Ce spectacle comprend des lumières stroboscopiques et des effets atmosphériques ; la discrétion du spectateur est recommandée.
Un flash est un crâne qui vibre. Son aspect visuel provoque une photopsie et des sensations au niveau du lobe temporal. Les rencontres fantomatiques ont des allures psychiques. Observez des étincelles électriques dans l’atmosphère, entre les nuages et l’air. Les images du film défilent au-dessus d’un faisceau de rayons. Le projectionniste s’assure que le son et l’image de la bobine sont synchronisés. Des trous vides consomment la matière tandis que le compte à rebours se transforme en un drain optique. Une femme nue et cramoisie danse. Avec ses seins généreux et son collier de perles de crânes ondulant, elle marque la surface de notre mémoire rétinienne.
Il s’agit d’un procédé de lumière polarisée aux silhouettes exceptionnelles. Les ombres caressent les contours. Le cordon ombilical nourrit un embryon, de la même manière qu’un fil soutient un astronaute. Pendant un instant, une pieuvre du futur nous observa jusqu’à ce qu’elle projette de l’encre, rendant les observateurs inconscients. L’obscurité se remplit d’une illumination à motifs, jusqu’à une nuée de chauves-souris albinos en vol. Les drones sont des OVNIs partout. Une immense colonie de fourmis sur Terre a envahi et dévoré une simple feuille flottante. La foule s’amusait au parc d’attractions jusqu’à ce que le programme lui ordonne de former des lignes. Le fossile d’une orchidée montrait une minuscule danseuse du ventre à l’intérieur, en accéléré. La fleur était un signal intelligent voyageant à travers le temps. Un déluge d’éclairs éclipsait tout ce qui l’entourait. Une façon de contacter les extraterrestres était la danse du cerceau.
Ce cercle vient d’ailleurs. Évitez de vous leurrer. Les voyages spatiaux impliquent le vieillissement, la mutation et la mort. C’est aussi simple que ça. Observez comment les ondes de radiation dissolvent les éléments dans le néant. Ensuite, la chasse aux iguanes. Ne vous inquiétez pas, ce sont de gentils lézards en quête d’un en-cas. L’homme prothétique n’a aucun loisir, car les objets orientent son expérience vers une série télévisée. Suivez la figure nageant du tronc cérébral, à travers le système limbique, jusqu’au tableau de bord néomammifère. La Créature du Lagon Noir, malgré son portrait, n’est pas misogyne. Au contraire, elle incarne le principe du plaisir et illustre la conception de la nature. La plupart des gens entendent le saxophone flirter avec eux. Le mouvement rotatif tourbillonne de points qui s’épanouissent dans les danseurs Dogan célébrant la cérémonie du Sigui avec des masques. L’extérieur d’un masque reflète son noyau central, situé de la 111e rue à DaDa.
J’évolue dans le monde des arts plastiques , de l’expression corporelle et dans le milieu alternatif parisien depuis très jeune . J’ai donc exploré diverses techniques et directions : peinture , photographie , dessin , graphisme , video , danse et travail sur le corps.
Depuis ces 15 dernières annnées , j’ai fait des expositions et performances en France et quelques collaborations qui m’on ouvert de nouveaux horizons. Il y a un moment ou j’ai glissé de la peinture et de la representation du corps à la mise en scène directe des corps et des ames à travers la photographie , le corps au sens large comme moyen d’expression.
Il m’est rapidement venu un questionnement sur mon propre érotisme face aux archetypes simplifiés et imposés par la société de consommation. Durant des siècles d’histoire de l’art , les femmes ont été enfermées dans le rôle de sujet de fantasme érotique , mais empechées dans l’expression de leur propre érotisme loin des attentes sociales , ce qui explique le fait que toute une génération actuelle parte dans cette direction à la suite des pionnières du siècle dernier.
Dans la jouissance esthétique et tactile de la matière , j’y trouve une relation au spirituel dans le monde des fantasmes qui ouvre une porte à la fois physique , énergetique , psychologique et mystique . La sensualité comme acte quasi religieux , la sensualité comme prière.
Mes influences profondes dans la démarche et l’esthétique sont clairement celle des suréalistes ( dont certains pionniers qui ont abordé l’érotisme du fétichisme ) Etant de la génération de1976 , j’ai été aussi très influencée par la vague rock punk goth newwave des années 80 et j’ai été jeune ado et jeune adulte dans les années 90 pendant l’emergeance des mouvements technos sauvages. Les attitudes des femmes de la scène rock comme Lydia Lunch par exemple ( parmis beaucoup d’autres ) ont clairement ouvert la porte à ma generation. C’est aussi dans ce monde rock notament gothique et new wave que j’ai decouvert très jeune mes tendances au fetichisme et aux mises en scène BDSM.
Dans la photographie , les artistes comme Robert Mapplethorpe me parlent beaucoup , le fait d’aborder des sujets parfois crus ou qui peuvent paraître provoquant mais dans un style presque academique pour un rendu raffiné , les photographies de sexe ou de fleur y sont representé avec la meme sensualité , ramenées au meme niveau.
En ce qui concerne la littérature , je citerai ‘ L’histoire de l’oeil ‘ de Georges Bataille , ‘incontournable ..Les oeuvres d’Henry Miller m’interessent beaucoup , j’y retrouve cette errance hedoniste , urbaine ou se melent sexualité et philosophie ‘ King kong théorie ‘ de Virginie Despentes est également un de mes livres de chevet , je le considère comme le livre de ma génération en ce qui les femmes et leur sexualité face à la société . Mon autre influence est bien évidement l’érotisme asiatique , en particulier japonais , les classiques comme ‘ L’empire des sens ‘ par exemple , le shibari ( le bondage japonais ) , le coté rituel et très martial dans la mise en scène de l’eros.
