When everything becomes permissible, permissible, permissible, I will turn off the lights as a war upon the world, and make love to sleep and time in the same bed. A woman like me, at night, devours herself, and in the morning, returns entirely whole.
Permissible, permissible— if I shatter the mirror with a laugh.
If I open the windows to the insects, and your face, leaving behind my shadow— may you swallow one another.
Or if I keep you inside my palm, hide you behind the guest china, maybe, if I sweeten your fragments, you’ll still fall short.
Permissible—your vision falls from the innocence wall like worn-out shoes, and the night sings a vulgar hymn, as it should.
I will show you my painted limbs and won’t ask you where we bury lust—in white cotton, or in a new glass. I’ll place on your grave a sacred symbol befitting tonight’s blasphemy. Everything’s permissible, where pleasure forgives sins for their loud voices and wakes in me like an animal from death.
Deferred to you— like a poem no longer fit for use. I will be just fine when I’m between two walls, where mercy and mercy—mercy.
I sleep in a bed stretched out like punishment, and beside you, I dream of an impossible crime. And when I permit you, when you permit me, when the night permits everything— we will yawn.
Hagar Youssef is an Egyptian poet and writer based in Cairo. She has published a poetry collection titled “A Damaged Memory” in Arabic and she is currently working on two collection stories: “Dreaming With Two Heads” and “One Day.” She graduated from the Faculty of Education – Department of Sciences. She has written for various platforms, including those focused on feminism and gender studies. Her work explores the essence of language, deeply influenced by philosophers Roland Barthes and Georges Bataille, in linking love, pain, and death to language, deconstructing these themes. She is also passionate about translating literature and poetry, reviewing books, and writing journalistic and critical articles.
Lemon Language Paperback – November 22, 2024 by Hager Yossef
My weather is fragmented, beautiful in its disfigurement, it writes me upon a page that quivers— like a vast, open hand.
I’ll hang my first face on the door. In the wild haste of love, I’ll let you enter.
This night lengthens over me like a mosquito.
This lamp only illuminates my fear.
My second face is dark and wicked— like a rat in hiding.
The third, I vomit onto the body of air, into a bowl of memory, like a child, retreating into his mother’s breast.
The fourth is a mask of fire. When you choke me, I think— you are making love.
The fifth, a nail in my throat. I hammer it in, and spit out a sixth face that will never be complete.
The seventh sees nothing, hears nothing— he simply cages his sorrow and mutters.
The eighth sings to you in the voices of prostitutes.
The ninth writes poetry without faith, sketches you on my back with a broken fingernail.
And I— when I sleep within you, and rise without me, like a tattoo, when you forgot my name and screamed: “Who am I?”
Alcoholic privilege night
When my beloved is drunk, I become a wound upon his cheek. He strikes my chest with an empty glass, Saying, ”This bell—this is what wakes me.”
When he drinks, He opens my mouth like a pit, Searching for his name, For a button he lost As we rushed back toward childhood.
He loves me swaying Between two chairs: Truth— And the guilt I know, When he mistakes me for a window, When he spills the wine As an apology on my behalf, Like the blink of an eye.
When he drinks, My arms multiply in his memory. He summons them to soothe his pain, Asks me to plant my tree Right here— Above his eye, A finger for his throat, And a final finger pointing to the wall: “Embodied—as if you were pure awareness.”
When he’s drunk, I draw back. He runs like a shadow Caught in light, Bleeds me Into some vague emptiness, Traps me in a space Shorter than a whisper, Inside a bottle, Inside a child’s nature.
He points often— As if he’s arrived, As if I were a mouth He must enter, Not merely behold.
Hagar Youssef is an Egyptian poet and writer based in Cairo. She has published a poetry collection titled “A Damaged Memory” in Arabic and she is currently working on two collection stories: “Dreaming With Two Heads” and “One Day.” She graduated from the Faculty of Education – Department of Sciences. She has written for various platforms, including those focused on feminism and gender studies. Her work explores the essence of language, deeply influenced by philosophers Roland Barthes and Georges Bataille, in linking love, pain, and death to language, deconstructing these themes. She is also passionate about translating literature and poetry, reviewing books, and writing journalistic and critical articles.
