Lichtenstein is anti any pictorial rule. Using advertising images, trivializes mass information on reality, forces the observer to a reaction that leads him to reevaluate his expectation.
He exploits a feature of the comic book press (the pointillism) and exasperates it: what in the comics is a necessity to save on the colors, he makes it a distinctive reading key to show how much everything is relative and fiction.
I wanted to do the same. I started with an emulation of his work “Ohhh… Alright…” and then use his own expedients to show how much the photo shows of the real: nothing.
Through makeup and retouching, I chose to dress an alterego of myself with the obvious contradiction of unreality, to remember that what we show in a picture constitutes a construction of ourselves, that we could be absolutely whatever we decide. Photography suggests, invents, draws a parallel reality. Continue Reading
They asked me once if I felt more Alice or White rabbit. I replied, but then I thought about it.
I believe you can’t choose whether to be White rabbits or Alice. That we can’t choose a single road and stop for life. We must have clear ideas and a tendency, perhaps. To be good, happy, precise, White rabbits. But without precluding the possibility of wearing Alice’s childhood amazement from time to time. Let yourself be angry, occasionally, and be a little unhappy, occasionally.
You can’t just choose one road.
Life is open sea, we are on a raft and that is what we intend to continue doing. But a swim in the event of a storm must be the alternative to drowning. Continue Reading
Although this year Xmas takes more difficult to trace the line of lights of my enthusiasm, I tried to infuse it in those around me. I have prepared five trees and I have donated 3 with the same sentimental principle that I will now share. Mum also has her little tree, a guardian angel and a soldier ready to anything for her (our beloved Nutcracker).
I would like try to born even with you, step by step, this Christmas. Which means birth, novelty, and rebirth. Continue Reading
Perfection is a mental mirage that tarnishes the sight, it loses us in a continuous mistake and conditions our idea of happiness.
There is a whole phase of life in which we turn our gaze to a nonexistent perfection but which we believe to see in others.
It means constantly comparing with anyone, always feeling in competition, and in defeat.
It means losing, at a certain point, the meaning of things. Our sense. Our goodness, and our happiness.
We should learn to compare ourselves and measure ourselves only with what we were and what we are; others must be a spur to improve ourselves, never a model of comparison.
Over the years -of life- maturity takes over, which slowly and unknowingly leads us to make things perfect. Not to be content. But to be ourselves the key to perfection. To identify it, obtain it, make it happen. To transform imperfection into perfection, life into love. The pain in grow. And finally be happy. Continue Reading
I will never tire of comparing the life to a card game. Because it’s exactly how I see it. Everybody around circular tables, cards to the hand, playground lights. There is someone who laughs a lot, who smokes cigars, who studies others, who counts. Someone comes out of the game, who loses, someone wins. But no one is called out. Each of us can go out and return, each of us has played infinite games and millions will play again. The cards we have in hand they have been chosen by us on the experience of previous games and are our destiny. The way we play them is the free will. And they will determine what we will have in the next game.
We will never tire. Of playing. It’s an endless night. Whoever wants can decide to rest a few hours in the upstairs rooms. We will stay here to play until the last. Continue Reading
November 16th, 2017
One year as one day.
No sail on the horizon.
It frightens me the idea that one day it will be 5, 10, 20 years. A whole life without you.
It frightens me the idea that I can forget your voice, your expressions, the way you called me, how it was to live with you.
I’m scared to lose you, Mom.
To lose you inside.
Throughout this year I’ve lived as if you were just leaving home, on one of your trips.
As if every morning I woke up a second after you left, and every night felt asleep without being able to wait for you.
It was the most dreamy year of my life. It looks like yesterday and like never. It seems like a dream. That one where you there aren’t or those ones from night where you are in? I don’t distinguish perceptions, as if it were all real -or all unreal.
I’m lost. But I don’t want to lost you.
My love for you will not change, no matter how much time will pass. I’ll always love you the same way. This is a certainty.
I’ll continue to thank you for the life you gave me -the love, the experiences, the education, the culture- I’ll continue to be sure you are well and you are finally happy, I’ll continue to blame myself for this selfish lack that I feel. Sorry.
I always wanted happiness for you. But I could only help, not give it to you.
Now I should rejoice and that’s enough.
In my every prayers, from last year in the hospital, I always asked you to choose for yourself. What would been better for you. For once at least. Not to think about us. We would be fine and we love you.
Even through these tears, I’m proud of your choice. I, I would do the same.
Only once, in a dream, I allowed to give you a ticket while you leaving the front door knowing you wouldn’t be back: I wrote “Find an excuse to come back.” Find an excuse to stay with us.
I’m sorry. Continue Reading
Starbucks to start the second day in Valencia (here the first).
It would also have been my mom’s nameday, September 29th. So we went to see the Gulliver Park: taken from Swift’s novel, the moment when the protagonist on his trip is imprisoned by the Lillipuzians, men high just 15 inches. This park is built as if we were the Lillipuzians who run and play around a giant Gulliver-carousel lying on the ground. Mom often named this story when we were little, it was a novel she had loved in her endless and polyglot teens reading.
The City of Arts and Science is right there. It’s composed of several buildings including the Museum of Science (interactive experiments on sound, brain, waves, energy, dinosaurs, space, nature …), the Hemisphere (where several films are projected, but I must admit that we were a bit disappointed), and externally the Oceanographic (sharks, dolphin shows, beluga, crocodiles, birds … and an underwater restaurant).
While I was in front of the beluga tub, the beluga mother stopped for several seconds, I had the real impression she was smiling at me. I have a faint emotion for these animals when I first saw them in Canada and touched them. I’ll tell you one day.
On the pools surrounding the city’s buildings you could rent canoes, water hoverboards or stay in a floating ball.
It has been one of the most deep experience of my life. Being there, in that balloon, flowing on the water, without anyone except you. As you always are. An acoustic and emotional isolation. The world’s sounds are away, and even if you are in a pool in front of so many people, you can feel yourself.
You hear the sound of an acoustically closed place, like underwater or in a small room.
After spending the first few minutes trying to stand up and falling and laughing and crawling on the water, I stopped to look my little world inside those two cubic meters of space. The sound of my thoughts. The bubble of apathy in which I lock myself up when I feel too full, when too many conflicting emotions fist in me and nullify each other.
It’s a place where I find peace, and I repeated that it was exactly here that I would be back the next time that all around in my life would have become too loud. I lay down and let the water float, breathing deeply and remembering.
Ten minutes that seemed like an eternity. Continue Reading
This Halloween was the Santa Muerte (Holy Death, Mexican deity with different indigenous origins, cult without religion or belief, condemned by the Church).
Exactly a year ago, dressed up as Maleficient (here), I was celebrating with a light heart -at half- one of my favorite festivity. At midnight, we had prepared a cake to celebrate Mom’s birthday of November 1st (she had gone up to fatigue, also dressed up as us, and she stayed with us a few hours without knowing anything about surprise).
This year we are here, with another cake for midnight. Symbolic. We blew the candle instead of her, holding us all by the hand, listening to her favorite song in silence. Hey Jude.
And we celebrated her birthday again -and always- in her favorite place yesterday.
Only 14 days to the first anniversary of death. Holy death.
What I want to be able to write is that the more we live, the more we die.
I would like to be able to write about death, about how it tends to make sense to everything in life, to make it more desirable, ephemeral at the same time, or tremendous. But still alive. Continue Reading