Frutillar in the south in Chile. Photo credit Claudia Isabel Vila Molina
Sueño contigo madre corazón de átomo
Los divisé
pasaron por la ventana
hacia el este
(no me vieron)
se ahogaron en mi corazón.
No eché a los demonios
ni vi tu propio ojo mirándome.
Del libro inédito
La extraña casa de los sueños
Bosquejos
Ya es la hora, el tiempo
se perfila en las líneas de su mano
me basta golpear mi frente contra la ventana
derramar lenguajes en el sitio de la evaporación
me basta saltar los rasgos, los auténticos rasgos de la locura
pieza enigmática – distancia -vuelos.
Fotografías
Manos someten brevedades de minutos
y entonces el silencio es una plancha tibia
en el lugar de las memorias
y la llama una tetera oxidada en el interior
de imágenes.
Sacrificio
Mi cuerpo es tan lúgubre como la noche
y aun así entras en él- astros fracturan
el sesgo de remordimientos-algo ignorado
sigue en vilo -a pesar de los ángeles de las fotos
mi cuerpo sigue susurrando su corona de espinas
maniatado hacia las últimas especies de infamia
mi cuerpo es la sombra de tus ojos fantasmales
en el fondo de los espejos solo existes.
Claudia Isabel Vila Molina 22-09-1969…) Escritora nacida en Viña del Mar, Chile. Profesora de lenguaje y comunicación (PUCV), poeta, editora, correctora de textos y crítico literario. Estudiante de Magister en Literatura Comparada en la UAI en Santiago de Chile.
With complete dedication, Stéphanie immersed herself in photography, perfecting the gestures, and selecting women as her muse. Through her work, she realized the significance of honoring the dignity of every woman. Stephanie’s sessions revolve around accepting the body and loving one’s self, even in the face of adversity. This theme triggered a desire for personal growth.
Inspiration for my Artwork comes about fast and furiously, which I attribute to the theory of left-to-right brain transformation. My background and education have enabled me to create without boundaries.
The Overseer
I see a world of abstract shapes and colors, and I interpret my vision in digital images. Hidden within my creations are enigmas—mysterious images, cryptic messages, and symbolism. I invite viewers to explore, to decode, and to find their own meanings in the art
Crystal Blue Persuasion
Leo Alt (Leonid Altshuler) is a notable 21st Century Digital artist, whose work incorporates images of organic substances, minerals, and man-made items, photographed on a micro-scale. Included in the surreal scenes are silhouetted forms of humans and other creatures.
The vivid images are evocative of many scenes: dreamscapes, alien worlds, portals to other dimensions, and more. Leo’s portfolio showcases his unique vision and creative approach to digital art
In centuries preceding, during the long, dark night of people passed, the light from the moon was different, they say. Carpet weavers watched sporadic clouds wrestle with thick air as translucent sentiments, ribbed by fleshy coils, pointed fingers at old friends. Tarpaulin Triveni, female, teacher of twenty, payer of Federal taxes, architect of the west winds, lover of afternoons; Route 79 to Tiruvannamalai, rush hour smoke, brimstone, incense, pooja, sudden migrations: the temple, partly stone, partly human –
Tortosa CataloniaMontblanc Catalonia
Astarte! At last, longed the cantaloupe queen, conscious like burned butter afloat in disquietning nodes of boiled heroism, sheer terror written on her bronze armour in longhand Sufic prose, arrows bristling brilliant shafts of light upon those who stand amazed. In showers of liquid lead and riddles like retribution she raises up her head in thunderous paroxysms of wildfire, incinerating the noise of the NASDAQ trading floor via the quietest opening, or tearing into the roaring twenties: like lovers they eat themselves whole. A pain-pointed predilection for killing gods of all sorts, striking them to the ground, howling, shrieking for mercy, but shewing none, misusing the corpse after the kill like orca with a dead seal, or Achilles with Hector’s remains. We play with death. It makes us young.
Tivenys CataloniaTivenys Catalonia
Silver serpents entwine the heart-locket of a young man in Queens. The crepuscular silhouettes of tall buildings all empty, as in a dream, bitter chills in the wind from Hudson’s channel, flashes of red lightning, banshees in the street below setting the dumpster afire. Concrete streets empty and dark, this wraith-like apparition only masquerades as a city: a riddle, an omen, a curse. A picture of petty consequences, catalysing a tuber shaped oath for remedying unlikely afflictions of the psyche, like the pinch of a rubber band wound too tightly around your finger. Entrenched layers of decimal decline pontificate politely to a crowd of mainly young goatherds, but they don’t mind, as any entertainment will suffice for a goatherd of the Bactrian valley, longsuffering in the August Afghan ovenheat, yearning for the cool Hindu Kush. Up there, queens look down from snowy temples, peaks outlined by the monsoon moon, vanished layers of paradise passing instantaneously from view. Instantaneously –
Tivenys Catalonia
Borders bind the wealthy to the poor, but in seaside temples of voluminous concern we count epigrams between sunsets, rallying fractious spirits in the meanwhile, damaging civic furniture installed in the Citibank Plaza. The old guard sits outside the bank on a plastic beach chair, machine gun hanging lazily at his side, smiling cheerfully at the calls of the brain-fever bird stirring raptures in the daytime as if coaxing clams from shells, a child of every man. Now we are ringing the new year by the seven bridges of Königsberg, full of cheap fortified wine and high on super glue, destroying the way of life for those who cannot know better, sweetening a joyous relation between the baroque lintel and its most spiritual rejoinder.
