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“A Conversation With Oneself”

May 19, 2026

Ricardo F. Morín

May 17, 2026

Bala Cynwyd, Pennsylvania

*

He considers whether the biography and the career essay can cohabit sequentially within the same corpus.

They can.  The sequence already contains its own direction.  The career essay first:  closer to the present tense of perception, moving by suspension, withholding biography deliberately.  The reader encounters the intelligence before the circumstances surrounding it.  The biography afterward.  What had remained withheld becomes visible then:  the cities, the illnesses, the rooms, the years of interruption and displacement.

Read in that order, the two texts produce something neither fully achieves alone.  One reveals how a person sees.  The other reveals what that person passed through while seeing it.  The distance between them does not fracture the corpus.  It creates proportion.

He considers whether three registers can coexist within the same body of work.

A corpus restricted to one register may already have accepted its own limits.  Multiple registers practiced simultaneously suggest something else:  not instability of method, but continuity of attention moving through different materials.  The register changes according to what the material permits or resists.  The underlying attention remains recognizable.

Across them, something is repeatedly brought near the edge of conclusion without fully entering it.  Not because conclusion is feared, but because certain recognitions become less accurate once sealed too quickly.  The distribution changes from text to text.  The pressure of examination does not.

The difficulty is less internal than external.  Readers and institutions prefer writers who can be situated immediately.  A stable category simplifies reception.  The corpus resists that instinct without opposing it directly.  Some readers may find the variation generative.  Others may experience uncertainty before it.  That uncertainty may not be a defect in reception.  It may be an accurate reflection of the work itself.

He considers publication outside of WordPress.

He does not intend to seek publication through commercial structures.  WordPress has held the work for eighteen years.  That continuity has been sufficient.  The responsibility, if there is one, would consist only in maintaining a parallel digital corpus capable of surviving technical disappearance should the platform eventually fail.  Perhaps a university library at some later point.  Perhaps not.

No publishing houses.  No agents.  Few editors he would trust enough to permit entrance into the interior movement of the prose.

He considers how long WordPress itself may last.

WordPress.com is operated by a private company.  Eighteen years of continuity is reassuring but not decisive.  Many structures that once appeared permanent disappeared without ceremony.  Libraries persist differently because preservation forms part of their institutional obligation rather than their market survival.

Yet the archive does not feel urgent.  There may still be another fifteen years of work not yet written.  The corpus at that point would be larger, more complete, more internally connected than it is now.  Premature administration of a living practice can quietly interfere with the practice itself.

What matters at present is simpler than preservation.  The work continues.  The corpus develops.  The next sentence remains unwritten.

He considers whether he should simply let the chips fall where they may.

The work exists.  It accumulates gradually.  What survives and what disappears has never belonged entirely to the author.  Most of what human beings created vanished long ago:  paintings, manuscripts, cities, names.  What remains is shaped partly by quality, partly by accident, partly by whether another person cared enough to carry something forward beyond its own moment.

There may be a form of integrity in recognizing that limit without bitterness.  A prose that refuses premature closure, a corpus resistant to category, a writer uninterested in agents, publishers, or literary positioning:  all of these movements arise from related recognitions.  The same attention that hesitates before sealing a conclusion in a sentence may hesitate before sealing one about permanence itself.

He considers whether it is worth anticipating the future condition of the corpus.

Probably not.

The work understood this long before the prose articulated it directly.  The understanding did not arrive as philosophy.  It emerged gradually through repetition:  paintings delayed, illnesses prolonged, rooms abandoned, plans interrupted, canvases resting against walls for weeks while nothing visible advanced and yet something continued silently underneath perception itself.

The pergaminos colgantes already contained that movement.  So did Paradise.  So did the long periods of stillness in Valencia.  The recognition that anticipation easily becomes a form of inward noise did not arise from theory.  It arose from observing how quickly projection interferes with attention.

To apply a different standard to the corpus itself, worrying over survival, categorization, institutional placement, would introduce an inconsistency the work has spent decades attempting to reduce.

The present moment contains the next essay.  That is sufficiently difficult.  Everything beyond it risks becoming administration of what does not yet exist.

He considers whether to share the corpus formally with an institution.

Perhaps not at all.

That possibility no longer produces anxiety.  It follows naturally from the other refusals already present throughout the work:  refusal of fixed category, refusal of literary positioning, refusal of premature conclusion, refusal of treating visibility as proof of value.

The archive may survive.  Or disappear.  Neither alters the necessity of the work while it is being written.

He considers ownership.

He never took much pride in possession.  The loft in Tribeca was relinquished.  The taller in Venezuela was relinquished.  Professional identities were relinquished more than once.  Each release altered perception afterward.  Something became visible that possession itself had partially obscured.

A corpus may not differ greatly from that condition.

The essays exist.  What happens to them afterward cannot entirely belong to him any more than the changing light across suspended canvases belonged to anyone who happened to stand before them.  The work was never constructed as property.  The pergaminos were not made as objects to dominate space.  They emerged from stillness temporarily and returned to it afterward.

Complete relinquishment may not signify indifference.  It may be the final extension of the same attention from which the work emerged.

He arrives somewhere that does not require a name.

Not grief exactly.  Not resignation.

Tears of loss look backward toward what can no longer be recovered.  Tears of acceptance belong to a different condition entirely:  recognition without resistance, clarity without demand for alteration, awareness without the impulse to negotiate with reality so that it conforms to preference.

The work approached that same place gradually through many forms and many years:  the stillness after noise, the empty canvas before the first mark, the pergamino hanging without frame or enclosure, the intervals where nothing appeared resolved and yet nothing required immediate resolution either.

