There was a time when engineers dared to imagine an aircraft with joined wings, known as the "joined wing." It promised greater efficiency, speed, and aerodynamic superiority. But what remains? Forgotten prototypes, drowned in technical complexities and the constant need to justify their existence to an audience and investors demanding too much explanation.
This project, much like contemporary art, seems to carry the same burden. Modernity has stripped art of emotion, meaning, and intention. Today, it is proclaimed that the process or concept is what matters. Yet, ironically, contemporary art gets lost in its constant attempts to justify itself, as though it needed permission to exist, trying to fill a void imposed by the society around it.
There was, however, a time when art recognized itself at first glance. It needed no manuals, lengthy speeches, or walls filled with explanatory texts. Even the most untrained eye could look at a work of art and feel it. Art spoke for itself, universally, without intermediaries or noise. It was a language of gestures, colors, and forms—an expression so visceral it connected directly to the soul, without needing translation.
In the works of the great masters of the past, technique and emotion were inseparable. A stroke from Rembrandt, the movement captured in Bernini’s marble, Turner’s ethereal landscapes—everything stood on its own. No justification was required. Art existed to be, to pulse, to live. It was a celebration of the human and the divine, the ordinary and the extraordinary, with a clarity that demanded no permission.
Meanwhile, designers—these new artisans of beauty—are stepping into the role of creators. Without the anguish of needing to explain themselves, they transform utility into something enchanting, uniting form and function. They do not claim to be art, yet perhaps they are, by restoring to creation the balance between beauty and purpose.
We live in an era dominated by emptiness. Minimalism and extravagance—so distinct—coexist, reflecting a society without a face, without essence. And perhaps it is the fear of facing the raw, unadorned reflection of ourselves that makes art hesitate, continuously searching for reasons to justify its existence, in an effort to fill what was once whole.
The art of today seeks meaning in words, while the art of the past found itself in silences. The problem is not change—change is necessary, vital. But in changing, have we forgotten how to hear the silent voice of the work itself? Has the need for justification erased the essential: to feel before thinking, to look before interpreting, to live before theorizing?
Perhaps it is time to give art back what it once had: the freedom to be recognized for what it is—without explanations, without artifice. Because, in the end, If it works, why ruin it?