Montblanc CataloniaMontblanc Catalonia
Openings, ruptures and fissures decimate Dorothy Drumwise on her drunk drive through the badlands of Blackpool, BMW unlicensed, DMT fairground flakeout. She sings sweet missives of the Golden Age, of Plutarch, Pindar, and of Ovid. Inclinations of ages move with tectonic twists, first shifting this way, then that way, as with the latest dance fad. I know that you know that the ‘this way and that way’ is a vital mechanism of natural philosophy. The waggledance of industry, the fiesta after the feast, festivals observed on Temple grounds, and with much smoke and incense. Astarte above, chariot rider of fury, smoking halos of pure fire above the heads of gathered postmodernists, crypto-Marxists, and other groups assembled for purposes only spectacle may account for. This terror and delight is for quivering flesh alone: no gods may get a taste –
Tivenys Catalonia
In an asemic New Babylon, an endless plan of a constant architecture, sketch after sketch of alleyways and avenues, flows, interruptions, passages of ludic intrigue: our only concern will be for how the wind goes. The city-gestalt, our new Babylon, is stacked tier-upon-tier as with a Hindu temple, complete with the sombre front of a necropolis, grey and overbearing, the pantheonic structures of dead gods hewn into rock, but haphazardly, without plan or meaning. The Temple of pure, empty worship, accessed via doors which only appear to be doors, words which only appear to be words, each word a door signifying an exit, but only signifying, without being itself –
Kuilapalayam India
The cultivation of ways, sulfurite ligaments imposing reasonable content on expounding gasses, phosphorescent burns blister the torn corners of Lloyd George’s copy of The Life of Gargantua and of Pantagruel, but this will not be a problem for long – at least, not for several centuries. Down in the Centre Pompidou there exists a scale copy of Nieuwenhuys’ Labyrinthe aux échelles mobiles. Parisians drink pastis at 7pm.
Tivenys CataloniaTivenys Catalonia
The matriarchal temple builders of our mother, our lady, notre dame. The swollen, translucent body nurtures a billion babies in complex mythic tunnels underground. Our lady of the temple, founded with mortar and keystone, high Romanesque arches, transverse, ribbed, darkened by smoke of incense that beckons, intoxicates, shines, yet moulds-over quickly. The body of our lady nurtures a repugnant decay where fungi of a million kinds find resplendent consumption. A gentle breeze lifts the spores up and into the forest above, the penthouses, tower blocks, the Gothic quarter below, even the suburbs populated with a thousand empty houses, empty restaurants, empty hotels, emptiness, or so it is reported by La Vanguardia, thumbed in street corners by elderly gentlemen sipping coffee in districts of towering blocks, Brutalist forms, echoes of steel rod construction divining bittersweet sunsets of lackadaisical reform, wilted in margarita sunsets, sugary sensualities disinhibiting bashful dissimulation with the gait and libido of a wild cur, roaming street corners, lurking around the panty drawer, Our Lady intends two-thousand years of certitude for divine discourses on nature, for a thorough study of Deleuze, for a monthslong dance of the wild kind, for carnivals of a schizoid nature, for a Heraclitean passing, and passing, and never returning –
Tivenys CataloniaBarcelona Catalonia
Our retreat towards a porcelain past resides in a turpentine residue of vistas opening above the Sierra Nevada, that pillar supporting the vaulted deep blue sky, the only thing keeping worm-eaten heavens from falling. Remember how we drove there in December of 2018, how the warning signs for ice hazards slowed us for many miles? We sat in the steamy car and drank tea from a flask, ate sandwiches prepared earlier at home, austerity gnawing at the innards. Porcelain does not prevent against cysts. Cysts large as an eyeball, pickled in vinegar solution, stacked on a forgotten shelf in a back room of the British Museum. Perhaps it was Napoleon’s eye? Perhaps it was not?
Tortosa Catalonia
It was I, not Napoleon, who took the moon and put it at the bottom of a lake, littered with the bloated bodies of Englishmen drowned in their re-sprayed Range Rovers. Between velour flaps, cold castellations and raptures coloured like velvet bands at the fair, phalanxes shimmer like desert lizards tussling in the heat of day, the axehead aligns at the very base of the skull to release a thousand demons from their hiding places, demons who vy against one another in their scramble to escape this mind forever, darting this way and that, a confusion of beastly shapes writhing in colours both sapphire and turquoise –
Daniel O’Reilly
Daniel O’Reilly is an independent British author, publisher and internationally exhibited multimedia artist living and writing in rural Catalonia in northern Spain. In 2022 he exhibited stories, photographs and music from the [archipelago] project at the International Exhibition of Surrealism in Cairo & Alexandria in Egypt, which will travel to the Andre Breton House in France in 2024. He has recently published short fiction in the Margate Bookie Zine, Trilobite Literary Journal, Tiny Spoon magazine, Writer’s Block magazine, Sulfur Surrealist Jungle, the Bengaluru Review, Defunkt Magazine, Everything in Aspic Magazine, Chachalaca Review, The Room Journal of African Surrealism, and Black Flowers Literary Magazine. He is co-creator of The Unstitute, an online art lab and artists’ co-operative, and has screened original video art in competitions and exhibitions in over 20 different countries worldwide.
