ART IN MY LIFE
Oleo Foto was in the middle of the art life of Mexico City, located at the corner of Amsterdam and Sonora Streets. The neighborhood was populated with artists from all countries the influx of Spanish, French, Jewish, Lebanese and Germans artists and intellectuals have been brought to this colonia to live and share; together with the mexican artists to form one of the most vibrant, colorful and artistic areas of Mexico. Here I grew up.
I Return. 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, serious, unreachable. I allow myself to walk into the cemetery, 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).