La mariposa sabia
Una mariposa regresó para redescubrir el proceso de su metamorfosis, lo había olvidado porque las flores la atormentaban diciéndole que pronto tendría que dejarlas para darle paso a otra mariposa.
Regresó, y mientras observaba las partículas que afloran en el cuerpo de la oruga, se dio cuenta de que, hasta que no empiezan a combinarse y a interactuar entre sí, no se fortalecen, no pueden reemplazar las células que terminarán convirtiéndolas en mariposa. Estaba entregada a ese revivir cuando una segunda mariposa, la increpó:
—Somos arte, belleza, nacimos para deslumbrar. ¿No te basta con saber eso?
—No creo que seamos arte solo por ser hermosas; la belleza física es un adorno, un vestido del alma; el arte está en la combinación de aquello que nos hace interactuar con nosotras mismas, con los demás, con las cosas, con los lugares; el arte es la obra, pero también las formas de llegar a esta, a ese producto acabado, el arte es un instrumento.
—¿Dices que el arte es un instrumento? ¿Como un martillo?
—El martillo es el instrumento genial para enterrar al clavo en el mundo de la madera; su función es grande puesto que facilita ciertas tareas; y su uso, combinado con el de otros instrumentos, permiten la construcción de algo nuevo.
—Eres una mariposa extraña. Qué bueno que no todas son como tú.
—También me alegro de que todas no seamos como tú.
Cuando volvió a sus parajes, las flores no estaban interesadas en escuchar lo que había descubierto porque la segunda mariposa había dicho que la primera dijo que toda la belleza era como un martillo, que solo servía para enterrar lo que mirara.
La mariposa tampoco quería hablarles, su interés estaba en la meditación; pensaba, mientras se posaba de flor en flor, en cómo aprovechar las interacciones para que el arte se manifestara a través de ella; esa idea le martillaba sus otra ideas; mientras, a su alrededor, las demás vegetaban en sus propios mundos vegetales.
The wise butterfly
A butterfly returned to rediscover the process of its metamorphosis, she had forgotten it because the flowers tormented her, telling her that soon she would have to leave them to make way for another butterfly.
She returned, and while observing the particles that emerge in the caterpillar's body, she realized that, until they begin to combine and interact with each other, they do not get stronger, they cannot replace the cells that will end up turning them into a butterfly. She was engaged in this revival when a second butterfly rebuked her:
-We are art, beauty, we were born to dazzle. Isn't it enough for you to know that?
-I don't think we are art just because we are beautiful; physical beauty is an ornament, a dress for the soul; art is in the combination of that which makes us interact with ourselves, with others, with things, with places; art is the work, but also the ways to get to it, to that finished product, art is an instrument.
-You say that art is an instrument? Like a hammer?
-The hammer is the brilliant instrument to bury the nail in the world of wood; its function is great since it facilitates certain tasks; and its use, combined with that of other instruments, allows the construction of something new.
-You are a strange butterfly. I'm glad they're not all like you.
-I'm also glad we're not all like you.
When she returned to her place, the flowers were not interested in hearing what she had discovered because the second butterfly had said that the first one said that all beauty was like a hammer, that it only served to bury what it looked at.
The butterfly did not want to talk to them either, her interest was in meditation; she thought, as she perched from flower to flower, of how to take advantage of the interactions so that art could manifest itself through her; that idea hammered her other ideas; while, all around her, the others vegetated in their own plant worlds.
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Una interesante analogía con la oruga como metáfora del arte.
@tipu curate 6
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