A few days ago I saw Erik Erikson's stages of life development. By the end of life, we are faced with the contradiction between the perfection of the personality and the despair. This set of opposing relationships seems to be the two poles that an individual can bear in the development of life, two poles that are almost humorous and unattainable. It is not that absolute perfection or absolute despair has never been reached, but that they simply transcend the cycle of human life development.
As if suddenly life could be measured by a single dose of prescription medicine. The cascading pain is always methodically narrating the decay of the body, and with its rhythm Salvador rises and falls like an empty bottle in the slanting shadow. Silent sunset swept across his neat room, a collector's room, a hoarder's room. This may be the dirt that cannot be removed in the process of aging, which is plated with the hard shell of history like enamel. The unit of home is a visual summary of personal accumulation: the conversion of wealth, the collection of tastes, the accumulation of knowledge, the display of honor, and the nest of love. While Salvador and this space are at the core of each other, the fetish-like display visually retells abstract concepts, and the certainty of this medium leads to a certain inversion of the inside and the outside, and private history constantly interrogates all its the subjectivity of the person. As the limited space tends to be saturated in the continuous accumulation, the individual is also unconsciously considering its integrity. However, "wholeness" as a one-way measuring stick is a false proposition of "perfection", and perfection of personality indirectly announces the death of the individual.
So there is no ultimate reconciliation or reckoning in Salvador's story, he perpetuates a very immediate desire in the process of looking back, creation, lust, and even life itself. Pain overlaps with time, and every blow is now.
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