Perhaps the work was never attempting permanence at all.  Perhaps it was attempting something closer to lived energy moving through form for a brief interval before returning to stillness again.

That is not a small thing.

A conversation with oneself.

The question unresolved.

What remains is the writing.

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“Ricardo F. Morín”

May 18, 2026

*

During those first years through 1976, Buffalo accumulated heavier snowfalls than usual, with blizzards exceeding those of previous winters.  In some neighborhoods the snow rose beyond the rooftops of houses.  The wind crossed the streets with an intensity unfamiliar to someone who had grown up in Valencia, Venezuela.  In the art studios of Bethune Hall, at the State University of New York at Buffalo, canvases leaned against one another while students worked for hours in silence or beneath scattered conversations.  The smell of oil, turpentine, and damp wood continuously permeated the interiors.

He had arrived in the United States in 1972 at seventeen years of age.  Displacement did not consist solely in leaving one country behind.  It also altered the daily perception of the simplest things:  the scent of cities, winter light entering through windows, the relation between the body and climate, the constant sound of a language still only partially familiar.

Before Buffalo there had been Valencia.  The Arturo Michelena School of Fine Arts.  The first hours of drawing during childhood.  Later, during adolescence, the summers studying painting in the private studio of the Hungarian painter Lazlo Lenyel.  Even then, however, painting seemed less a future profession than a form of attention.  Preparing the surface of a canvas produced an experience difficult to explain outside the act of painting itself.

During those years canvases began accumulating rapidly.  Some were destroyed.  Others remained leaning against walls for months before receiving another layer of paint.  The organization of the studio changed constantly.  Painting did not yet follow a precise theory.  There was instead a physical insistence:  returning each day to observe relations of color, spatial tension, surface, and rhythm.

In 1976 he returned briefly to Venezuela.  There he studied privately with the Málaga-born artist José Luis Montero before returning once again to Buffalo under the guidance of Herta Kane and James Jipson.  Gradually the first exhibitions began.  In May of that same year he presented “Works by Ricardo Morin” at the Villa Maria College Gallery.

Conversations about art during those years frequently revolved around movements, historical legitimacy, abstraction, expressionism, or formal theory.  Yet many of the most intense hours occurred far from any discourse.  Remaining alone in the studio, slowly shaping how certain surfaces retained or rejected light, seemed to contain an experience more concrete than many of the explanations later constructed around the work.

In 1977 the Venezuelan Ministry of Education awarded him a full scholarship to complete a B.F.A. at SUNY Buffalo.  The thesis exhibition, Buffalo Series 1979, was later curated by Seymour Drumlevitch at the Alamo Gallery of the State University of New York at Buffalo. [1]  Shortly afterward, Buffalo Series No. 1, 1980, received the Birge Wall Covering Award and the Reed Foundation Award at the 38th Western New York Show at the Albright Knox Art Gallery. [2]

Awards, exhibitions, and scholarships briefly made continuity seem attainable.  During certain periods it seemed possible to imagine a relatively stable professional trajectory.  Yet that stability coexisted with another sensation more difficult to name:  the persistent impression that the real work was taking place elsewhere, far from the forms through which it was publicly interpreted.

In 1979 he attended stage design seminars taught by Gunther Schneider-Siemsen at the Internationale Sommerakademie für Bildende Kunst Salzburg.  There he received the Förderungspreis Leistung der Stadt Salzburg award.  Shortly afterward Drumlevitch recommended that he apply to the M.F.A. program of the Yale School of Drama.

At Yale the theater workshops functioned on another scale of production.  Constructions, lighting, scenic architecture, models, and technical equipment occupied spaces inside buildings adapted for the stage.  Physical labor was continuous.  Stage design also offered a concrete possibility of economic survival within New York.

During the first years after Yale he worked as a set designer in New York’s Off-Off-Broadway circuit, collaborating with Irene Fornés and Max Ferrá at INTAR. [3]  At the same time he worked as principal assistant to established Broadway designers.  Workshops, constructions, and rehearsals occupied much of the days and nights.

By the late 1980s he obtained a loft in Tribeca devoted exclusively to painting.  Large-format canvases leaned against high walls while painting once again began occupying the center of daily life.  The studio was filled with accumulated materials:  stretchers, pigments, tools, fragments of canvas, and drawings tacked against the walls.

At certain moments it seemed possible to sustain both lives simultaneously:  theater and painting.  New York still retained industrial areas where some artists could work within relatively spacious environments.  Yet even during those years of greatest professional activity, a tension persisted between the public continuity of a career and the quieter experience of the work itself.

In 1993 interruption appeared.  Due to AIDS he was forced to abandon the loft, suspend professional activity, and return to Venezuela seeking refuge with his family.  The diagnosis rapidly altered the entire structure of daily life.  Many previous continuities disappeared within a few months:  work, economic stability, studio, city, professional rhythm.

Between 1993 and 1996 his health deteriorated considerably.  He spent long periods inside the family home with little physical energy and frequent medical interruptions.  It was then that the Aposentos series began.  The second painting of the series, Aposento No. 2, was selected for the “XIV Municipal Painting Salon: Homage to Carlos Cruz-Diez,” held in 1994 at the Municipal Art Gallery of Maracay. [4]

He painted slowly.  Canvases remained stacked against the walls for entire weeks before receiving another intervention.  The body fatigued quickly.  Light shifted inside the room while the paintings remained motionless for hours or entire days.  At times the work advanced only a few centimeters.

