c h a o t i c . s y m p h o n y

“… after he reached the age of fifty, Velaquez no longer painted anything concrete and precise. He drifted through the material world, penetrating it, as the air and the dusk. In the shimmering of the shadows, he caught unawares the nuances of colour which he transformed into the invisible heart of his symphony of silence…His only experience of the world was those mysterious copulations which united the forms and tones with a secret, but inevitable movement, which no convulsion or cataclysm could ever interrupt or impede. Space reigned supreme…It was as if some tenuous radiation gliding over the surfaces, imbued itself of their visible emanations, modeling them and endowing them with form, carrying elsewhere a perfume, like an echo, which would thus be dispersed like an imponderable dusk, over all surrounding planes …”

– Ferdinand Griffon (Jean-Paul Belmondo), Pierrot le fou

l e . m y t h e . d e . s i s y p h e

“If this myth is tragic, that is because its hero is conscious. Where would his torture be, indeed, if at every step the hope of succeeding upheld him? The workman of today works everyday in his life at the same tasks, and his fate is no less absurd. But it is tragic only at the rare moments when it becomes conscious.

Sisyphus, proletarian of the gods, powerless and rebellious, knows the whole extent of his wretched condition: it is what he thinks of during his descent. The lucidity that was to constitute his torture at the same time crowns his victory. There is no fate that can not be surmounted by scorn.”

– Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus