Posts

Image
   UN PASO DEL VACÍO (Piezas de un puzle que no encajan) David Yanez CAPITULO 2 29 de octubre, Natalia Los bares que cierran tarde, como éste, son como el coche-escoba. Arrastran toda la mierda de la calle. Cada sábado, amigos, amigas, novietes, parejas formales y conocidos de una noche que me piden a mí las canciones en vez de al pincha, y que tienen todos ellos un lavabo, cocina, coche o portal habitual en el que terminar echando la pota cuando ha bebido por encima de sus posibilidades, deciden, en cambio, dejarse la cena, o cosas peores en los baños que yo tengo que limpiar a las 6 de la mañana. Eso si cerramos pronto. Los camareros, el jefe y el pincha tampoco se libran, Yo incluida. Yo soy la chica-mona-tetas-grandes a la que todos quieren contarle la película a las 3, pero que nadie quiere tener al lado cuando no sonríe. La chica-mona-tetas-grandes se hace la estrecha a las seis de la mañana, con una cerveza en una mano y la fregona en la otra. Cuando ya no hago pie, con el g
Post a Comment
Read more
Image
 Hace unos días me enconté con un libro que escribí hace diez años y que, por pura juventud, nunca creí lo suficientemente bueno para publicar. He decidido reescribirlo. Una página al día. Y de paso revisiar quién era. Han pasado cosas últimamente que me han echo ver que siempre voy a ser un extranjero en Malasia, así que he decido volver. No sé cuanto tardaré o si en verdad volveré. Pero el capítulo asiático se cierra para mi. Ha llegado la hora de volver a Europa. Nunca ha de quedarse uno donde no es bienvenido. Volviendo al libro, os dejo con el primer capítulo (página). Es una historia sobre un grupo de estudiantes de universidad. Más de uno de los que habéis visto de mis películas reconoceréis de quién hablo. Esta es la semilla original de Muchos Pedazos de Algo y Desaparecer.  Filtrada a través de 10 años de experiencias, eso sí. Para bien o para mal, no soy ya este pollo de la foto. A UN PASO DEL VACÍO (Piezas de un puzle que no encajan) David Yanez CAPITULO 1 29 de octubre,
Post a Comment
Read more

Poetics / Poética

Image
  35mm B/W film roll forgotten in the pocket of a jacket for a few years. POETICS Even blood is forgotten if you wash carefully your hands -----------------------------------------//  Orignal  version below // POÉTICA Hasta la sangre se olvida si te lavas con cuidado las manos. [De  HOMBRES EN SILENCIO, MUJERES SIN MAQUILLAJE , ed. Baile de Sol, 2015]  sobre este libro:  CRITICA- La Biblioteca de Alonso Quijano
Post a Comment
Read more

Sketch / Esbozo

Image
 No title -  ink on paper and digital technique, 21x30cm,  2020 Two junkies sunbathing leaning against the window of a jewelry store -perfect synecdoche  of this city- and pretty girls heeling their way  down the stairs of the subway at nine in the morning zigzagging between Peruvians clutching their shadows. Crestfallen men of clay smearing  of dirt to delicious busy women, sad men and freshly showered women, clean, goddesses. My troubles  never have women's names anymore, they have the names of big companies electricity suppliers or gas providers. Women in the subway. The younger ones protect their red faces on the pages of political propaganda; it's not blushing  it has nothing to do with fleeting and frightened glances they are just exhausted;   it has nothing to do  with sex, it's nine o'clock in the morning they're clean, but it's just water. There's hardly any time left  for make-up or dreams. Raymond Chandler is dead, I hear them say and then the scr
Post a Comment
Read more

GETTING UP EARLY, STAYING UP LATE, WRITING / MADRUGAR, TRASNOCHAR, ESCRIBIR

Image
    Ho Chi Minh Nights ( diptych )-  acrylic on canvas, 30x30cm,  2023 Let nothing pass you by, transcribe everything of this day: the smell of the coffee has to be the same as yesterday, remember cheap coffee, honest, from an electric coffee machine and also tell them about that girl and that you saw her panties on the escalator, and don't forget the platform and the harsh smell of the night and the rock/roll in the headphones and the faces, the faces... Tell them also about the guy you saw lying on the ground last night, at dawn, coming back from work and why you didn't help him. Tell them about his face. Tell them about the fear of the taxi drivers, about the sweat... tell them about the soot, about the ad men, about the lost shoes in the drains, on the sidewalks, [on the telephone wiring... Show them the underground tunnels  that make it all make real sense. -----------------------------------------//  Orignal  version below // No dejes pasar nada, transcribe todo de este d
Post a Comment
Read more

OUTSIDE, IN THE STREET / AFUERA, EN LA CALLE

Image
     * No title  -  acrylic on canvas, 30x30cm,  2023 I saw you sitting there every evening I saw you scrutinizing the shapes of things, the sky, dirty, grey, grimacing ugly, the people walking elsewhere, the sad, dull buildings, the ochre paint. Blending in with the grime the half-closed windows and the neglected gardens, the barren leaf litter, your cigarettes, the automatic sprinkler as a farewell when you enlisted the night and  locked everything up. You were so beautiful with your winter make-up so exotic for this month of August, so impossible and yet underneath the elusive and aged look that we all get after a few months here in Madrid, under the cornices,                   [so far from the Gran Vía, smoking one of your menthol cigarettes under the sky                                                                                         [dirty that the only thing I could think of was whether the next day you'd be there, on the other side of my window, that overlooked your
Post a Comment
Read more
Image
       Alka-Seltzer , 100x70cm, acrylic on wood panel WOLFDOG (POETICS)   Yourself is impregnable and with mirrors, you always run the risk of not recognizing yourself -and I speak of mirrors when  I speak of the mental illness of the instant photos; call it whatever name you want - as I was saying, with mirrors, you risk of realizing that you don't look like yourself enough. Remaining still, watching the events unfold, like a surprised animal on the freeway, is in its own right an act of creation and death; and no one wants a new face for himself.   II  After several weeks of unsuccessful search                                         [in the word processor I found one of those memories that take you by the hand right to the edge of the cliff: the image of our wolfdog. A sharp, accurate vision of how that animal smiled naively -and I would swear that dogs don't get to smile- after killing all our sheep and my father blaming it
Post a Comment
Read more