My gift to you will be an abyss, she said,
but it will be so subtle you’ll perceive it
only after many years have passed
and you are far from Mexico and me.
You’ll find it when you need it most,
and that won’t be
the happy ending,
but it will be an instant of emptiness and joy.
And maybe then you’ll remember me,
if only just a little.
My Gift To You, Roberto Bolaño
Photo: Henry Cartier Bresson- Hyeres France, 1932
Te regalaré un abismo, dijo ella,
pero de tan sutil manera que sólo lo percibirás
cuando hayan pasado muchos años
y estés lejos de México y de mí.
Cuando más lo necesites lo descubrirás,
y ese no será
el final feliz,
pero sí un instante de vacío y de felicidad
Y tal vez entonces te acuerdes de mí,
aunque no mucho.
Te regalaré un abismo – Roberto Bolaño
you come to me on the night like a wave waxing like tresses of hair wave like a silk thread unraveling like a light coiling in the brain light flooding and waving like pink moroccan rose like you
come on come on come on come on
I opened the doors of my Studio last night at PointB, the place where I live in Brooklyn, New York. I got the opportunity to show my paintings and prose with other 4 artists, each one showing their work at their studios.
My favorite moment: when I got to read the prose to my friends.
Thanks, thanks and thanks to all the friends who came. It’s going to be up for a while.
Bellow, some my work exhibited.
Color is an element that empowers the Soul. Poetry, the articulation of that “Soul”.
Drums of Joy, 2013. Acrylics. 36″ x 18″
Grounded Crown, 2013. Acrylics, Gouache and Oil on Canvas.
We are specialists. 2013. Acrylics, Gouache and Oil on Canvas.
Ojos. (Eyes) 2013. Acrylics
Glow, 2013. Acrylics
Poetas Ocultos. (Hidden Poets) 2013, Acrylics. 36″ x 18″
A pilot /poet was writing verses in the sky; a blue background with clear and unmistakable verses that said, “The war is over, destiny has absorbed the distance, let’s escape from it, let’s take the same path.” In my mind, a black and white film ran with images of shadows and silhouettes, both characters looking into each others’ eyes and the protagonist said: “We are specialists, we are surrealists, we manage our attraction with abstraction.” It was as if my left hand directed me to take a road and my right to take a mountain range.
Image by Edward Steichen. “The Quiet Front”
“La pasión es geometría. Rombos, cilindros, ángulos latidores. La pasión es geometría que cae al abismo, observada desde el fondo del abismo”
Roberto Bolaño, Prosa del otoño en Gerona
“Passion is geometry. Rhombuses, cylinders, lateral angles. Passion is geometry that falls into the abyss, observed from the depths of the abyss.”
Roberto Bolaño. Tales of the Autum in Gerona
*photo of the crystals in my office
The streets were damp and gray; those were the streets where no one lived. Deep dark clouds were moving at high speed. It was a special day. I was restless and wanted some signals. It was Friday; we went out on a trip despite the weather conditions and time. In front of us, a big black cloud threatened with a storm. It started to rain. Any hope of sun vanished away. We got into a bar and ordered two drinks. Mezcal for you and Rum for me. “That’s what we needed”, we said, then we left. With the rain, the grass got greener and the blue mountains stood out from the gray lamped landscape. I saw strangers walking and riding through the streets in silence. I drove in silence too. The soundtrack in the car played “my little girl, drive anywhere, do what you want, I don’t care”. It was near nightfall and a little bit of sunlight emerged. It lit up the sky. We parked on a bridge. We had to park to appreciate this. On my right side there was a giant moon rising reflecting its own light on the lake. What a strong feeling of serenity and calm!. I was standing there in awe. On my left side, the volcano was erupting and the sun falling. How much power and inspiration! Tears came out of my eyes. It was a discovery. “Yes, it’s possible!” I repeated. I got the message.
We walked in the mud through an impenetrable mountain. It was a lost paradise where the silence was our only companion. The mud reminded us on every step our obstacles and the dirt made us accomplices of something that we only knew. For some time we thought that one of those encounters at the darkest time of the day could be the last one. I remember the mountain had luxurious and impressive trees with emerging sap, reminding us that nature saves. Vegetation was thick, the desire was intense, and the more we climbed up the more the mass forgot our existence. Sunrises were our missed links and the mist of the night made us warriors, artists and poets. That was our destiny: the awakening of an inward poetry, so personal that one afternoon caught us on the top of the mountain and it was so silent it became unbearable. That afternoon we had to choose and your words came to rescue a promise of a tender separation and eternal loyalty.
El personaje de mi sueño fue el cielo. Un cielo estrellado y negro, el color de la noche. Sin luna es mejor, repetía yo en el sueño. Se derretían en mis ojos las estrellas en cámara lenta. Caían como flechas. Parecían miles de ojos sonriendo. Volvía de vez en cuando a ver a mi lado a quienes estaban ahí para saber si era cierto lo que veía. Así de real. Luego recordé que al acostarme le pedí a la noche un regalo, una locura, una esperanza.