Beauty and injustice ...

                                              

Sometimes in the middle of a class while taking notes about the boring necessary formalities of a procedure I do wonder what if there was a way to make things easier by using mathematics as a form of interpretation of words into numbers? What if there is a possibilty to include some kind of an algorithm into common cases, that devores only time and budget of the middle class citizen ? Isn't the main purpose of science to make people's life easier ? And what is the purpose of beauty as another form of creation ?

Kandinsky surely made it happen in art, as Michel Henry stated in his book "Seeing the invisible" :If one reads Kandinsky’s theoretical works attentively, one notices that two terms continually arise which are ‘internal’ and ‘external’. 

 Every phenomenon can be experienced in two ways. These two ways are not random, but bound up with the phenomena—they are derived from the nature of the phenomena, from two characteristics of the same: External/Internal.

Some may say  law is only an external matter as it can only affects us from far away no matter how much we may  bothered by the scars of injustice because its source remains external from our physical integrity but what about its consequences ? What about what injustice does when it touched the soul ?

Kandinsky writes about the Old town saying : 

"Even in this picture, I was actually hunting for a particular hour, which always was and remains the most beautiful hour of the Moscow day. 

The sun is already getting low and has attained its full intensity which it has been seeking all day, for which it has striven all day. This image does not last long: a few minutes, and the sunlight grows red with effort, redder and redder, cold at first, and then increasing in warmth.

 The sun dissolves the whole of Moscow into a single spot, which, like a wild tuba, sets all one’s soul vibrating. No, this red fusion is not the most beautiful hour! It is only the final chord of the symphony, which brings every colour vividly to life, which allows and forces the whole of Moscow to resound like the  of a giant orchestra. Pink, lilac, yellow, white, blue, pistachio green, flame red houses, churches, each an independent song—the garish green of the grass, the deeper tremolo of the trees, the singing snow with its thousand voices,or the allegretto of the bare branches, the red, stiff, silent ring of the Kremlin walls, and above, towering over everything, like a shout of triumph, like a self-oblivious  hallelujah, the long, white, graceful, serious line of the Bell Tower of Ivan the Great. And upon its tall, tense neck, stretched up towards heaven in eternal yearning, the golden head of the cupola, which among the golden and coloured stars of the other cupolas, is Moscow’s sun.

 To paint this hour, I thought, must be for an artist the most impossible, the greatest joy. These impressions were repeated on each sunny day. They were a delight that shook me to the depths of my soul, that raised me to ecstasy’"