WHAT MOVES ME
What moves me
Magic. There is something strange that happens to the mind when the ink explodes on the wet paper; when a black and white photograph disappears completely when immerged in a chemical to come back latter as a sepia toned image; when the sparks of the electrode create an arch as hot as a bolt of lightning and melts the metal and fuses it forever. There is magic on the stage when you sit and look into the eyes of the audience and you see tears in their eyes. There is Magic when the firs print is pulled from the lithographic stone or when the camera captures an instant in the life of a person, a glimpse into their soul. One could get lost painting with oils on a canvas, the bouncing of the brush, the vibration of the colors, the smell of the linseed oil.
Women. I love the company of women. As a matter of choice I prefer the female form, but, more than an aesthetic choice. From my mother, my aunts, my sister; my wives, my friends I have always have admired their way of thinking of looking at things in a way in which men would never think. The mystery of a smile or the terror of seeing them flee from your side, even when they are next to you, looking far away as if you were inexistent.
The City. The avenues look familiar, so much time has passed that the Paris of yesterday is no longer the same. I allowed time to go running between dawns and memories. The city is more of a concept, a living entity. I was born and grew up in Mexico City; a large, monstrous metropolis. Now to the concept of “City” in my mind I must add Chicago, Paris and others that I have visited only in my imagination. I Love the city when I walk in it I am serious, unreachable. I allow myself to walk into the cemeteries, facing the deep profoundness of death, I am always fleeing, becoming absent at the precise moment of the decline.
I have looked at their eyes, I have seen myself reflected in their soul, like the water mirror of Parque Mexico; and I believe, at times, that I will never understand what they contain. Distant, I have never known a colder being that I: it is the dialectics, that disrespectful materialism, inevitable. In the face of the reality there is not a question, neither is there an answer. One is. Whether we like it or not, one is what one is; neither religion, nor theology, or anything can replace reality.
The presence of your face, at half a second of distance, plays with the movement of the wind that unites us. Swimming in the Rio Bravo I remembered you; as thousand of times before I repeated your name and submerged myself in the brown water. Escaping from destiny and crashing head-on with reality, with a reality that I can still not escape. Thirty years already. thirty years already.
Your voice in Zipolite was softly recorded in the sand, stompped by seagulls that fell suspended in the ocean of your anguish. Dawning, hidden, your words took form between the rocks, measuring the ancestral mystery of the red in your face. Mine…, transparent and faceless; you came from Australia soaked of night and silence.
I don’t own anything. When the cold arrives, I cover with your body, nothing is mine. Maybe I never was an ascetic: however, I look at my hands, destroyed, from indecent ocuppations and I deny the emanated forms. Just yesterday, I seriously wondered if at all it is worthwhile to hit the stone, to leave the blood between the powder of the marble, fill the lungs of sand, in order to discover, inside the stone, the dreamt face. I look at myself in the mirror and there is no answer. (Enero 21 2004).