We live surrounded by problems. We detect them, classify them, solve them.
Problems make us feel useful, efficient, secure within a system that rewards clarity.
But life, art, and thought are not so tidy.
Often, what truly transforms us is not a problem, but a dilemma.
A problem has an answer; a dilemma does not.
A problem asks for a solution; a dilemma asks for a gaze.
In a dilemma there are no clean paths, but coexisting tensions: light and shadow, what I want and what I fear, what I know and what is still unnamed.
Creativity feeds on this uneasy space.
It is there—where two truths exclude and attract each other—that the need to create appears.
To create not to solve, but to understand;
not to choose, but to sustain;
not to close, but to open.
The dilemma forces us to listen, to breathe within contradiction, to seek new languages for what we still cannot say.
Perhaps art is born precisely from this: from learning to live with what cannot be resolved.
With the intuition that there exists a form, a color, or a silence capable of embracing what the mind cannot arrange.
When we stop fleeing the dilemma and enter it with curiosity, the creative process becomes more alive.
It is no longer about finding the right answer, but about making visible the very mystery of questioning.