Painting then began acquiring another rhythm.  It no longer seemed to respond solely to the continuity of a career or to the possibility of exhibition.  Some works emerged more as accompaniment than affirmation.

During those same years he worked voluntarily at Fundación Metaguardia, created in Valencia as a center of information and support for people with terminal illnesses, many of them also living in conditions of indigence.  The foundation integrated emotional support, activities connected to the arts, and pro bono medical services.

Silent conversations, long periods of waiting, weakened bodies, and shared vulnerability slowly altered the perception of many previous categories.  Illness seemed to render secondary many differences that had previously organized much of daily attention.

In 1996 he finally returned to New York in order to access the new antiretroviral treatment.  His immunity was practically nonexistent.  Soon afterward he sought assistance from the Department of Human Resources because of his condition of destitution.  He first stayed at the transitional Paradise Hotel in the Bronx and later at the Common Ground program at the Hotel Times Square.

Paradise was a profoundly unstable place.  Narrow corridors, moldering rooms, and constant precariousness altered the perception of time.  Some people disappeared suddenly.  Others remained locked inside their rooms for entire days.  The noise of doors, televisions, and arguments continuously crossed through the walls of the building.

Even so he continued painting.  Small canvases rested against walls or on improvised furniture near the window.  The continuity of the work no longer depended upon ideal conditions.  It depended only upon continuing to work within whatever circumstances were available.

During those years an unexpected sensation of emptiness also appeared.  Not necessarily as absolute loss, but rather as a gradual reduction of the interior noise through which ambition, identity, or permanence had once been sustained.  Within that emptiness certain forms of attention slowly began acquiring greater intensity:  breathing, light upon surfaces, the rhythm of the body while walking through the city, the noise of certain rooms, the momentary presence of familiar faces.

In September 1998 he received support from the New York organization Visual AIDS, which organized a joint exhibition based on watercolor and oil portraits together with Nicolo Cataldi at St. Mark’s Church.  Later came other collective exhibitions and alternative platforms.  Some of the paintings from the early 1990s were later described by the artist Jo-ey Tang as “love letters to the city of New York”.

In 2000 he received a VESID rehabilitation grant that included specialized training in digital tools and computer equipment.  The computer then slowly became incorporated into the visual work.  Between 2000 and 2003 he used digital media combined with watercolor and hand drawing to reinterpret fifteenth-century Persian miniatures through geometric processes of reconstruction. [5]

Later, between 2005 and 2012, he taught a course titled Pictorial Perspective at Pratt Institute.  Meanwhile he developed the Triangulation Series, working with suspended geometries, reduced spaces, and hanging formats. [6]

After completing chemotherapy in 2008 for an AIDS-related Non-Hodgkin lymphoma, systemic muscular disorders began preventing him from even stretching large canvases.  The hanging canvases then emerged also as a direct consequence of physical limitations.  The body slowly began imposing another relation to space, time, and work.

The canvases remained suspended for weeks while light varied across the surfaces.  Physical movements were slower.  Material reduction altered perception as well.  Silence ceased feeling like absence and began functioning as another form of attention.

Between 2009 and 2010 he initiated the Metaphors of Silence series. [7]  Many of the works emerged slowly within prolonged periods of physical stillness.  The need to explain aesthetic experience intellectually gradually began losing intensity before the experience of observation itself.

During those same years he collaborated with Dr. Andrew Irving in an experimental project on art, anthropology, and human experience related to New York Stories.  Part of those dialogues were later incorporated into The Art of Life and Death: Radical Aesthetics and Ethnographic Practice. [8]

With the passing of years certain tensions slowly began losing sharpness.  Illness remained present, although it no longer organized each moment of the day in the same way.  Certain forms of ambition or anxiety surrounding continuity, recognition, or permanence seemed gradually to diminish without disappearing entirely.

Painting continued occupying a central place, though no longer necessarily as an exclusive affirmation of identity.  Other things also remained:  conversations, walks, reading, physical exercise, breathing finding rhythm again, the momentary attenuation of certain aches, light changing across the surfaces of the city, brief encounters throughout the day.

Some afternoons he continued walking slowly while breathing found rhythm and light descended across the buildings.  Aging, fragility, and the proximity of death did not disappear.  Neither did they remain completely separate from the movement of existence itself.

Ricardo F. Morín

May 17, 2026

Bala Cynwyd, Pennsylvania

Endnotes

[1] Buffalo Series 1979:
https://www.ricardomorin.com/l-series-html/62.html

[2] Buffalo Series No. 1, 1980:
https://www.ricardomorin.com/l-series-html/53.html

[3] Theater productions and press references:
https://www.nytimes.com/1986/04/17/theater/stage-lovers-at-intar.html

[4] Aposento No. 2:
https://www.ricardomorin.com/l-series-html/11.html

[5] Platonic Interactions Series and related works:
https://www.artmajeur.com/en/rfmorin/artworks?page=5

[6] Triangulation Series:
https://www.ricardomorin.com/Triangulation_Series.html

[7] Metaphors of Silence:
https://ricardomorin.wordpress.com/2010/11/24/metaforas-del-silencio/

[8] Andrew Irving, The Art of Life and Death: Radical Aesthetics and Ethnographic Practice:
https://www.academia.edu/53478128/The_Art_of_Life_and_Death_Radical_Aesthetics_and_Ethnographic_Practice_Andrew_Irving_Chicago_Hau_Books_2017_264_pp

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“The Impossibility of Recognition”

May 17, 2026

*

Ricardo F. Morín
Buffalo Series, Nº 4
48″ x 48″
Oil on canvas
1978

Author’s Note

This text continues the conditions examined in “The Proportion of Boredom” and “The Impossibility of Conviction”.