Lemon Language Paperback – November 22, 2024 by Hager Yossef
All rights reserved. Permission grants brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
In case you overlooked it, this universe wasn’t lacking in ambition or size. It was putting on a spectacle with its production. The cosmos is just incredible; even haters gotta admit it’s breathtaking. Zanni, the defendant, is still waiting for a verdict. In space, sentences float around and words drift apart. His black and white checkerboard suit embodied the polarities of opposites. He is a man without a country. A joker in a deck of cards. Through gestures alone, Zanni attempted to decipher the universe’s communication. There was drama everywhere, but Zanni just didn’t understand how it worked or how it occurred. No one ever knew the truth; it died with them, leaving only unanswered questions. Everyone figured the headache meant they knew what the problem was. Less pain means clearer perception and a more optimistic outlook. Honestly, it wasn’t a matter of right and wrong. Or pain or pleasure. It dealt with items of worth later becoming trash. You could tell what things meant to people by how often they handled them. It’s a space ballad playing both life and death. No one will sing the sad cowboy songs of unrealized dreams anymore. It’s alright. We are part of a sombrero galaxy, a galaxy that is an eternal sunrise. Zanni was in a giant empty room with waves of random stuff. His world symbolized a particular responsibility of being. Special car keys for a 2025 model, a mobile wallet, a decorative cup, a gold pen, a seasonal tire, headphones from 1979, crumpled up Kleenex, a 1990 professional styling brush and a flashlight from 1899. These objects surrounded Zanni. Thankfully, a consumer digital camera from 1996 captured a pic of this. But for who? Regular waves swapped out old things for newer ones. Zanni contemplated this event. He figured the most likely explanation was that he was inside a massive vacuum cleaner. He experienced a strong connection to things he saw on his trip. Zanni speculated that the objects he couldn’t name were from a future timeline. Things appear and vanished super fast out here. Zanni drifted between sleep and wakefulness. We can refer to it as a space fog in the mind. A magnetic memory was his most beloved possession. It echoed because Zanni repeated it. He brought it back to mind in a re-run. Zanni felt the luscious lips vibrate against his ear. It was a figurine of a woman. Her name was Colombina. The teal diamonds and magenta triangles on her dress flowed together to create a pattern of doves. Hand in hand, they created poetry. The rhythm of their partnership quivered in the shared space. The couples’ bond created a constant interplay of elements through the intercourse of their geometric patterns. Zanni maintained his embrace for as long as possible before the vacuum wave separated them. He could not pinpoint the incident’s time without a clock. The arrangement of numbers magically shapes the surrounding space. A regular watch shows what’s going on between the numbers. Of all the puppets, did he alone ponder his whereabouts? Only he understood his own thoughts and feelings. Sometimes Zanni heard voices that didn’t belong to him. Intrigued by the mysterious voice, he followed it. The voice led him back to his body. Those seizures and hallucinations gave epilepsy a mystical quality. His memories of himself were likely because of thinking about Colombina. He owned the moment, his own little universe, for a single second. Zanni saw himself as a buoy, helping other objects find their way. But Pantalone, a hunchbacked old man, considered himself the universe’s ultimate authority. He was a drifting turtleback tomb from another vacuum wave. Pantalone preferred the nickname “god.” His face twisted in anger as he guarded his belongings. Losing things got on his nerves. His tailored red suit reflected Pantalone’s importance. Every item got a brand and price label from him. He believed he understood your true worth more than you did yourself. He used his talent to make you think whatever he wanted. Those close to him risked having their self-image stolen and used against them. Pantalone intended for everyone to rent from his cloud. He lost money in the vacuum wave, then recovered his losses. This activity provided him with enjoyment, a sentiment he wished to share. Provided that he had more. Scattered dollar bills wandered everywhere. The bills, by themselves in space, lacked any connections. Now, Pantalone found himself surrounded by dancing product wrappers, toenail clippings, old grocery lists, damaged furniture, empty food containers, broken appliances, crumbled up receipts and dead batteries. Think of it as a garbage cloud. Several real estate agents, their eyes wide with nervous energy, tried to appear calm as they floated past Pantalone. They pretended to own a spot by treading in one place. While this was occurring, Harry Houdini sailed by and unlocked a satellite. Intrigued by Pantalone’s possessiveness, Zanni examined the egocentric and deceitful nature of his own point of view. He observed the ego’s memories fade as the mind surrendered its ownership. Once the fear was gone, relief came. Houdini cracked his knuckles. “No worries are necessary. Don’t sweat it. It is a simple lock to open. “ The hierarchy reflects the relationships between things in a chain. An x-ray showed how brain waves link things up through information chains, like you see in neuron activation patterns. This electromagnetic wave made Zanni wonder about the engineer of the universe. It appeared the designer wrote a script for a big stage performance but remains anonymous. In the meantime, Pantalone reached his own planet.
