Somehow, scars are beautiful because they are the letters with which time tells us. They appear just where and when they should to form words that are whispered to whoever lays their eyes or fingers on them. But not everyone knows how to decipher them, so even though they are obvious, they retain their privacy. Knowing how to feel them is recognizing a story that wants to be told. They are part of a larger discourse which they complement, exemplify and elevate, written in this vessel that we have as a body.

They hurt and some still hurt. They are memories engraved on fire. They separate the fragile inner world from a harsh reality before which only the scab, behind the sore, is relief. They are born to prevent our hearts from spilling out due to wounds. They are ornament in appearance and souvenirs in essence. They populate the old bowl, which container of experiences. Some show off and others hide, wanting to forget when and where.

A scarred piece is expressive, sincere and courageous. It shows that he has lived and is a survivor in this universe that is nothing more than an immense scar from the passage of time. Footprints, each of them a reference to past struggles that sew our present together with stitches, perhaps all of them small stab wounds. But somehow, the scars, like the world, end up being beautiful.

Top image: Vimar, A., 1897. Le Pot de terre et le Pot de fer . Printed material, Bibliothèque nationale de France.