Configurando Nuevas Acciones: El Arte como Ente Educativo

Invitación a leer un artículo que escribí para la Revista Surco.

Ideas extraídas de la tesis que actualmente consume mis días

(y anteriormente consumió mis meses).

Resonancia

And thou art dead, as young and fair

As aught of mortal birth;

And form so soft, and charms so rare,

Too soon return'd to Earth!

Though Earth receiv'd them in her bed,

And o'er the spot the crowd may tread

In carelessness or mirth,

There is an eye which could not brook

A moment on that grave to look.

I will not ask where thou liest low,

Nor gaze upon the spot;

There flowers or weeds at will may grow,

So I behold them not:

It is enough for me to prove

That what I lov'd, and long must love,

Like common earth can rot;

To me there needs no stone to tell,

'T is Nothing that I lov'd so well.

Yet did I love thee to the last

As fervently as thou,

Who didst not change through all the past,

And canst not alter now.

The love where Death has set his seal,

Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,

Nor falsehood disavow:

And, what were worse, thou canst not see

Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.

The better days of life were ours;

The worst can be but mine:

The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers,

Shall never more be thine.

The silence of that dreamless sleep

I envy now too much to weep;

Nor need I to repine

That all those charms have pass'd away,

I might have watch'd through long decay.

The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd

Must fall the earliest prey;

Though by no hand untimely snatch'd,

The leaves must drop away:

And yet it were a greater grief

To watch it withering, leaf by leaf,

Than see it pluck'd to-day;

Since earthly eye but ill can bear

To trace the change to foul from fair.

I know not if I could have borne

To see thy beauties fade;

The night that follow'd such a morn

Had worn a deeper shade:

Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd,

And thou wert lovely to the last,

Extinguish'd, not decay'd;

As stars that shoot along the sky

Shine brightest as they fall from high.

As once I wept, if I could weep,

My tears might well be shed,

To think I was not near to keep

One vigil o'er thy bed;

To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,

To fold thee in a faint embrace,

Uphold thy drooping head;

And show that love, however vain,

Nor thou nor I can feel again.

Yet how much less it were to gain,

Though thou hast left me free,

The loveliest things that still remain,

Than thus remember thee!

The all of thine that cannot die

Through dark and dread Eternity

Returns again to me,

And more thy buried love endears

Than aught except its living year

And Thou Art Dead, As Young and Fair - Lord Byron

Preámbulo a un Cortejo: On How to Unsuccesfully Avoid a Temptress

Rarely do I express my english thoughts for my Español vocabulary flows in a more natural way, allowing the stream of consciousness to dispense of such trivialities as translation. Yet the language I speak now is but a testimony to the multicultural presence within. So it is that my worldly experience cannot do justice to what the body carries, to what the tongue might profess. After the experience of a stimulus nothing more is left but the desire to somehow shape into words the testimony of the world’s presence in me.

I have been to Madrid, Barcelona, Roma... spend my hours in London's Harrods and strolled down Firenze, Venezia and Paris. I was rocked in the Amsterdam canals and walked Frankfurt as if seen from a distant window to the past, one tainted by the modern aesthetic. I was fortunate to see a different Habana from what is sold in the media, and proved its presence in Miami. I was charmed by the southern warmth in Atlanta and am thankful of being able to have called Savannah home. I learned to appreciate Panamá city with all its contradictions and rivalries. Furthermore, I adore my San José as undoubtedly not many Costaricans do, unwilling to give in to the third world claims its streets attest to and instead appreciating the cultural richness found in them.

Yet somehow She, the restless city, always creeps in, finding shelter within my body just as it itself inhabits her, the tempting mistress and her lures. It must have been an affair that began in the first decade of my life and has consumed and driven me ever since, my strength unable to fight her charm even with the knowledge that such relationship can only be doomed. Longing for a more original land to call home, one not coveted by so many before me, the conflict grows as I walk her streets, from Madison to Broadway, Columbus to 5th, feeling entitled to call them my own I do not even heed the distances. The sound of my firm steps confirms my presence, owning the concrete as much as it owns me.

I cannot, however, help feel betrayed. Forced to share her with many other suitors, past present and future, I am reluctant and completely unwilling to call her mine. The courtesan in our palace, this love/hate relationship is bound to eventually break us all, reason why I am wary of giving in to such temptation.

Sensorially overloaded and sensibly shocked to awareness, my mental state recognizes the raw material her sounds and sights provide. It is not this physical embodiment that entices me nonetheless. It is its challenges and oddities, as if a secret kept for years is waiting to test my capacities. Thus, by subduing her I am essentially overcoming my weakness, my ignorance. So it is that I come to her ever so often on a pilgrimage to visit the bride to be.

The teaser that is New York, that innocent troublemaker, keeps me away, unsuccessfully I will add, for as much as I have tried to leave this love behind fourteen years in waiting cannot simply be ignored. It is the eternal duel between reason and emotion that fuels this affair. My mind resists, due to it's pragmatic nature and sensibility; but my entire self, nevertheless, still longs for what I might discover along its streets, for what I have already tasted but would like to have more of.