A DAY LIKE TODAY I WAKE UP WITH CERTAIN ANGUISH IN THE SOUL A DAY LIKE TODAY ALFREDO JAAR WINS THE NATIONAL AWARD OF PLASTIC ARTS, A DAY LIKE TODAY 1200 YOUNG PEOPLE FORM A CHAIN OF BODIES LYING IN THE ALAMEDA, A DAY LIKE TODAY I WRITE THIS POEM, A DAY LIKE TODAY THE MECHANICS OF THE AIR FORCE ADJUST THE MISSILES OF THE HAWKER HUNTERS WITH WHAT TOMORROW AT THIS SAME HOUR THEY WILL BE BOMBING THE CURRENCY
“SELK´NAM DEJANEIRO”, ATRÁS PODE VER A PEDRA DOS DOIS IRMAOS E A PARTE NORTE DA FAVELA ROCINHA. DA SÉRIE “MEU PEQUENO EXÉRCITO SELK’NAM”, PROJETO RIO DE JANEIRO / IPANEMA, FEVEREIRO DE 2023.-
THE MARKED STONES (POEM)
AN EGG OR A LONELY CIRCLE DISINTEGRATING INTO ATOMS TWO EGGS OR THE STONE ABACUS METRIC NUMERICAL SYSTEM – DECIMAL NOW BELIEVED TO HAVE BEEN INSPIRED BY HALLUCINATORY EXPERIENCES…. THE SILENCE OF THE STONE IS THE LANGUAGE. A CIRCULAR INCORSION OF THRESHOLDS THAT OPEN AND CLOSE THAT ENTER AND EXIT LIKE TRAVELING IN TIME MAGNETIC SILENCE OF SIGNS THAT DETACH FROM THE STONESSTRANGE MONUMENTAL FIGURESSOMETIMES FIGURES THAT CHANGEBY JUMPING IN PIECESLIKE A SCIENCE FICTION TREATISE OR SATELLITES THAT GRAVITATE AROUND THE POINT OF A KNIFE AND FLOAT ABOVE THE ROCKS THAT HAVE SPRINTED OUT OF THE EARTH LIKE POWERFUL AND REBEL RUBBLE THAT HAS SEEN THE CENTURIES GO BY WITH THE RAPIDITY OF A SECOND. HUNTING SCENES IN LOS MELLIZOS…. WHAT IF WHEN YOU SEE THESE SCARS ETCHED LIKE STRETCH MARKS IN THE ROCK YOU WANT TO DO THE SAME? AND IF AT THE RISK OF DISCOVERING-YOU GET LOST?
–“KLOKETÉN TREPANDO EL FUERTE DUQUE DE CAXIAS“, DE LA SERIE “MI PEQUEÑO EJÉRCITO SELK’NAM”, PROYECTO RÍO DE JANEIRO / PRAIA DO LEME, FEBRERO 2023.-
-NATURAL SCENE- (STORY)-
Kaweskars! – shouted the technician leaning next to the camera tripod.
The man looked at the Director and saw how the guy quickly adjusted the lens ring to a more open diaphragm than normal, in order to capture the scene in its full magnitude. The Cameraman scratched his beard. They had been isolated three months ago in a lost location in the middle of the southern Patagonian archipelagos, waiting for that moment. – Kaweskars…- he murmured almost silently as he began to roll, and from the old woman’s lips emanated a song like a moan:
KAS _ TAP _ HAR AR _ LAW KET YERKSTA KA _ YOE _ SA YERK _ STA KA_YOE_SA
The Camera man held the face of the old woman who was singing in the foreground, confused by the smoke. The picture was impressive: of medium height and painted a dark reddish color, the old woman sported a large belly and short hair to her ears. Around her neck she wore a necklace of Snail Shells that hung between her breasts and on her back a Sea Wolf skin tied under her throat by a gut rope. The rest of her body was naked. She was -without a doubt- the matriarch of the toldero.
For a while, both Documentalists surveyed the scene. The script couldn’t be more exact: they called the technician to correct the sound and point the rod towards the woman who was at the center of the action. ORn white smoke rose on the beach, grouping in tall fumaroles…
I am the Voice of the Southern Sky That brings winter and the narrow Austral day… Huge shadows that rise in the Night Wherever it lives Ayayema! Spirit of Noise that snores between Mountains and Glaciers, Half Human crying, Half Beast cry He brings the Wind that overturns the canoes…..
It was one of those short days in Tierra Del Fuego and the echo of nomadic songs it made itself felt bouncing in the distant canyons. As the scene progresses, the credits of the production team begin to appear one by one.
AND it starts to get dark The Director crumples the script in his hands and curses, thankful for such disturbing accuracy.
TRIP TO THE CHONOS ARCHIPELAGO- (POEM)
OUR ANCIENTS, THE FATHERS OF THE ORAL TRADITION, RELATE THAT BACK IN THE BEGINNING WHEN THE ICE COVERED ALL THE LANDS AND A GOOD PART OF THE SEA A GROUP OF CANOES APPEARED, NO MORE THAN FIVE WERE WITH OUR GRANDPARENTS HUNTERS AND THEIR WIVES AND SOME CHILDREN. THEY ADVANCED TO THE SOUTH WHERE THE THICK MANTLES OF ICE BEGAN TO LEAVE THE LANDSCAPE FREE, WITHDRAWING AND SHAPING VALLEYS AND WILD MOUNTAINS A VISION OF LANDS THAT EMERGED FROM THE SEA TO FORM BAYS AND FJORDS, A DISMEMBERED RELIEF OF ISLANDS AND CHANNELS DRAWN BY THE ICES BY THE ADVANCE AND RECEDING OCEANS STRONG INLAND CURRENTS WHICH FRAGMENT THE COAST OF THE ARCHIPELAGO INTO AN IMPRESSIVE LABYRINTH AT THE END OF THE WORLD.
HERE IN THESE PLACES OUR ANCESTORS WALKED THE FROZEN BANKS AND REMAINED TO LIVE UNDER THE WESTERN SKY THIS IS HOW THEIR FIRST CHILDREN SPEAK, REPEATING ANCIENT VOICES THUS THEY TELL, FROM VERY ANCIENT THOSE WHO BROUGHT THE INHERITANCE OF THE SPIRITS AND CAME TO WHAT TO LIVE WITH THE LIGHTNING, WITH THE PILLÁN THE SPIRIT OF THE NATURAL FORCES. BETWEEN ISLANDS AND CHANNELS, COMPACT AND TORTOUS FORESTS WE HAVE INSTALLED OUR AWNINGS LEARNED TO HANDLE THE CYPRESS WOOD
TO BUILD OUR CANOES WITH THE POWER OF FIRE AND SHELLS.
