En cada uno de nosotros existen cuartos secretos. Esos cuartos están saturados de cosas, no hay luz. En una cama, alguien yace con el rostro vuelto a la pared. En su cabeza, hay más cuartos. En uno, las persianas se agitan con la tempestad estival que se avecina. Cada tanto, un objeto se materializa sobre la mesa: un compás roto, un guijarro del color de la medianoche, una ampliación de una foto escolar con un rostro enmarcado por un círculo, un reloj a resorte -cada uno de estos objetos es un tótem del ser-.
El arte siempre habla de la añoranza del Uno por el Otro. Huérfanos que somos, nos hermanamos con lo primero que surge. La tarea del arte es transformar, lenta, penosamente, el Uno en el Otro.
Charles Simic (Belgrado, Yugoslavia, 1938-En 1953 emigra a E.E.U.U.)
(Traducción de Maria Negroni)
TOTEMISM
Inside everyone there are secret rooms. They're cluttered and the lights are out. There's a bed in which someone is lying with his face to the wall. In is head there are more rooms. In one, the venetian blinds shake in the approaching summer storm. Every once in a while an object on the table becomes visible: a broken compass, a pebble the color of midnight, an enlargement of a school photograph with a face in the back circled, a watch spring -each one of these items is a totem of the self-.
Every art is about the longing of One for the Other. Orphans that we are, we make our sibling kin out of anything we can find. The labor of art is the slow and painful metamorphosis of the One into the Other.
Every art is about the longing of One for the Other. Orphans that we are, we make our sibling kin out of anything we can find. The labor of art is the slow and painful metamorphosis of the One into the Other.
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