“La bellezza è la somma delle parti per cui niente necessita di essere modificato,aggiunto o rimosso."
"Beauty is a summation of the parts working together in such a way that nothing is needed to be added, taken away or altered." Italian Impressionist Painter, Elio Carletti (1925-1980)
I first heard this phrase spoken in English by the character Cris Johnson in the American movie Next (played and produced by Nicholas Cage).
For years I struggled to beckon my thoughts to define beauty in such a perfectly exact, easily poised and brilliantly minimal sequence of words. I always fell long. Simplicity has proven a most formidable mountain to conquer and this is precisely why we can rant forever over the triviality of life and time but yield in saintly silence to the innocent laugh of a child or the mystifying summons in the eyes of a strange woman.
I sit on a solitary rock by my sea and gaze at the setting sun dissolving in the quenching quiver of the horizon. I comb my hair back with the tips of my fingers and roll my head toward the sky where flocks of hovering kites flutter their rainbow tails in the unseen salty draughts. Tethered to the hands of playful boys and girls, the kites sway enticingly with the wind. With their free hands the kids hold ice-cream cones and popcorn bags. Their blue jeans and colorful t-shirts soiled with dirt and chocolate, they laugh out loud in stubborn defiance to worried mothers, in blissful ignorance of things to come.
I am in love with beauty and I feel embittered that I can depict my feelings toward the generality or peculiarity of being with ease yet remain eluded by the most splendid manifestation of the universe. I flatter myself when I write about women as I definitely am not divine enough to add, take away or alter what they are. Women are such a perfect expression of substance, form and incongruity whether through creation or evolution. They are fragile, ferocious, intelligent, gorgeous, wicked, quixotic, sensible, giving and sparing at the same time. A man like that, even in the eye of a woman, is a deranged psychopath. I love that women surprise me with their predictability and hold me at bay while obliging my vanity.
I follow a creek upstream. The chirps of a lonely chukar partridge summoning his harem echo against the sides of the gorge. I step on a broken twig; the bird clears its throat and quiets down. Two surprised figures emerge from the thickets by the spring. The two young lovers might have been taking their eternal and private vows when I intruded. They shyly cross my path and I barely have time to detect the glistening reflection of the dusky sky running down their guiltless eyes. They hug again at a distance then fade in the dark and rife foliage.
The longer I write the more likely I am going to add to, take away from or alter what is simply beautiful. Hush!