HERE WE HAVE SAILED BRINGING THE FIRE, OUR FAMILIES ALWAYS SAILING IN THE WAKE OF THE WHALE , THE SEA WOLF IN THE FOOTPRINT OF THE HUEMUL OR THE OTTER HUNTING WITH A BONE HARPOON AND OUR FISHING DOGS.
WE KNOW THE BODY OF THE LARCH, THE TEPÚ AND THE CANELO THE HARDNESS OF THE LUMA FROM WHICH WE MAKE SPEARS AND YETAKANAS THAT WE TIE WITH WHALE BEEF.
HERE WE HAVE LIGHTED THE FIRES WITH FLINTS AND DANCED NAKED UNDER THE STARS, DISCOVERING THE RED EARTH OF THE ARCHIPELAGOS TO DYE OUR BODIES AND SEAL GREASE TO PROTECT US FROM THE COLD.
OUR WOMEN WEAVE THEIR FISHING NETS SPINNING THE BASKET OF THE QUANTÚ AND WASH THEIR HAIRS WITH THE BARK OF THE QUILLAY, THE JUNE THAT IS BORN IN THE SWAMPS MAKE THEIR BASKETS WITH WHICH THEY DIVE THROUGH THE CANALS, TAKING URCHINS AND MUSHROOMS
ALL KINDS OF FISH AND SEAFOOD FROM THE TRANSPARENT BOTTOM ALL OUR WOMEN SWIM NAKED THROUGH THE FROSTY WATERS OF THE CANAL AND THEN THEY SHRINK IN THE HEAT OF THE CAMPFIRE.
WE DO ALL THIS IN THE PLACE WHERE THE WILD RIVERS FALL INTO THE SEA WE NAVIGATE OUR CANOES DAY OR NIGHT WE LOOK FOR SHELTER ON A STONE ROCK OR ON AN ICE ISLAND AND WHEN THE SOUTHERN NIGHT FALLS HEAVY AND SILENT WE JOIN THE HEAT OF THE CAMPFIRES TO LISTEN TO THE BREATH OF OUR ANCESTORS STORIES OF SPIRITS THAT INTERVENE IN LIFE THROUGH AUME AND THAT ONLY OUR SHAMANS KNOW, THUS DISCOVERING THE HIDDEN MEANING OF THINGS…
(SHAMAN)
LISTEN TO MY VOICE THAT SPEAKS THROUGH ALL THE SACRED VOICES THE VOICE OF THE ALBATROSS / CORMORANT LISTEN TO MY VOICE AS IT SOARS IN A SONG THAT SPITS OUT OF MOUNTAIN RANGE AND VOLCANOES A ROCK ISLE / AN ENTIRE ARCHIPELAGO LISTEN TO THE VOICE OF THE FOUR HEAVENS ….
-SONG TO THE HEAVENS- I AM THE SKY FROM THE EASTERN THAT BRINGS THE MAGIC STONES, THE FLINT AND THE VOICE OF THE TUCUQUERE THAT STANDS CHALLENGINGLY UPON THE HIGH BRANCHES OF THE OAKS, LISTEN TO THE VOICE OF THE WIND THAT BLOWS FROM THE PLACE WHERE THE SUN IS BORN AND ALL THE POWERS CAPABLE OF ENSURE LIFE, WHERE THE IMBUNCHE LIVES THAT EATS AND FORNICATES.
LISTEN TO THE VOICE OF THE NORTH SKY THAT BRINGS THE ANCIENT EARTH SONGS THE VOICE OF THE ALBATROSS THAT FLOWS RIGHT FROM THE CENTER OF MEMORY, ANNOUNCES THE HUNTING TIMES THERE IS ITS DEEP SQUAWK OF A SEA BIRD THAT TEACHES HOW TO READ THE STARS, IN HIS DRY HEAD THE SHAMAN TRAVELS LIKE A STONE OF LIGHTNING AND IS DROPPED FROM THE SKIES TO BRING US THE INHERITANCE OF THE SOUND OF HIS FEATHERS WE MAKE ORNAMENTS FOR THE ARMS AND INHERIT HIS SIGHT, SPEED AND ENDURANCE.
I AM THE VOICE OF THE SOUTH SKY THAT BRINGS THE WINTER AND THE NARROW SOUTHERN DAY HUGE SHADOWS THAT RISE AT NIGHT WHERE AYAYEMA LIVES
THE SPIRIT OF THE NOISE THAT SNORES AMONG MOUNTAINS AND GLACIERS THAT WALKS IN THE THICKNESS OF THE FOREST AND THE SWAMP HALF WEEPING HUMAN, HALF THE CRY OF A BEAST THAT OVERTURNS THE CANOES CLIMBING THE WATER OF THE WATERFALLS BRINGING THE BAD WEATHER THAT WE HAVE LEARNED TO SEEIN THE PASSAGE OF A FLOCK OF PARROTSTHAT WE HAVE FIGHTED BY BURNING A WOLF’S TEETHAND MAKING THEIR ASHES INTO THE SEA. THERE COMES THE RED CLAY AND THE MINERAL EART
WITH WHICH WE LEARNED THE COLORS OF NATURE AND DECORATE OUR BODIES FOR HUNTING, LOVE AND CEREMONIES.
THE SOUTH BRINGS THE VOICE OF THE WHALES….
(SHAMAN IN TRANCE)
LISTEN TO THEIR SONG INVOKING THE BEINGS! WE SING AND DANCE IMITATING THE SONG OF THE WHALE DRINKING ITS THICK AND STRONG MILK GETTING DRUNK WITH THE FERMENTED FRUIT OF CANELO OUR NAKED SEXES POINT TO THE WIND WHEN THE COLD AND LUMINOUS SOUTHERN DAWN SURPRISES US .
THEN OUR FACES FOLLOW THE ADVANCE OF THE HEAVENS AND WE LEARN THAT DREAM IS THE PASS THROUGH WHICH THE DEAD ENTER THE WORLD OF THE LIVING.
