of that invisible that feeds view. A temporary revelation, not a response, but a declination on the question. The South Korean philosopher Byung-Chul Han, in Die Errettung des Schönen, identifies in impeccable cleanness one of the distinctive signs of our time: it is that which connects the sculptures of Jeff Koons, the smartphone, and depilation. A quality, this, which makes an excess of obtuse positiveness evident. The atrophy of natural beauty in digital beauty. The extreme tactility of the touch screen that annihilates – in an illusory manner – any mythical distance between us and the world, between the contemplation of beauty and what it is used for. The shiny surfaces of Koons reflect a selfie ego, they are the mirror not of an individual, but of a device with the purpose of self-satisfaction, for the reinforcement of esteem and acceptance of a self which is a bit fake. And, no, this is not the mirror of which the view has a need in the visible to make itself once again authentic. It doesn’t need the filter, but rather the nudity of the eye. In order to reappropriate the blind spot (interior) and re-establish an ethical and aesthetic relationship with the machine. This emerges on the surface of the images. Because art has always been the bitter point of conscience. It is the disturbance, the stimulus to overcoming the limit, the revelation of possible and unrealized worlds. It is, therefore, the song of change, of the metamorphosis necessary for everything to be better. For this, the nude photographic camera of the young members of MID, that records signs – like the film directly exposed through the hole in the private photographic camera of the lens in some of their experimental films—takes consciousness to the limit. And stroboscopy and its effects push it to psychedelics, is the ulterior dimension of the conscious to which Psyche gains access with the clarity of a flash of light. From the weight of all this meticulous process, the Images do not seem to preserve anything. They feign the lightness of a flower that blooms, they array themselves into a technical mandala or into a mechanical arabesque. This is to say politely that, in the end, what counts is with how much grace one gives oneself over to the world.
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