*

Ricardo F Morin  
April 17 through May 14, 2026  
In transit  

A thank you may be spoken and still leave little behind it.  The words are said,  the gesture acknowledged,  yet what follows continues almost unchanged. 

What resolves a necessity that could not otherwise have been resolved leaves more than a momentary obligation behind it.  It alters conduct.  The difficulty is not always in recognizing what has been received,  but in remaining openly shaped by it afterward. 

At times,  what is received passes nearly unnoticed.  It is recognized in the moment,  then absorbed into ordinary expectation.  Nothing changes. 

At other times,  acknowledgment is followed almost immediately by the resumption of guarded conduct,  as though nothing had passed between them requiring either person to remain changed by what is owed to them. 

Something similar occurs when acknowledgment becomes routine.  The words remain intact while their force weakens.  What once carried weight becomes part of ordinary exchange. 

Resentment may emerge from the same movement.  Withdrawal does not always arise because nothing was received,  but because remaining openly affected by it becomes difficult to sustain over time. 

The change does not announce itself directly.  Replies shorten.  Warmth recedes into formality.  Attention weakens without disappearing.  Continuity remains while something within it becomes less available. 

Part of the difficulty lies in the human capacity to narrow perception around self-preservation while remaining partially aware of what is being diminished,  avoided,  or abandoned. 

None of this proves that recognition was false.  Yet when guardedness repeatedly restores itself before acknowledgment can continue altering conduct,  relations gradually persist more through form than through the openness that once gave them force. 

What remains active through form alone may continue outwardly for long periods while gradually losing the openness that first allowed recognition to alter conduct. 

To remain capable of recognition is not to magnify what is given,  but to allow what has been received to continue altering conduct without immediately reducing it to balance,  habit,  irritation,  or distance.

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“The Course of a Career”

May 16, 2026

*

Ricardo F. Morín
Self Portrait: Stock Market
New York City
36” x 74”
Collage with charcoal pencil
1987

He did not go into other artists’ studios unless invited.  If he recognized something in the work, he said it.

At that time, education consisted in finding a means of expression that suited him.  It was a way to refine what he saw and felt and to bring it into the work.  The subject was his own, but it moved within the traditions of painting and other arts.  What mattered was finding his voice as a painter, in the use of color and the depth it could sustain pictorially.  On the surface, his gestures remained inscribed.

Within that, he would stand before the work and look, asking what it could contain or where it might resolve.  If he recognized something, he stayed with it, not to explain or to correct it, but to register it mentally or to shift it within its structure.  There would be a pause, and he would look again, as if something already present had just come into view.

Other artists entered his space with legitimate differences.  They did not alter what took place between them.

One moment remains with him.  

A graduate student was working on a piece, a structure rising like a tapering tower, bright, near red, perhaps fuchsia, with broken glass along its edges.  It was not finished.  It was evident that she was still working through it.  

He stood beside her and said what came to him.  It recalled what he had seen growing up: glass placed on top of walls, not as decoration, but to keep people out, to cut anyone who tried to enter.  

She stopped, looked at the piece, then at him.  Nothing more was said.  

He left.  

Later, he saw the piece again when she opened her show at an alternative gallery after graduating.  There was a recording, a voice repeating that there is a violent world outside, and the piece and the voice remained together without resolution.  

Their advisor in the art department told him that what he had said in her studio did not leave her and passed into the work.  

He had not thought of it that way.  He said it and moved on.  

That is what remains with him, not recognition, but that something one sees can be taken up and continue elsewhere.  

Around that time, his mentor said something to him in private.  He told him not to take at face value what other faculty members said about his work, nor what he himself might say.  

He heard it, and it did not leave him.  

During that period, he traveled to Salzburg, Austria, for a seminar in stage design.  He had not planned it.  It just happened.  

The work there required interpretation, and he found himself imposing his own way of seeing so that it would hold.  It was not just something one looked at.  It generated a mood that people entered and responded to.  

He worked from what he saw, though it did not work as expected.  

He continued with it.  

After that, he entered a selective graduate program.  It followed from what he had already started.  

There, things took shape within a director’s limits of interpretation.  He finished the program, but the way he had been working before did not continue in the same way.  

Outside academia, he was received as an outsider; it did not extend beyond distrust.  The work remained within that frame.  He could see where the attention was directed; it did not include him, whatever he did.  In New York City, visibility opened to the same names, not to him.

While he worked in stage design to support himself, he continued to produce paintings.  

Opportunities did not present themselves for either.  

He worked on what others would present, and it advanced without him.  

The hours and the demands occupied the day and extended into the night, and when they ended, nothing was left for his own work.  What had advanced before ceased to advance and it was no longer received in the same way.  Expectations were in place, ways of doing things, and he saw them clearly enough to know where he stood.  

Nothing came of that situation, but he persisted.  

He kept working.  

When he writes, he perceives what he has just thought and observes it once more without turning it into an answer.

At times, a thought comes with more weight than the rest.  Where facts do not admit of equivalence and distinctions become inconvenient, they tend to be blurred; and where they are blurred, judgment loses its basis.  

He leaves it there.  

He asks whether anything is missing, not that something is missing, but whether.  

Almost immediately, what he says begins to take form as an answer.  

He stops.  

Because that is not what he is asking.  

He asked whether anything is missing, not what is missing, and left it there.  

It occurs again.  What he sees begins to take form as something he could think through.  

