Walking towards my London Shoreditch office to meet the Swiss investor and his impeccable suit, leaving the City bankers’s coffee-holding fast pace behind, I notice the absence nobody seems to Where did he go? His sleeping sack and pillow still on the sidewalk as annoyingly positioned in the corner as always But he’s gone . I wonder and I worry his failing body, almost as absent as his lost gaze
Cold men destroy women,” my mother wrote me years later. “They woo them with something personable that they bring out for show, something annexed to their souls like a fake greenhouse, lead you in, and you think you see life and vitality and sun and greenness, and then when you love them, they lead you out into their real soul, a drafty, cavernous, empty ballroom, inexorably arched and vaulted and mocking you with its echoes— you hear all you have sacrificed, all you have given, landing with a loud clunk.
If the world ends today, this is my goodbye soundtrack gift to you. If it doesn`t, tomorrow it will be the soundtrack of a waterfall, my new beginning gift to you. In any case, the first composition that I ever share with the world (“Waterfall in the winter”). Straight from my open heart. Enjoy. Peace. Love. Happiness.
Red dyes sky and “sea”, as they call it, as the sun sets over the Rio de la Plata. The promenade fills up with Montevideans with their mates. They smile, oblivious to, or despite of, life`s drama. This intense red bursts, invades, dyes and covers like a curtain. I must share it with you. It`s ephemeral, I know it will pass, but now it feels as if nothing can escape its spillover, which drags along my attention, my sensibility, my pain, my life.
Astonished I witness the trees rise tall from their base, not even rooted. Leafs leave, group, organize, and shifting shapes, take to the sky only to dive down. A red dragon, a viking vessel, coming straight at me. The memory of holding your hand, and blinking, gets me through. But how far could even a never fading memory take me? I shall hold your hand again, or be taken by the leafs.
On Thursday I went to 319 Scholes to attend the art opening of “Collect the WWWorld: The Artist as Archivist in the Internet Age”. Beyond the anecdotal post/pre hispter crowd, the exhibition itself is a sad celebration of noise. Which, in itself is as valid, or invalid, as any other starting point in the endless debate about art (more so in regards with contemporary, electronic, net, etc). But it is its legitimization attempt, with research project, curator, catalogue, and international tour, which brings the debate to a whole different level.
Autumn. My skin falls and yours is not there. I turn to the canvas, but its not color I want to smear your whiteness with. I face the white screen, but its not light that I seek. I confront the blank page, but words will not bring solace. Then my skin falls on the piano ivory. Fingers sliding down each key. Caresses that the air won`t keep. The music was already playing in my head.
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