25 June 2008. Beautiful gray morning, chilly wind, birch tree branches on dark window.
Milton Resnick: I'm not older than anyone else and I'm not younger than anyone else. Blunt formulations from the hand of a master...standing before an acre of canvas on his light loft wall, so wide he couldn't see the ends, only tubes of white, a hundred at a time... throwing each new tube on the floor, stepping on it to open, dipping in again with the brush...
The brush, en todo sentido. To brush her cheek, to brush with fate. Gates of heaven opening in a Jujuy quebrada, la musica de la montaña, vigüela, charango, peludo... A small creature with a hard shell, soft to the inside, rolling itself into a tight ball when threatened...
Fears, ungathered. Time, change, lo necesario...
Four women--las viejas--climbing a hillside path. Heavy skirts, shawls, goods carried in cloths wound round the waist. Humuhuaca, maybe--centuries ago...
La noche del peludero...
No comments:
Post a Comment