The convenience and facility of digital photography has totally changed the photographer’s sense of commitment, and plagued the media of mere noise and marginalia profusely documented.
The trivia of everything is sucking the essence of life itself, in its most ineffable, ungraspable parts: those that can trigger the relevant questions and move us towards personal and creative expansion.
What made the fields, the rose and the fox special was not their nature of field, rose, and fox but the blossoming love of the Little Prince. It was (it is) a case of intimacy. Lawrence Durrell, in his Alexandria Quartet wrote that one can love a city only because a loved one lives in it. This is so true, and can be extrapolated to every place and moment in the world.
That’s how art acquires transcendence.
If you close your eyes, and look at this photograph, you’ll hear one of David Sylvian’s songs sweetly and sadly eroding my heart, soothing my mind from trouble, doubt and trouble and you’ll be able to touch the skin of the dawn or the sunset.
I will print it for you realize that all this too much, too fast, too many, too soon you are seeking for comfort is preventing you from noticing how close you are to the source of all wonder in its most pure form and simplicity.
My purpose is to make it tangible for you.
You’ll never imagine how committed I am to drag this beauty, all the beauty of the world to your door. Now.
It is baffling, overwhelming, almost impalpable, transient. And it’s yours to embrace. It’s my offering, my votive contribution, my alms fee, the ashes of time at the borders of what makes us one rather than us alone, or you, or me.
Published on agosto 11, 2009 7:00 am.
Filed under: Departure of reality, Lovely bestiary, Music Tags: David Sylvian, Lovely bestiary
The street dancer was not an especially sensitive man. He didn’t do the dishes, he peed over the toilet like most men and certainly was not the kind of guy that cares about feelings, but openly liked chubby women without any trace of macho pride, hesitation or embarrassment.
Our relationship began with a flirtatious compliment about my bosom when I stopped by to applaud their break dance performance and that same afternoon I lost virginity on a filthy bed in a filthy patera lodge near Lavapiés.
At the beginning I felt pressured to go further than a skinny girl would go, but soon I realized that my ample flesh was arousing enough for him. He showed no interest at all in risky practices and seemed perfectly content with a few basic positions, so I had no need to undergo cheap book- learned Kama Sutra twists. Condoms were not an issue either and he never asked for a blowjob, yet he loved going downwards and my beefy thighs around his neck.
I felt one lucky chick, the only among my messmates that got a big O the first time. For a buxom hangdog like me, such an early ravishment was almost an assumption of superiority.
Following my intuition, I never discussed our relationship, but after five months of fine carnal romance and sharing a rotten and bad smelling den with a throng of Colombian, Moroccan and Nigerian outlanders, I forgot the odds and my anemic self esteem and brought our future into question.
He said he was earning the money to go back to Michoacán on time for his wedding to someone called Angélica. Then he opened his wallet and show me a shabby photograph of a raw-boned, flat-chested and undersized Mexican girl.
Although speechless, I pushed the question out with great effort: “Did you ever love me?”.
He didn’t temporize: “No, you just make me horny”.
I dressed up holding tears, I said good bye and left the Embassy of Cockroaches with any idea of where to go.
Five boyfriends later I just fake it to work it through, and still miss him like crazy.
The proved notion of my power to make a man steamy is the only thing that keeps me going.
Published on mayo 28, 2009 7:00 am.
Filed under: Music, Remix, Street Tags: cartography, the moment
“Ahora tú, no dejes de hablar”
Some people wagered his name for years in betting pools of early evanescence, but a couple of weeks ago, he sort it out the best he could to sing La chica de ayer in a crappy and mawkish TV show called The battle of the decades. After the song, almost breathless, visibly weak and ready to drop, he answered a hollow question of the host about why should the 80′s had to win over the 50′s.
That was his last public appearance.
Watching the video I see Anabel, one of the eliminated contestants of the last edition of OT (a kind of cross between Pop Idol and Big Brother), visibly touched by his performance and his frailty.
It’s almost an oxymoron to see Antonio in that context, the heartbreaking afterglow of his talent in such a splurge of mediocrity. However, Anabel’s expression was surprisingly honest and maybe for the first time, I found in her something worthwhile to look at. Perhaps it was not her merit, but his shy and wounded gift.
Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things and he had the outstanding capacity to bring that love to the surface through his compositions and his presence.
One cannot run away from weakness. It’s all about fighting it out or perishing and he was a light flyweight warrior of his own brittleness, yet always ready to let the blaze unfold.
I read somewhere that grace comes often clad in the dusky robe of desolation and in this case it’s true without question and beyond doubt. He struggled inner demons and he had a great craving for ingravity, but he wasn’t as sad as we imagined him to be. He wanted to have a child, he was about publishing a book of poems, he was excited about his new album, and even though his body was running away through the back stairs, he didn’t want to die and he didn’t mention death in any of his songs.
I’m afraid that whatever I write about him in the aftermath of his departure, will result in a platitude.
The truth is that his two guitars were close to the coffin, available to whoever wanted to say good bye with a few accords but no one had the guts to do so, as if the only acceptable eulogy was silence.
We owe him more sweetness and kindness than we are able to pay.
The biggest curse of our times is to take beauty for granted until it’s irrevocably lost.
Published on mayo 15, 2009 7:00 am.
Filed under: Music, Sense, Victim of a foolish heart Tags: Antonio Vega, the moment