He suspends that as well.

In the act of working, what he sees and thinks begins to take form as an answer.  At times, what appears is not his, yet it comes as if it were.  He sees it and does not complete it.  It remains and returns without resolving.  His attention does not leave him.

He remains within the situation as it presents itself.  

There are relations in his life, some close, some not, and they arrive as they arrive.  In those moments he responds, not because he decides to, but because the situation calls for it.  He responds and confronts what derives from it.  

He does not go beyond that act.  

That stays there, not as something to return to, but as something that does not dissolve.

He sees himself acting and, at the same time, sees the movement that follows that action.  

He does not resolve that movement.  

He notices the inclination to fix a conclusion and does not follow it.

What appears presents itself with the weight of certainty for a moment and then recedes.  

He does not accept it.  

That movement loses force.  

He remains intact.  

The question is unresolved.  

Is anything missing?  

He does not answer.

*

Ricardo F. Morín

May 5, 2026

Bala Cynwyd, Pennsylvania

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“The Proportion of Boredom”

May 15, 2026

 

Ricardo F. Morín
Buffalo Series, Nº 5
48″ x 48″
Oil on canvas
1979

*

Author’s Note

The conditions that pass through this text continue in “The Impossibility of Conviction” and “The Impossibility of Recognition.”

*

Ricardo F. Morín
April 17 through May 14, 2026
In transit

A conversation,  a concern,  a loss or a moment of joy begin to take shape when they remain present long enough to demand attention,  alter our conduct or affect our relation with others.  Our lives do not acquire form through intensity or through the scarcity of what occurs.

There are days that pass leaving almost no trace.  Conversations are forgotten.  One concern gives way to another before it can alter what follows.

At other times,  everything demands attention at once.  Attention passes from one incident to another before anything acquires consequence.  What is immediate displaces what needed to remain present.  Priorities begin to blur into one another,  and nothing retains enough presence to awaken interest.

An empty day disappears without resistance;  a day in which everything demands attention dissolves in much the same way.  In both cases,  a conversation,  a concern or a loss cease affecting the way a person responds to what unfolds around them.

Either nothing succeeds in awakening interest,  or what does awaken it loses force among too many competing demands upon attention.  Boredom may appear even when nothing seems to be missing.

Proportion allows a conversation,  a loss,  a concern or a moment of joy to remain present long enough to acquire consequence alongside one another.  Without proportion,  conversations,  concerns and responsibilities begin to disperse before they can remain related to one another.  With proportion,  a conversation,  a loss or a responsibility may preserve enough presence to continue affecting the way a person attends or responds.

When that relation weakens,  judgment begins to weaken with it.  What is trivial acquires urgency,  while a loss,  a responsibility or an important relation recede without drawing attention.  Public life eventually reflects the same condition:  noise makes it difficult to distinguish what truly demands our attention,  and people begin reacting more through accumulation than through understanding.

What is near may impose itself until it occupies everything.  What is distant may withdraw until it loses presence.  Between those extremes,  conversations,  concerns and relations still manage to remain separate.

Proportion changes with the demands of life,  with attention,  fatigue,  pressure and the capacity to remain affected by what occurs.  It does not remain static.  A person may come to no longer recognize what once mattered to them,  not because they decided to abandon it,  but because the relation to a loss,  a responsibility or another person also changes under certain conditions.

Boredom appears when a conversation,  a concern,  a responsibility or a relation cease remaining present long enough to continue affecting the way a person attends,  remembers or responds.  For this reason,  boredom does not depend upon how much happens or how little does.

Dissatisfaction and skepticism emerge when a conversation,  a loss or a responsibility no longer preserve sufficient relation to what continues occurring around them.  Dissatisfaction and skepticism are not the origin of this condition.

At times,  a person continues speaking,  working or responding without knowing what still preserves relation to their life.  Even under those conditions,  another person’s affection,  a remembered conversation or someone’s presence may remain active while many concerns begin losing consequence.  At times,  they are the only things still preserving relation to what continues.

Proportion exists in allowing a conversation,  a loss,  a responsibility or a relation to preserve enough presence to continue affecting the way we attend,  remember or respond to what occurs.  Maintaining proportion does not consist in reducing life.

 

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“The Impossibility of Conviction”

May 14, 2026

 

Ricardo F. Morín
Buffalo Series, Nº 5
48″ x 56″
Oil on canvas
1979

*

Author’s Note

The conditions examined in this text continue those explored in “The Proportion of Boredom” and “The Impossibility of Recognition.”

+

Ricardo F. Morín
April 17 through May 14, 2026
In transit

1.  There are people who aspire to live as individuals of conviction because conviction appears inseparable from dignity, seriousness, or moral substance.  To remain faithful to certain principles despite uncertainty, pressure, or consequence may seem necessary for self-respect itself.  A person capable of conviction may appear less vulnerable to confusion, fear, or circumstance than someone who changes too easily with events or opinion.

2.  Under certain conditions, conviction permits endurance.  A person may continue acting despite danger, exhaustion, or sacrifice because something appears more important than comfort, approval, or self-preservation.  Communities may also remain bound together through convictions strong enough to survive hardship, loss, or instability.

3.  Yet convictions do not remain private for long.  They shape how people judge conduct, loyalty, responsibility, and trust.  What appears principled to one person may appear rigid, dangerous, or intolerant to another.  The same conviction capable of sustaining courage may also narrow the conditions under which people continue recognizing one another outside allegiance alone.

