When I was invited to see Layon’s work, I was surprised to find the end result preseted to me. I breach the act of thinking linked to the superation of an artist who, with simple gestures, turns stems into brushes; petals into different shapes; variety into the scent of perfume, reflecting the soul of the artist, which becomes apparent in the glow, the tone, the color.
The work unveiled once more transcends all form of expression, of conception, and the master, free from vanity, in the essence of humility, draws from the soul the fullness of spring, the softness of autumn, the search for a dream, and generously gifts us a flower bouquet. The poet’s poetry becomes apparent, the symphony of music.
Flowers come to life and spread their scent. I wonder if they go beyond my sight or provoke in my transcendence of what I see, and I travel to the incomparable garden which blends everything from wildflowers to many, enchanting varieties.
The colors are shown in the paiting: in the mist of dawn, the colors of harmony that brighten the day’s birth; in the intense heat of a sunny afternoon, the colors are warmed by strength and boldness and emanate energy; in the evening, the colors of the stilness of being, of fullness, of the softness of rest; in the shade and light of night, the search for dreams and the melding of the colors of the flowers, which are stars and shine in infinity.
The artist’s understanding in offering paintings portraying flowers in simple or flawless vases, rare or contemporary jars, different baskets, simple supports, much like the flowers that grace different landscapes, meets the yearning screaming in the hearts of men and blossoming in sensitivity and in the desire for the country to reveal to those who dream of a better world the answer to the soul’s desire.
Few men have Layon’s sensitivity. Creating a delicate work of art of infinite beauty capable of emanating the perfume of the delice, colorful flowers mixed with the colors.
When looking at each picture, I’m ever more confused as to whether the answers I see in the painting relate to the sweetness and magic that is given to us.
I open drawers containing the ideas men dream of having, which give life to a profect that brings to the spirit once again hope for a better world: without antagony, fighting for power and for consumerism.
I take from this drawer the seeds the artist kept so well. He sowed them in the paintings with many colors and glows, with strokes that converge or diverge, that mark, that limit or spread, timidly or boldly.
What is left of the seeds, when the wind blows, will spread and fall over the mountains and on the hearts of men, and the flowers will be offerend in abundance, without borders.
I seek Layon and find him alongside men who dreamt of a fairer, less violent country. The dreams of these men mix and become one: they strive for the flowers to divide backyards, to decorate balconies, to grace windows. Simple and present, may they set the boundaries for gardens, spaces, cities, may they flow over mountains and across borders.
The garden above Baroque swirls: violets, lillies, dahlias, jasmines, sunflowers, roses, tailflowers, daisies, begonias, houseleeks, and so many more that may watch our children with flags and kites in the wind run freely as well as the elrderly rest in their chairs near leafy bushes.
And the will of Layon and many others, just as mine, remain: that the flowers be the bringers of peace. That the act of coming and going be limited by living fences, such as bouganvillea, camellias, azaleas, nightshades.
In the end, I find the answer to my questions. It is in the house of Elias, in his own garden, a have for Conceição, Angélica, and Aline, godsent, diligent sources of inspiration. Shapes are found and shine through. Conceição, his companion, of sublime beauty, sweet and strong, a significant presence of an incomparable orchid. Angélica and Aline, singular beauties, distinguished in the vivacity of youth offer, much like the roses, soft perfumes and light to the environments.
In face of such beauty, I have no reason to distance the flowers of Layon’s work. They all complete each other. And the garden will be one, much like the dream of those who do not give up and believe that flowers can be planted for a better Brazil.
Finally, taken by unbridled scent and joy, I see in the horizon the promise of inspiration and motivation for, once again, Layon, in his peculiar generosity, to offer us other works or at, which will certainly surprise and delight us.