A VISUAL ART POET

Luís Soares' drawing, besides representative consensus or mimicked imperatives, seems to obey the impulse of the line based on the primitive principles of art in the childhood of the soul.

The appearance of reality and the portrayal of human forms matter far less than the lyrical madness through which we view them. Any child in his toy room masters curved geometries, episodic lines, schematic adventures. A child picks up a pencil like someone ready to change the world, yet he is oblivious to this. It is marvellous that the demented and children in the early dawn of commitment, bloom and kernel of innocent success, teach artists so much. What makes them different from Art is that they are part of an initial form of creative forces; while artists, and only artists, take this creative energy from nature to develop a new formal universe.

Is is not true that art reproduces what is visible. What really happens is that the artist produces the concept of visible. Luís Soares strives in the pleasure of discovering the image, the rapid face and a gesture of mankind which flows freely from vegetative circumstances, rapid development, and time.

Luís Soares displays the privilege of anarchy, of apparent and rational disorder, His lyrical power carries us to another dimension of things, another photography of faces. Rooted in the purest inner fervour, his style intimately restrained to a point, openly irradiates that white euphoria from his profound, perplexed outlook. Entranced by life, he explodes in lines. The lines of his drawings, adding cosmos, feeling and movement to the picture, explode in a luminous landscape, a meeting of suns and shadows in the unpretentious vortex of that simple domestic order our artists impose on the world. His toy room, recalled in the unforgettable style of his creative activities, takes up the throb of progressive stimulation. Out of an analogical earth it bursts into an explicate world, in magic disorder, in live and brief lines. He explains his art by producing it. Here we would like to equate his line in post-modernist works. Luís Soares, inventing the world, drawing, painting, sculpture, at the same time fulfils his obligation to define it. But he did not take us in. This is no more than music. Or the insinuation of existence. Given the disorder of what exists, and here Luís Soares is frankly post-modernist, there is no other solution but to take refuge in doubt, to set uncertainty to music. Those are his statutes, wisely incomplete, dispensing the ruins of the most recent Giacometi: lines of force reduced to their most intimate austerity, a slim image in opposition to the limit. A pure superfluity or excrescence of line.

Luís Soares, as Paul Klee and Wassily Kandisnsky have already said, now represents the equation of the static an the kinetic. The full use of the inner value of expression, the ordered indiscipline of the picture, the thick, movable shadow, to the eternity of sketches. All this and other innumerable arguments lead us to consider that the confusion of the appeased West in dubbed, that the elements of drawing are still in open crisis. The music goes on in different keys. That the line threatens to kill, not Gruber or Lorjou, but all those who have never loved disorder. Luís Soares now has in his hands, from one or another point of view, absolution or condemnation.