4.  At times, uncertainty becomes difficult to bear.  A person may seek convictions not only because they appear true, but because they provide continuity when circumstances no longer seem stable enough to endure without certainty.

5.  A conviction does not remain merely an opinion once a person begins to depend on it for self-respect.  It enters conduct.  It shapes what can be admitted without humiliation and what must be resisted so the person can remain coherent before himself.  At that point, disagreement no longer arrives only as difference.  It may also arrive as exposure.

6.  Under such conditions, a person may defend not only certain principles, but the self organized around them.  Contradiction becomes difficult to tolerate because uncertainty no longer threatens a single idea alone.  It threatens the sense that one’s life still holds together, belonging, judgment, and the sense that one’s conduct remains justified before others and before oneself.

7.  Yet convictions are not sustained only through conflict.  They also persist through familiarity.  Families, friendships, religious communities, political movements, and nations may remain bound together through convictions strong enough to survive sacrifice, hardship, or historical change.  A person may inherit convictions long before examining them fully, just as another person may remain unable to abandon certain convictions despite prolonged doubt or disappointment.

8.  Convictions cannot be understood through logic alone.  People may continue defending ideas that no longer correspond fully with circumstance because conviction does not depend only upon evidence.  It may also depend upon memory, loyalty, fear, gratitude, suffering, or the need to preserve continuity with those through whom life first acquired meaning.

9.  At times, conviction permits a person to resist conditions that would otherwise reduce conduct to convenience or fear.  Someone may continue defending another person despite public hostility, remain faithful to a responsibility despite exhaustion, or refuse participation in what appears degrading even when conformity would be safer.  Under such conditions, conviction may preserve dignity because it resists adaptation to circumstance alone.

10.  Yet the same conviction capable of sustaining courage may also narrow perception without announcing the change.  A person may begin judging conduct through allegiance before attending to the singularity of those involved.  What confirms conviction appears trustworthy more easily; what unsettles it begins requiring justification before it can even be considered fairly.

11.  This change does not always emerge through fanaticism.  It may appear through ordinary habits of interpretation.  Certain words begin carrying fixed meanings before conversations fully unfold.  Certain people appear predictable before they have spoken long enough to become recognizable outside inherited assumptions.  Conviction then ceases remaining only a way of judging what should be trusted, defended or refused.  It begins organizing perception itself.

12.  Under those conditions, plurality becomes difficult to sustain.  Not because difference disappears, but because difference no longer appears as something through which judgment may widen.  It begins appearing instead as instability, confusion, or moral weakness.

13.  A person may still believe himself fair under such conditions.  He may continue listening, speaking calmly, or permitting disagreement while the boundaries of what appears acceptable have already narrowed inwardly.  Conviction does not always announce the moment in which judgment begins organizing itself around allegiance.  The change may remain gradual enough to appear compatible with the image a person preserves of himself as reasonable, principled, or humane.

14.  At times, convictions survive less because they remain unquestioned than because abandoning them would require a person to reinterpret too much of his own life.  Friendships, sacrifices, loyalties, humiliations, and hopes may remain bound to convictions that helped organize the meaning of earlier experience.  Under such conditions, doubt no longer threatens a single conclusion alone.  It threatens continuity with the self that endured through those experiences.

15.  People may therefore defend convictions that no longer correspond fully with what they privately perceive.  Public allegiance and inward uncertainty may coexist for long periods without reconciling themselves.  A person may continue repeating certain beliefs because abandoning them appears more disorienting than preserving them despite contradiction.

16.  Yet uncertainty carries dangers of its own.  A person incapable of conviction may become vulnerable to every immediate pressure, every shifting opinion, or every promise of acceptance.  Conduct begins adapting too easily to circumstance because nothing remains stable enough to resist convenience, fear, or belonging.  Under such conditions, openness itself may lose coherence.

17.  Human beings therefore remain exposed to opposing dangers that do not resolve one another.  Conviction may preserve dignity while narrowing plurality; uncertainty may preserve openness while weakening conduct.  The difficulty does not disappear by choosing one condition entirely over the other, because both arise from needs inseparable from human life.

18.  This tension becomes visible during periods of instability.  Under fear, humiliation, rapid social change, or prolonged uncertainty, people often seek convictions capable of restoring continuity quickly.  A movement, a nation, a faith, an ideology, or a leader may then appear not merely persuasive, but necessary for preserving coherence against conditions that no longer seem bearable without certainty.

19.  Under such circumstances, plurality may begin appearing less as a condition of civic life than as an obstacle to stability itself.  Disagreement becomes associated with fragmentation; hesitation with weakness; ambiguity with danger.  What once appeared compatible with coexistence may begin appearing incompatible with order, belonging, or survival.

20.  Yet even under those conditions, convictions do not become complete.  Contradictions continue appearing within every system of certainty because human experience exceeds the structures through which people attempt to hold experience together.  A person may defend convictions publicly while remaining inwardly confronted by experiences that resist full reconciliation with them.

21.  Convictions can preserve and disrupt human relations at the same time.  They allow people to sacrifice, endure, remain faithful, and act decisively under uncertainty.  Yet they may also separate human beings before they have encountered one another outside inherited loyalties, beliefs, or fears.  The same convictions capable of sustaining responsibility may also prevent people from perceiving one another except through the boundaries conviction has already established.

22.  Convictions do not disappear because people cannot live long without believing that certain things must be defended, preserved, or remained faithful to despite uncertainty.  Under those conditions, conviction may permit courage, sacrifice, or endurance where fear alone would otherwise prevail.  Yet the same convictions may also separate human beings before they have fully encountered one another outside inherited loyalties, beliefs, or fears.