LISTEN TO THE PULSE OF THE EARTH!
THE SENSATION OF BEING ON THE EDGE OF THE ABYSS IS SO KNOW BY OUR DEAD BURIED IN SACRED PLACES WRAPPED IN SEAL LEATHER AND ABANDONED TO THE WANDS…
LISTEN TO THE WESTERN SKY ITS VOICE OF OCEAN WHERE CANOES DIVE INTO DEEP WATERS , WHERE TEMPILCAHUÉ TRANSPORTS THE DEAD, HE IS THE RAILWAY OF THE SOULS WHERE THE SUN DIES HE LEADS THE JOURNEY TOWARDS THE SILENCE OF A WHITE ISLAND, IN HIS HANDS WE WILL REST FROM OUR JOURNEY ON EARTH.
(SHAMAN IN TRANCE)
LOOK AT HOW THE CORMORANT FLYES! OUR NECK AND ESOPHAGUS BIRD MUSICAL SOUND THAT WILL CARRY EVERY MAN LIKE AN ISLAND LOST IN THE IMMENSITY OF THE OCEAN. LOOK FROM WHERE THE RAIN CLOUDS THAT SHADE THE
COAST ARE BORN FROM! HOW THEY COME DOWN DARK AND LOW ! LOOK AT HOW OUR CANOES CLIMB IN THE SMALL! , AVOIDING ROCKY ISLANDS AND HUGE PIKES OF ICE THAT FALL INTO THE SEA…
WE CHONOS WILL CROSS THE THICK SEA UNTIL WE FIND A PLACE TO REST HERE WHERE THE WORLD ENDS HERE WHERE THE SEA BEGINS WHERE THE EARTH GETS SMALLER AND SMALLER LIKE A SEAGULL’S EGG AND SURPRISES US IN A DEEP SLEEP SMOKING THE PIPES OF OLD AGE.
“TRIP TO THE CHONOS ARCHIPELAGO”, A POEM BY CLAUDIO RODRIGUEZ LANFRANCO, WAS TAKEN IN THE YEAR 2001 TO THE DOCUMENTARY VIDEO FORMAT FOR THE TELEVISION SERIES “WHEN THE EARTH ENDS”. THE IMAGES THAT ACCOMPANY THIS POEM ARE PART OF THAT FILM.
JUEGO DE NAIPES SERIE DE DIBUJOS RECIÉN TERMINADO. LÁPIZ Y TÉMPERA SOBRE CARTÓN PREPARADO, MEDIDAS VARIABLES. VALPARAÍSO, 2022.
-THE PETROGLYPHS OF THE CHOAPA VALLEY- (PART V and FINAL)
BROKEN THE TWINS: SPEECH AND REALITY.
THE COURSE OF THE ILLAPEL RIVER AND THE RUSTIC STONE PIRCAS MARK THE SOLITUDE OF LA HUELLA. THE LOMA DE LOS CERROS LEADS TO THE NARROW CRANKS IN THE CORDILLERAS WHERE THE CARAVANS OF MULES WIND ON THE EDGE OF THE ABYSS AND THE SKILLFUL HAND OF THE MULETEER BLENDS WITH THE ROUTE, WHICH IS ALMOST LIKE A RITUAL. THE TRACK GOES UP, GOES DOWN AND AT THE BOTTOM OF THE QUEBRADA THE MULETEER LEAVES THE ROUTINE OF THE ROAD FOR A WHILE TO TAKE HIS ANIMALS TO DRINK NEXT TO THE MULES OF OTHER CARAVANS, WHO HAVE ALSO STOPPED LOOKING FOR REST AND COMPANY.
WALKING THE PASSES IN THE CORDILLERAS WHERE THE HILLS NARROW NEXT TO THE EDGE OF THE HEIGHT AND THE ORIGIN OF THE ILLAPEL RIVER WETS THE DRIED LIPS OF THE EARTH. CONTINUE THERE, CLOSE TO THE DUSTY TRACK WHERE LITTLE BY LITTLE GROUPS OF GOOD SIZED STONES INDICATE A CHANGE IN THE LANDSCAPE: THE VALLEY IS NOW A GREEN WOUND AT THE BOTTOM OF THE ERODED PRE-CORDILLERAS WALLS THAT JEALOUSLY GUARD LIFE AND ALSO THE STEPS OF THE MAN.
MILKING THE RIVER AND RANDOMLY DISPOSED BY NATURAL LANDSLIDES OF ANCIENT MOUNTAINS, HUGE BLOCKS OF ROCK RISE OUT OF THE EARTH FORMING A PREHISTORIC PLAIN KNOWN AS THE ARCHAEOLOGICAL SITE OF “LOS MELLIZOS”. THE WOMB OF THE ANDES OPENS INTO A CEREMONIAL SPACE WHERE MAN HAS MARKED HIS PASSAGE SINCE THE EARLY POTTERY PERIOD IN AN EXTENSION OF 500 X 300 MTS INTERVENED WITH THE SPACE UNCERTAINTY OF HUNDREDS OF PETROGLYPHS DISTRIBUTED IN 97 ROCK PANELS AND THE ONLY PICTOGRAPH FROM THE VALLEY.
RECOGNIZED AS A PLACE OF TRANSIT WITH 10 MOUNTAIN PASSES THAT LEAD TO THE INTERANDINE VALLEYS, THE “LOS MELLIZOS” SITE WAS A GRAZING PLACE SINCE TIME IMMEMORIAL. THIS CONSTANT RE-OCCUPATION OF THE PLACE TRANSFORMS IT INTO A NON-PLACE, SYMBOLIC FACT AND POINT OF CONTACT, -ENTRY AND EXIT- BETWEEN TWO DIFFERENT SPACES.
