The Spiritual Architecture of La Parábola
Share
By Abisay Puentes – Cuban-American Symbolist Artist
Introduction: The Origin of a Vision That Refuses to Fade
Every artist carries a world within, but some worlds do not evolve gently—they fracture, collapse, burn, and rebuild themselves in secret until they demand form.
La Parábola was not conceived as a painting series, nor as a poetic project, nor as a philosophical system.
It began as a wound.
A wound I carried in silence.
A wound that shaped the way I saw the world, God, humanity, and myself.
It manifested as poetry before I understood it.
It manifested as sound before I heard it.
And eventually it manifested as painting before I had the courage to confront it.
La Parábola is not a story I invented.
It is a revelation that arose from pain, exile, faith, disappointment, and awakening.
This is the architecture of the universe that defines my entire artistic life.
1. The First Layer: The Human Being Walking in Blindness
The foundational truth of La Parábola is brutally simple:
Humanity does not see itself.
We walk through life convinced we are awake, moral, rational—yet our perception is fogged, distorted, sedated.
Spiritual blindness is the seed from which all my series grew.
Long before I wrote a poem or painted a canvas,
I felt the weight of this blindness inside me—
a mist surrounding everything I understood as real.
I was not building an artistic universe.
I was trying to survive one.
2. The Machinery: When Power and Society Become the Same Hand
In La Parábola, Adam and Eve do not symbolize innocence.
They represent the fusion of authority and complicity.
The greatest deceptions in life do not come from external enemies.
They come from the systems we submit to.
From that revelation, Rito Gular emerged:
a symbolic moment where power and society build a machine designed to sedate the human being.
The machine is not technology.
It is a spiritual mechanism shaping thought, perception, and identity.
Every canvas in this chapter carries the weight of this reality:
that humanity is not merely lost—
it is engineered into blindness.
3. The Sedation: The Slow Collapse of Sensitivity
Once the machine is embraced, the human being becomes connected to it—
not with wires or metal, but with the fragile threads of false comfort.
This is Desvanecimiento:
the slow fading of the soul.
In this chapter, colors weakened.
Forms dissolved.
Identity evaporated.
Sedation is far more terrifying than destruction.
Destruction is visible.
Sedation feels safe.
Under sedation, the human being disappears.
4. The Fog: When Reality Itself Distorts
Brumas (Mist) is the spiritual atmosphere enveloping the sedated soul.
Not external fog—
the fog within.
Painting Brumas was like confessing my own blindness.
Each stroke was an attempt to describe a truth I could sense but not fully grasp.
Theologically, Brumas represents human incapacity to understand its own condition without divine revelation.
That is why the series is abstract—
because deception itself is abstract.
In Brumas, the world is both beautiful and terrifying,
reflecting the deepest spiritual reality:
We cannot see ourselves clearly.
5. The Direct Connection: When the Machine Becomes the Body
If Brumas is the fog,
Mecanikalgia is the body shaped by it.
The human being is no longer just sedated—
he is intertwined with the machine.
Not science fiction—
a spiritual portrait of modern existence.
Mecanikalgia shows how captivity becomes identity.
This chapter is the darkest moment before awakening.
6. The Collapse: When Meaning Breaks Apart
After years of sedation and confusion, awakening comes violently.
This is Paradox.
Truth appears in fragments.
Contradictions multiply.
Meaning collapses.
This is not insanity.
It is the natural shock of waking after believing lies.
Paradox is fragmentation—
yet also the first hint of clarity.
7. The Awakening: The Vértigo of Seeing Clearly for the First Time
If Brumas is blindness
and Paradox is fracture,
Vértigo is revelation.
The man finally awakens after ten thousand years of wandering in circles.
He sees the machine for what it is.
He sees the fog for what it was.
He sees himself for the first time.
Awakening is painful.
It destabilizes.
It terrifies.
It sanctifies.
Vértigo is not triumph.
It is holy confrontation.
8. Why I Painted This Universe Instead of Writing It
People ask why I didn’t simply write La Parábola as a book.
Because La Parábola is not an idea.
It is an experience.
Painting externalized what language could not.
Music revealed what painting could not.
Symbolism expressed what sound could not.
Only through all three could the universe breathe.
9. The Spiritual Architecture of La Parábola
You are not entering a gallery when you enter my work.
You are entering a cosmology—
a map of the human condition written in color, sound, and revelation.
La Parábola is not art to look at.
It is a path to walk.
Every painting is a step.
10. Conclusion: The Invitation
If you enter La Parábola,
you are not observing a story—
you are participating in it.
You walk through the fog.
You face the machine.
You tremble in Paradox.
You awaken in Vértigo.
And somewhere along the journey,
you may discover what I discovered:
Truth is not something we find.
It is something that finds us
after everything else collapses.
Welcome to La Parábola.
Your awakening begins here.