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“The Clinician”

May 3, 2026

*

Ricardo F. Morín
Orpheus
4.47″x 10.38″
2003

Scene One: Monday Morning

*

Could it be safe to take a shower between 7 and 8 am?

He will take his morning medication just before the shower.  

It is 43 degrees Fahrenheit outside, rising to 64 by the time he arrives at Penn Medicine in University City.

He considers scheduling an Uber for 11:45 am; his husband will say it is too early.

It’s 7:05.  He hears his husband making the beds in the next room.  He goes to shower.

His husband asks whether he would be up to taking a ride tomorrow, the day before departure.

He says he would decide based on how he felt.

Each choice has required assessment.

Two bowel movements.  A familiar pattern, a sense of incomplete evacuation.  An anti-diarrheal may be needed.

Not diarrhea.  An accelerated colon.

He does not exceed 2 mg unless it becomes continuous.

Propulsion.  Heartburn.  Hiatal hernia.  Micro-aspirations.  They do not occur separately, especially while recovering from a respiratory infection.

It’s 8:40 am.  Three hours before the Uber arrives.

Would a warm compress help?

His husband hears him cough and asks if he wants tea.

The N95 mask was used recently at the ER.  The new ones are in the carry-on.  Is it necessary to look for them?

His husband helps.  He will keep a mask for the flight to London.  It is reassuring, even in business class.

Should he take a nasal cleanser on the cruise to the British Isles?

He switches shoes.  Cold feet persist.  No marked improvement.

With an hour and a half before leaving, better not to wear shoes.  Wool slippers instead.  Cold feet persist.  He will decide on the spot before leaving:  the clogs.

The interior temperature is 66 degrees with the humidifier on.

He is dressed warmly, but the air feels nippy.

He does not turn up the heat.

He turns off the humidifier, rests his feet over the yoga bolster, and covers them with a blanket.

*

Scene Two: Monday Afternoon

When he spoke to the physician, she asked, in a friendly tone, how often he visited his family in Venezuela.  He said he would not assume she was unfamiliar with Venezuela.  For over three decades, it had not been safe for him to return.*

She stated that his resilience was a testament to how far HIV treatment had advanced.  He did not respond immediately.  When he did, he was not entirely sure whether medication or sheer DNA disposition had protected him from opportunistic infections, though he had developed full AIDS.

She was eager to know who he was.  At the same time, he detected a degree of vulnerability in her:  a young, enthusiastic virologist, a mother of seven months.

He asked about the baby’s name.  She shared it.  She said the child was struggling to walk and that the intensity of it felt overwhelming.

When he brought up his infectious disease doctor before moving from New York to Florida, he mentioned that both she and her husband were HIV positive.  She had treated him for twenty-five years.  Her care was not only clinical.  It was also informed by lived knowledge, though she never made it the center of her care.  He held that knowledge as a standard to meet.

The physician widened her eyes.  She said she knows this was her first child and that much lay ahead;  right now it felt demanding.  He said she will eventually look back on this time with affection.  She completed his sentence.

What he is now talking about is not diagnostic, analytic, or logical.  It is something else.

Before they part, she says she looks forward to learning from him.  He quips:  learning from each other.

The physician led the consultation from the moment she stated her objectives.  She said she wanted to show herself and hoped he would do the same.  It was unusual.  She was poised, centered.  He had not experienced this kind of rapport before.  Was it his letter of introduction?  The way he had organized his clinical history and his team of caregivers?

Afterward, his husband asks whether she is the right fit.  He answers with hesitation.  Her eagerness repeats itself.  Time will tell.

He wonders whether his husband sees himself reflected in his responses, and about his own perception, whether there is intent behind it.

Shortly after they return home, his husband comes to him.  He wants to hug and kiss him, pleased with how it went.  He says, “we did it; we are now safe to travel with everything in the right place.”  Then he returns seconds later to tell him it was because of his generosity.

*

Scene Three: Monday Night

*

After he left the office of the infectious disease doctor at Penn Medicine, and before returning home past 4 pm, he was hungry.  They stopped at the hospital cafeteria, where he had chicken noodle soup loaded with condiments, more than he would normally have.

The soup was saltier than his preference.

When he took the first spoonful, his throat and esophageal sphincter contracted, and he paused.

He remembered that small sips, spaced a few minutes apart, were necessary.  After a few sips, he reached a level of comfort that allowed him to finish the soup.

They walked outside, and by the main entrance he ordered an Uber back home.  He arrived just in time to consider the next meal after the soup.

He had two consecutive meals without heartburn.

He had been weighed at 126 pounds.  He had lost six to eight pounds since contracting a viral infection.

At 9:34 pm, he was watching a movie about bodies living with severe disabilities.

His rib cage felt as if it were pressing on his liver.

He had been dealing with a medication-induced fatty liver and elevated enzymes.

He realized that liver failure is possible, though he had been a long-term HIV survivor without ever facing a major opportunistic infection, even when he experienced wasting syndrome thirty years ago and had only thirty-four T cells.

He cannot account for his good fortune, but he knows he has it.

Ricardo F. Morín

April 29, 2026

Bala Cynwyd, Pa

Video portrait set to a Piazzolla tango composition. Mixed media drawing rendered in Maya. Red and black figure study with rotating fields; hair and flame introduced in sequence, drawing from a classical descent motif.