And so it is that leaving her is always painful, and the hopes of seeing her again feel like an obscure pessimism relying on what she may hold in the future. One never knows with a naughty girl... she has you wrapped around her fingers, but there's only so much love can take.

Lightness and Weight

"How can we condemn something that is ephemeral, in transit? In the sunset of dissolution, everything is illuminated by the aura of nostalgia, even the guillotine.

(...)

This reconciliation (...) reveals the profound moral perversity of a world that rests essentially on the nonexistence of return, for in this world everything is pardoned in advance and therefore everything cynically permitted"

Milan Kundera- The Unbearable Lightness of Being

Damnatio Memoriae

(...)

Es la falta de quien quiera proveerme una historia como la tuya.

Es la inocencia de quien en años de soledad ha olvidado las cicatricez de tu locura

locura que en algún punto converti en pasión

de esas que terminan por derretir mi hierro

porque, en mi salomónica conciencia, aún existe tu bíblico nombre

escrito en piedra,

mandamientos de lo que no se quiere resistir mas se debe mantener alejado.

Alucinógeno divino,

eres la droga que me mantiene sintiendo,

y es la falta de esa intensidad la que me lleva a consumir tu recuerdo,

inhalarte entre humos de esos días

cuando la tierna carne aun no escuchaba a la mente.

(...)

Damnatio Memoriae - M. Paola Malavasi

Hablando Entre Líneas

Habilidad quizás un poco elusiva y tortuosa para quienes, poco observadores, son incapaces de entender el lenguaje de la sutileza y el idioma de lo que no se dice, se ha vuelto quizás el unico medio de expresión por el cual la inseguridad se atreve a bajar la guardia. El dolor ha hecho callar a quienes el sufrir ha posado la carga de los días y sin otro camino que recorrer el hablado en código se ha deshecho en lamentos por la falta de dirección que cargan sus letras. Sin voz ni aprecio, lo que se mantiene dentro pareciera pesar cual carga del tiempo pues con el viene el remordimiento.

Y entonces lo que se dice entre lo dicho vale mas que lo que se escucha. He ahí que el cuestionamiento incita a escribir, pues sin canto fijo la metamorfosis de mis palabras termina en símbolos eludiendo el sonido y la confrontación directa en tantos estantes de la vida. He de decir que me muevo por ese bajo mundo, de aquel en donde quizás el miedo, quizás la precaución domina el actuar cuando de otros se trata. Acostumbrado el ego a esperar siempre lo peor, el constantemente adivinar el andar del otro se convierte en ruleta rusa y ese doloroso encuentro nunca se sabe cuando llegará. Se depende de ese otro... de quien en su sensibilidad debiera abrir oído y corazón mas hasta qué punto es tarea propia como emisora el comunicar lo que claramente siento mas no atrevo a exteriorizar. Comprendan pues señores que si algún valor lleva el impulso es el actuar por el instinto perdido gracias a la conciencia, que si algún mérito atribuyo a la ignorancia (y será por siempre el único quizás) es que es cura para el miedo y pomada de atrevimiento.

Ahora pues, si como paciente siguiera las indicaciones que como doctora receto quizás la inquietud de esta hora no se viera expresada por este medio.

Cortando Paralelismos

"`Other friends have flown before -

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'

Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

(...)

Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore

Of "Never-nevermore."

(...)

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted - Nevermore!"

The Raven - Edgar Allan Poe

Socialmente giramos alrededor de lo superficial, lo físico inevitablemente se vuelve una extensión de lo interno y en excesivos casos quizás un indicador erróneo de aquello que guarda tal cascarón en su interior. En la antiguedad guerreros Espartanos solían tomar un baño para purificar sus largas melenas; así, tras trenzar su extensa y preciada posesión capilar, marchaban en batalla hacia su thanatos kalos... la bella muerte. No es de extrañarse que tal rasgo ha sido a través de los años indicador creciente de una cierta pertenencia, algo que se posee o algo a quien se pretende pertenecer. El largo indica paciencia, dedicación, un cultivo quizás. Es el factor externo que guarda consigo una cierta cronología... aun después de la muerte sigue creciendo.

Las lágrimas que vi derramarse por la pérdida de tal atributo fueron simplemente una extension mas de aquella enfermedad (se sabrá muy bien para este punto) que fue poco a poco despojando no solo a su portador sino a quienes lo rodearon, de tanto apego material. El exterior se convirtió meramente en un indicador mas de la decadencia, de ese silencioso agente que carcome lo invisible para convertirlo en factores tangibles de un declive material. Hermano, su bella muerte ha llegado con los años, pues en su momento lo vio reducido a un cuerpo que no sostuvo la fuerza de su alma.

Hoy al verse trasquiladamente desnuda quien comparte estas letras, recuerdo aquel doloroso golpe a la vanidad para, bajo mis propios parámetros asimilarlo, mas con la extrema diferencia que, al ser decisión propia, por más sacrificio que se sienta no deja de ser un acto de voluntad. No hubo lágrimas ni falsas esperanzas. A decir verdad hubo risas y memorias. Y en la soledad de un acto impulsivo... el despojarme de mi vergel.