of a fair measure of power that quietly keeps the heart. If it beats just a little faster, indicating a forward madness and nothing, if it beats too slow all too dramatic. Measure, moderation, duration. All you want to live and survive must become far, you must purchase a style. This is obtained by force that gives rise to the quiet, overlooking quiet through situations. So quiet is the only victory. And the permanence of the victory is on.
Tree leaf, stone, snowflake, lizard, each has his own style and a long history. I have many memories, says the thing, then "I have style."
We can not always look for the peaks, after all, are nothing but a graveyard, and it ends up being as sterile as they are. We can not see how life always eats itself, there also attracts the abyss the abyss, and we run the risk of finding something voluptuous in fact be swallowed. There is a fascination in the cliffs, which paralyzes all resistance and communicates a kind of lazy need to be swallowed.
Therefore, we have something to save: our attention. That attention makes us see the peaks and yet not fall into the trap of those cliffs invested. That attention makes us look at life but left greedy swallowing. This care who wants to live on her own and that having to be saved, our salvation. This care who wants to go freely from top to bottom, left to right, and you want to sing freely. As is characteristic of the man sing what he sees and feels watching. And the song is a composite of style and cry, is modulation and expression.
Everything is style in nature, and on the basis of any style is a long history and will be long. But the human spirit is style and cry, because the man's style nase is the feeling, that means overcoming the natural nature (created) by human nature (creative). What signa man, then, be stylish and cry, the ability to reason and unreason and reasoning ability on the same injustice. Submitting unreason to reason conquering and to some extent, subjecting reason to unreason assumed.
Ah, that do not support even a little crazy for me!, Said the Apostle, and you do.
You do, and what do they see us? Paintings are wild cries, as no the animal never uttered, screaming in color and never allowed to listen to any punishment, the most enormous blasphemy and totally naked, the cruelties of our soul, as any inquisitor ever found in the brain of ice. We are monsters and we adore him as such. We have decreed that this openness, this violence will be the only beauty. Decree that is a true human beauty, as it is in the nature of strange plumage of certain birds, bright petals of certain flowers, carnivorous or not. Unless you prefer to see there the similarity of such eruptions, such festering wound that elsewhere would be stinking. "
"2", "Thirty-one reflections on a topic." In: style and cry. Fourteen essays on the art of this century , Michel Seuphor (Monte Avila, 1970).
Berckelaers Fernand Louis was born in Antwerp, Belgium, in 1901, under the sign of Pisces. She adopted the pseudonym Michel Seuphor (the name is an anagram of Orpheus, Orpheus). He was a painter, cartoonist, poet, novelist and designer rugs. In 1926 he invented the word music. " A pioneer in abstract art criticism in the late forties of the twentieth century, died in Paris in 1999. 
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