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“Prayers to a Tyrant”

April 25, 2026

*

*

It may be enough that we do not turn away from what stands before us, even when it exceeds what we believe we can endure.  What lies ahead is not lessened by our hesitation.  If there is any measure left to us, it is in seeing what is there without withdrawing from it.  Let it not pass unnoticed.  In facing what we fear, something in us has already given way, though we continue as if it had not.  Still, something must hold, even where we cannot name it.

Let it not be said that we did not see what we became.  No tyranny stands apart from those who allow it to stand.  What prevails does so not by force alone, but through what remains unexamined in each of us.  If there is anything to be undone, it does not begin elsewhere.  It begins in the refusal to see what we are when we turn away.  If there is mercy, it is not in judgment, but in the possibility that one might still face what has been done without turning from it.

We do not stand outside this.  What we condemn is not separate from us.  If we fail, it is not only through action, but through what we leave unexamined.  Indifference does not remain contained.  It spreads, quietly, until nothing resists it.  What we become in that condition is not imposed.  It is allowed.  And in that allowance, something essential gives way.

Before it is too late, there is only this:  to see what is there, within and without, without division.  Not in parts, not in sequence, but all at once.  To see it without turning it into something else.  In that seeing, there is no method, no progression, no assurance.  Only the fact of it.  And where that fact is seen without distortion, something acts, not as decision, but as the ending of what cannot continue once it is fully seen.

*

Ricardo F. Morín, recast from 2014, April 25, 2026, Bala Cynwyd, Pennsylvania.

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“Morakami Gardens”

April 10, 2026

*

In memory of Andreina

*

Bamboo grove, rippling in the wind. Inhaled and exhaled.

I walk through a pillared tunnel of vines, the fronds of a palm tree stirring above.

Curving forms—Karesansui.

An usher passes, seeking its name

I fall through a monument to discard.

As on a chessboard.

I see you. Yonder.

A staircase into the garden.

An abode where I sat beside you, no more.

I am contained by yellow caution tape.

Three benches against a screen of leaves.

Your burial is here with me.

The bonsais you adored.

A pearly smile murmurs in the sky.

My guardian says: watch your step.

Says we have much to do.

And I let them pass.



Bamboo grove, breathing.

Karesansui, yellow tape, three benches—she is gone.

And I let them pass.

*

Ricardo F. Morín, April 10, 2026, Oakland Park, Florida

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« Folie à Deux »

April 1, 2026

* 

Ricardo F. Morín
Still Life
22″ x 30″
Mixed media on paper
2000

A relation between two individuals may appear stable even when it rests on a false premise.  A decision is put forward without support and accepted before it is tested.  One speaks; the other adjusts.  A claim is introduced and taken in without examination.  When contradiction appears, it is set aside.  The relation holds because one asserts and the other accepts.  An account of two individuals may appear exceptional, but the relation it reveals is not confined to them.

 

A wider relation between individuals, sustained by excluding contradiction, does not require agreement.  It requires direction and alignment.  A statement is repeated as if it were already settled and is carried forward as something to maintain.  A speaker states a position with certainty and without qualification, and others accept that certainty as evidence of its validity rather than examine the claim itself.  A shared account sets what may be said; questioning it is excluded.  A decision holds because it confirms what is already assumed.  The relation continues without being questioned.

 

At what point does such a relation stop interpreting reality and begin to act in its place?  Not when a false claim appears, but when the relation no longer allows it to be tested.  As long as claims are tested, disagreement examined, and adjustment follows evidence, the relation remains open.  The shift occurs when alignment replaces testing.  A claim is carried forward before it is checked and no longer stands as something to be tested.

 

Contradiction no longer interrupts the relation.  It is dismissed or set aside and does not enter the decision.  What does not fit is excluded from what follows.

 

A claim holds because it repeats what has already been said.  Affirmation arises within the relation itself.  Correction becomes unlikely.

 

A decision formed within the relation is carried out beyond it without being checked, and a person who did not take part in forming it is required to comply.  The effect on that person is not examined and is treated as secondary to keeping the claim in place.  Each participant encounters the effect on the person subject to the decision.   Each participant continues to act in accordance with the claim and sets that recognition aside in order to maintain alignment.  The action continues before either law or ethics can take hold.

 

Decisions are then measured against what has already been affirmed rather than against what is present.  Behavior proceeds without testing.  Judgments form within closed circles of affirmation.  In an investment partnership, a senior partner advances a thesis under time pressure and incomplete information, and others commit capital on the strength of that authority rather than on outside validation.  Elsewhere, under unresolved uncertainty, in a clinical setting, available tests do not resolve the diagnosis, and a physician advances a working assumption; care proceeds on that basis as it is repeated and affirmed, while conflicting signs are set aside.  What appears consistent within produces actions that do not fit the conditions they are meant to address.

 

A relation of this kind also defines responsibility in a limited way.  Each participant attends to the other within the relation, but not to those affected by it.  Agreement between participants does not extend to those who are subject to what the relation produces.  Within the relation, nothing presents itself as a breach: the claim is affirmed, the decision follows, and alignment is maintained, so no point of interruption arises from which it could be judged.  Responsibility would require that each participant consider how the claim and the decision affect those outside the relation and allow that effect to alter or halt what follows.  Where that does not occur, responsibility remains contained within the relation, and those outside it are acted upon without their situation entering into the decision.

 

The difference between shared belief and shared distortion lies in whether the relation allows correction.  Where contradiction can enter and be considered, the relation remains open.  Where it is excluded, the relation closes.

 

The problem does not begin when a claim is false.  It begins when the relation that sustains it no longer allows it to be tested.

*

Ricardo F. Morín, March 31, 2026, Oakland Park, Florida.

 

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