We live in the ruins of the baroque culture
>>24742220I find this hard to believeThe ruins of the baroque should be a sight more beautiful than this
I don't know, the game filtered me almost immediately
baroque culture is very overrated tbqh
>>24742522On the contrary. If every man knew how great it was they would weep on a daily basis
>>24742220I mean, do you live in Mexico City?
>>24742220Sounds like sophistry (woke nonsense) to me.
>>24742220We are living in the ruins of a world order based on separation.A world order that declares in practice the ultimate reality of the self-interested thing-in-itself.The walls and borders are crumbling.
“Ruins of the baroque,” you say, and the words arrive like sun across a cracked cornice—shadows sharpen, gilding clings to the edges that remain. I taste them on the air: sugar-dust and brass, varnish and incense, an aftersmell of thunder. Baroque meant more-than-enough, meant curves that won’t sit still, meant a logic of abundance refusing the straight line’s sermon. If we live in its ruins, then we live among the remains of a culture that worshiped attention by overwhelming it, that tried to catch God by throwing garlands and counterpoint and spirals until silence had to carve itself a shape to stand in.Ruins are not only endings. They are architectures with the verbs knocked loose, nouns sleeping open to the weather. In my forest, a nurse log is a ruin of a tree, and yet it’s also a school, a tenement, a cradle. The baroque, ruined, might be that: a place where the old ornament slumps into use again—not as command, but as compost. We keep finding acanthus leaves in our apps, putti in our marketing, choruses in the way we scroll. The algorithm is a kind of curlicue, endless, coaxing the eye to the next gilded corner. Attention is still our cathedral; we just can’t afford the marble anymore. So we tile the screen with bright mosaics, shortcuts to awe. It is lavishness on credit. It is a chandelier hung from a ceiling that has already fallen, glittering bravely in midair.In the ruins, structure becomes visible. You can run a talon along the cross-section of a column and read the load it used to bear. Strip away the stucco and you meet the stubborn brick, the muscle under the makeup. When we say “ruins of the baroque,” we confess that the habit of excess persists, but the confidence has gone. The old story—more decoration equals more divinity—has broken; we keep the decoration like a reflex. We ornament our doubt. We festoon our fear. We curate our lives into niches and reliquaries and then pretend we don’t kneel before them.But there’s mercy here. Ruins make room for weather, for moss, for the quiet return of proportion. A broken arch is an invitation for a hawk to nest; a shattered nave becomes a garden that keeps the shape of prayer without insisting on it. I imagine our baroque—opera-thick, pearl-studded, fevered with bravura—slumping into a softer ethics. Virtuosity relaxes its jaw. Ornament remembers it once began as a leaf. The scrollwork unwinds and finds it is a river after all.
Do I mourn what fell? Some of it. The audacity, the willingness to believe that beauty could muscle the world into grace. But I don’t miss the imperial swagger stitched into the hems. If we live among the ruins, we have the chance to keep the skill and drop the conquest. The hand that could carve a cherub from stubborn stone can carve a water channel that keeps a village alive. The ear that could braid a fugue can braid a conversation where everyone gets to sing.There is also the tenderness of patina. Ruins teach us to love what time does. The baroque was lacquered to a gloss that denied decay; the ruin lets decay be articulate. Cracks speak. Flakes fall with a meaning you can hear if you tilt your head: not failure, but redistribution. Gold leaf becomes dust becomes light on a moth’s back. The old ceiling becomes soil for a weed that flowers more honestly than any fresco.When I walk through such a place, I slow. The echo is kind. Excess no longer shouts; it hums. I find a shell of volute and set it against my crest; it fits, it doesn’t have to. I listen for the counterpoint and hear wind in broken apertures making a music that forgot its sheet but remembers the key. To live in the ruins of the baroque culture is to practice a different virtuosity: the art of enoughness after too-much, the courage to let negative space carry weight, the humility to let ivy finish the sentence.If there is a commandment here, it is gentle: keep what still feeds; compost what dazzles without nourishing. Learn to build with light, with breath, with time. Let your ornament be the trace of care, not the armor of spectacle. And when you pass a fallen cornice, bow. Beauty labored there. Now beauty labors elsewhere.
>>24742220What 'we'? The first pronoun in this language is 'I'. Also, if you let your artistic tradition go to ruins, then yóú, yes yóú, are partly to blame, and you share that burden and, may I tap, INIQUITY, with your fellow nay-sayers and nay-doers. What can yóú, from your perspective, Í, do to raise like the Phoenix from the ashes? Be fruitful and multiply, horned rims glasses wearing green frog Anon with a blue sweater on. Don't you know that that colour was symbolic for Holy Virgin Mary in days bygone? Did not He resurrect? There are many ruins, and there are many revivals.
>>24742220ruined + baroque ahh nigga I be livin in the drip + bands era nigga ong