THREE BY THREE IS NINE: 1 FOOTPRINT OR PATH 3 TENTS (ONE MADE OF ROCK) 3 TREES (ON THE RIVER BANK) 3 MARIAS (CONSTELLATED STARS)
HERE IS OUR CAMP, UNDERSTOOD AS A NEW REOCCUPATION OF THIS NO-PLACE WHERE ROCK ART AND SPACE DEFINE EACH OTHER.
THE PETROGLYPHS PLACED IN THE ROCK AND THE NATURAL ENVIRONMENT OF THE VALLEY ARE PART OF A LANDSCAPE WHERE THE STONE IS A SUPPORT AND A MESSAGE, CONCEIVED WITH A SPACE PURPOSE. THIS MONUMENTALITY GIVEN TO THE PLACE BY ITS PETROGLYPHS IMMERSES THIS PARTICULAR SPACE IN SIGNIFICANCE.
AND THE LOS MELLIZOS SITE BECOMES A RITUAL SPACE, IMPORTANT FOR TRANSIT FROM ONE PLACE TO ANOTHER AS A PASSAGE, AN INVISIBLE DOOR BETWEEN TWO DIFFERENT WORLDS.
WHAT DO THESE PETROGLYPHS SAY, THESE SCRATCHES IN THE STONE?
THE PASSAGE OF THE SUN LIGHTS UP THE VALLEY AND HELP THE ROCKS SHOW THEIR MONUMENTAL FIGURES, IDEOGRAMS THAT APPEAR AND DISAPPEAR DEPENDING ON THE POSITION OF THE CLOUDS, THE LIGHTNING OF THE SUN, AS WELL AS STARS IN BROAD LIGHT OF THE DAY.
A MAGNETIC SILENCE FLOODES THE PLACE, AS IF PERMANENT SIGNS WERE SPROUTING FROM THE STONES LIKE VOWELS OF AN INFINITE ABC THAT SPELLS NAMES, FACTS, PLACES FROM OTHER TIMES. WHAT IS THE MEANING OF YOUR RECORDED INSCRIPTION
? I
THE INCOGNITA DE LA PIEDRA HIDES A LANGUAGE CARRYING SIGNS RECORDED WITH THE EXPERIENCE OF THE PAST AND WHICH REIGN IN “EL VAGAMUNDO” LIKE THE STONE BABBLING OF SOME DEAD LANGUAGE. WHAT DO THESE STONES MARKED BY MAN TELL US ABOUT
? WHAT DO THEY HIDE FROM US, WHAT DO THEY TELL US, WHAT WILL THEY TELL US? THE PETROGLYPHS ARE THERE TO REMIND US THAT WE HAVE PENDING THINGS WITH OUR PAST, AND THEY GRAVITATE IN “LOS MELLIZOS”, LIKE THE CHALLENGE OF A GHOST THAT DOES NOT THINK TO GO.
“THE PETROGLYPHS OF THE CHOAPA VALLEY” (PARTS IA TO V) ARE FRAGMENTS OF A POETIC JOURNEY CARRIED OUT TO DIFFERENT POINTS IN THE CHOAPA AREA AND IN PARTICULAR TO THE SITE OF LOS MELLIZOS, LOCATED UP THE RIVER OF ILLAPEL. WE CAMPED THERE TWO DAYS AND THEIR NIGHTS. A VIDEO OF THE JOURNEY TO THE SITE WAS RECORDED: A DOCUMENTARY ABOUT THE PETROGLYPHS AND THEIR RELATIONSHIP WITH THE VALLEY. IT WAS 2004. A FIRST VERSION OF THESE TEXTS WAS WRITTEN ON THE SITE AND THEN FINISHED IN CONCÓN, DURING THE SUMMER OF THAT SAME YEAR.“
TRÓPICO DE FUEGO DIÁLOGOS COLABORATIVOS ENTRE NATURALEZA Y ARTE. INSTALACIÓN TEMPORAL EN EL JARDIM BOTÂNICO DO RIO DE JANEIRO. PINTURAS DE LA SERIE MI PEQUEÑO EJÉRCITO SELK´NAM, PROYECTO RÍO DE JANEIRO 2023.
-ANTIPODES-
LEAVE THE WORKSHOP, LEAVE YOUR HOUSE HEADING NORTH TO MEET OTHER PLACES, TRAVEL FAR TO OPEN PLACES HOPE YOU HAVE NEVER BEEN SEEN BEFORE. GOING UP THE ROUTE 5 HUNDRED KILOMETERS UP THE SHORE, DOZENS OF OYSTERS BUZZ ALONG THE ROAD, THEY GO PASSING, THEY SIGN TO US.
BECOMING A LITTLE NOMAD AND ON THE RADIO, A LITTLE SONG FROM PAT METHENY OR THE POLICE.
I REMEMBER TOTORALILLO BEACH IN THE SUMMER OF 2004, WHEN WE WENT TO THE LONG WAVES PENINSULA, WHERE MANY GROUPED TO SURF WHILE WE SAT TO WATCH THE SEA, AND IN FRONT OF THE WAVES DRINK BEER ON A HORIZON OF HUGE STONE BLOCKS . OR THAT TIME IN PUNTA CHOROS WHEN THE WIND WAS RELENTLESS AND HOWLED ALL NIGHT NEXT TO THE ROUGH SEA, TODAY RECORDED ON A HOME VIDEO.
PSCAR A TENT, YOUR KNIFE AND PUT AN IMPOSSIBLE ROUTE.
THROWING UP THE ROAD, OPENING UP TO LANDSCAPES AS DIFFERENT AS VALLEYS, HILLS, DUNES, FACES, HANDS, SEAFOOD OR SANDY CLIFFS; AND LET YOURSELF BE CARRIED BY THE FINDINGS, AS VALUABLE SIGNS. FOLLOW YOUR INSTINCT, ERASE ALL TRACES AND GET LOST IN THE HOT SUMMER STEAM.
