I once read that every thing and every one is essentially perfect. We are exactly how we were always meant to be, “perfect” only because our imperfections define us as so. Literally and figuratively, where we stand now is a product of what we have done to bring ourselves here. What is and what will be seen by our eyes and our eyes only exists for our viewing. Why we are attracted to certain things and not others is beyond our control, but falls under the same obvious circumstances.
I find myself fascinated with the persistent aesthetic of life: The personalities that both drain and invigorate one another, the hues which can amplify and dull the entirety of a moment, the creators versus the passivists, the unidentified gray area, and all of the tokens along the way. Brazilian artist Douglas Carlos wondered too about the furious life, craving its innumerable imperfections.
This became a recurring subject matter, an infatuation with the impure and even the ugly. Empty pages of an empty notebook flooded with sketches of emaciated figures, some gender unidentifiable and more deemed sexuality questionable. Over to the pile of underexposed photos that lay strewn out across a concrete ground, the piecing together of some kind of dirty block party. A communing of half smiling faces under an overcast sky, dancing in the thick of a technicolor wave. It may not be “pretty,” but oh is it perfect. Save these ones for the scrapbooks, because this kind of beauty is rare.
Spy by trade+ black sheep by society+ artist by self-definition: Douglas Carlos=“Perfect.” Wherever he came from and wherever he will go planted him wherever he is behind whichever odd pair of glasses cloak his eerie eyes. If no one else could see, he could: The spectrum of beauty ostracizes none. Let the technicolor flow and keep the block party dirty, because Douglas Carlos wants to keep dancing.