Personally, I like the perfect shapes, I like everything to shine, I like the colour explosion. And yet, on a trip to the Garbage Dump next to Bucharest, I took much more photos than if I would have had I stopped in the "Museum of perfect shapes". That is because the perfection I admire, I try to build, while the rest remains full of a poetry I notice only when I see.
It looks like the apparent accessibility of new, associated with the image of perfection, makes us bored with beauty. So we started searching for beauty in the abnormal, in all that is deviated and in everything that doesn’t fit our rules. It’s fascinating to us this aesthetic of ugliness. And that extends to everything that surrounds us. If so far we’ve been appreciating the perfection of the shirt of the man we were listening to, today it seems to become memorable the bad tooth of our speaker or the element that takes him out of the crowd.
And everything seems to be taken beyond our control: we have a fascination towards the macabre subjects, a sick interest towards the decomposing and the imperfection of the human being.
I wonder if this betrays an uncertainty of ourselves that we are trying to discover in the imposed models?
And even weirder it seems that we start to see even in commercials, that advertising material that entices us to buy “the new”, “the magic”, “the perfect”, a world that no longer represents the aspirational model, but somehow returns to the reality we are embracing. And this in a moment which, theoretically means our world is rising from the economical crises so spoken of. It looks like we gave up searching for this "beautiful". It looks like we are bored with "perfection".
And yet our world is full of aestheticians, of people who “beautify” us and our world accepts so easily the modified models to fit the aesthetic norms. But the fascinations for ugly remains clearly bigger than our behavioural decisions.
In a world that becomes more perfect every day, we start to love more the simplicity and the story beyond the paint. It’s so strange our world and the perfection we are beginning to stop appreciating and to search again for the “fleur du mal”.