LEAVE THE WORKSHOP AND TRAVEL, CROSSING A MAP THAT DISAPPEARS.
FRAGMENTOS DEL TALLER HARRINGTON, MI ACTUAL ESTUDIO EN UNA CASONA DE 1906. VALPARAÍSO INVIERNO 2023
CLAUDIO RODRIGUEZ LANFRANCO
born in Valparaíso in 1968. After living in Patagonia and in United States product of a scholarship, his first painting exhibitions were date back to the nineties in Valdivia. Later he moved to Santiago and the Fifth Region, where his visual and literary work materializes in a body of work that addresses different forms of expression, such as painting and drawing, experimental and documentary video, visual poetry and muralism, with public art projects installed in Santiago, Valparaíso. As a visual artist he has exhibited his paintings in 15 solo shows and in more than 60 group shows in Chile, Europe and the United States, and his poetic texts have been published in regional, national and international poetry collections, his work being awarded in different state funds for artistic creation such as Fondart, Cntv, Fondo Carnavales Cultural Centers of Valparaíso, among others. Currently the painter lives and works between Valparaíso, Santiago and Concón, where he develops his artistic projects and teacher training, being in charge of university graduates, painting and mural workshops, becoming a teacher for generations of students and artists who have worked with him.
Eric Capron is a self-taught artist. He discovers the arts of the circus and the world of the puppet.
Eric Capron. Artiste autodidacte au parcours singulier. Dès son plus jeune âge, la dyslexie le marginalise. Enfant solitaire, il quitte très tôt les bancs de l’école et l’univers familial. Commence une vie de saltimbanque, découvre les arts du cirque, le monde de la marionnette.
Artiste en perpétuelle mutation. Dorénavant un travail quotidien permanent de production d’œuvres en papier mâché : des corps mis en scène. Des corps non genrés, incolores, sans modèles, mais étonnamment présents à nos regards amis. Ils existent pour eux-mêmes, d’abord.
Les sculptures sensibles d’Eric Capron racontent l’âme humaine, la fragilité de nos destins. L’artiste revisite les mythes fondateurs, puisant ses références dans la mythologie, l’art sacré et profane, l’univers onirique, les grands textes de la littérature.
« J’ai le sentiment d’être l’instrument de quelque chose qui me dépasse, une sorte de miracle, une boite de Pandore qui s’est ouverte…» nous confie-t-il.
What does it mean to have secrets as the topography of one’s body?
It is true, not all secrets are created equal. Some add a sway to the hips while others…well…they are a poison that eat us from the inside out.
I’m Tellin’
All unsaids, All secrets are not created equal. Some secrets kin with our bodies because our bodies know that they need to be the safe, the harbor for such things. This is not about that. Some secrets turn a walk, a regular gait to a saunter because the body tastes its sweetness. This is not about that. Certain kinds of othas, secrets that is, well….they bloom somethin else, the poison that eats us from the inside out.
This be bout dat. Dat latter kind. Dat otha kind.
It’s not just in the toxic we trust. We grow. We throw seeds. We replicate it.
*
When I was a child , there was a statement that we would say that would check the perceived wrong doer. It would be something like, ’Oooooh, I’m tellin.’ What precedes the ‘tellin’ is the series of oooo’s mixed with the arrangement of vowels and consonants after that short phrase all together, in sum, in calculation, may make the 24 million miles long tail of Hailey’s comet green-eyed.
I’m tellin’ was a threat.
It was to check the doer who was already in deep doin wrong. It was a nod to the way one was willing to betray secrets, willing to betray the real monster who hid under covers.
The tellers of the toxic became the snitches, the snitches is who we said would get stitches In those streets
What does it mean to have secrets as the topography of one’s body?
Be damned, dare stitches, dare the can of whoops ass…I’m tellin.’
No threat…but invocation
Viens
Viens ici
Je ne te l’ai jamais dit mais
Oui je l’ai fait
*
Gwendolyn said it best, “…Even if you are not ready for the day,
It will not always be night.” By not ready, we mean whatever you are holding. Whatever is hiding within the folds and wrinkles and twists of unmade beds. Whatever is being passed across through invisible notes
All ink doesn’t vanish. Some just wears…refusin’ ignoring
By not ready, we mean through the hush of phone calls. The phone calls that contain whispers. The phone calls that have no phone lines that require that and only THAT one other person picks up the receiver
The thing that returns to the pit spiraled tight behind the spiral of the belly’s button. The thing that makes it feel like each look by another means they know it because of the way it reads on the body. Tethered and bound. Whatever it is that you are holding and hoping that the sun won’t beat you to it…It’s coming
Je le referais
Je le referais juste pour le chemin
*
What if we said that the keepers of that kinda…. are the sleepers who never awake. What if we said we will nail their coffins shut
And forbid them from wake. What if we flipped the script on the secret keepers, the pain dwellers, all gates and their guards,
The bottom feeders who feed on the toxic blooms, the corpse eaters who grow fat full and bloated off the bodies that become emaciated from thoooose kinda secrets
What if…We take their power back. We read the topography of the secret laden body and become fluent. Armed with the tongues that know how to untaste poison, daggers in hand.
We the kind who realllll good with the way the sun sneaks up, how it creeps from behind the curtains of dark. The heat, we feel it on our shoulders. We refuse to hide from the way it will come get us
Nous avons tous été pese
Nous sommes toujours trouve…voulant
Nous ne pouvons pas le nier
Something about the way a secret taste
Jevu hu fair sa—
Shanta Lee Gander is an artist and multi-faceted professional. As an artist, her endeavors include writing prose, poetry, investigative journalism, and photography. Her poetry, prose, and personal essays have been featured in The Crisis Magazine, Rebelle Society, and on the Ms. Magazine Blog.
Mitchell Pluto 