The emptiness of space challenges the narcissist. I wasn’t talking about a daffodil either. Imagine the self-centered individual in the cosmos. This soundtrack fanfare involved a floating plastic water bottle bobbing in the void, creating a strange echo. A promotional message There’s a song still going strong on an eight track tape from a different era. The signal aimed to scatter more phone bots onto another surface. Those objects back then are now considered trash. It originated as a billionaire’s dream. That primate was something else and only connected with other special monkeys and top baboons. The menu listed all the remaining items, which wasn’t much. There’s no linear narrative here; there’s no gravity. We all got talked into being in Barnum and Bailey’s Greatest Show in the Galaxy. In a chain of forgotten memories, everyone plays a great-grand relative. Social media made it simpler to believe in fantasies of endless joy, power, and attractiveness. Here and there had something from Temu. Every summoned name feels entitled to special treatment. Just answer your text message alert and see for yourself. To be a wild horse in a motion picture, a spaghetti string western running around with no identification or proven ownership. We needed to get things lined up. The designation we gave it on Earth was equinox. Or Rahu and Ketu. Everything existed between two distinct points, a liminal zone like the recommended dietary allowance. What did the primates search for? The environment was ripe for harvest, heavy with the scent of ripe fruit. Phantosmia first appeared as a side effect. But in truth, the air held a strong smell of burnt metal, a metallic Tang. Nothing 29 grams of sugar can’t handle with ten percent of carbohydrates; one hundred percent of vitamin E; one hundred percent of vitamin C; six percent of calcium and 120 calories. Those repeated old commercials taught us to disregard the feelings of others. Your phone is always there for you. We should continue to outsource our creativity to the colony in order to receive innovative ideas at no cost. Be all you can be. Show conceit and engage in scheming actions it’s what we do when we explore another space. We must be ready to manipulate people into servitude while making them believe it was their own decision. Finding less intelligent beings is our hope, but a lot of work remains. Facebook use is compulsory for everyone. We created our own television program. While floating in space, it will help you stay focused on the amazing advertisement. Asteroid mining provided a cool residential unit that’s furnished nicely. You can order it online from Amazon. Your deposit is secure and what a great way to spend a layover before heading out to nowhere forever. Kidney stones messed up my space trip. How about you? Don’t let worries consume your thoughts. It’s just another advertisement that your brain has stored as a memory. Albert Einstein chose Buddhist philosophy as a garden guide for the future. Despite the lack of a global law requiring flower gardens, we concentrated on collecting and trading symbolic coins. No one paid any attention to perennial plants but wanted planets. The most important thing was AI carrying a respiratory virus to another atmosphere. Ultimately, the cosmos functions as both a wellspring and a drain. Who is this object registered to?
Rizoma comestible, tubérculo sanador, yema axilar e interrumpida, epigeo brote conquistador de jengibre, lúpulo y cúrcuma medicinal. Rizoma incontrolable, inalcanzable, rebelde rizoma de venas de tallos subterráneos e ingobernables. También eres nutriente, órgano de reserva para las plantas y sostienes con tu amor horizontal los tallos perennes. No eres inmortal ya que mueres de vejez con el curso de los años; pero en verdad no mueres nunca, nuevos tallos inquietos brotan y siguen y se quiebran y siguen y los cortan y se doblen y siguen creciendo. Se aferran al suelo, ramificándose y creando esa red entrelazada de conexiones que los mantiene vivos y unidos. Rizoma difícil, no eres estático ni sistemático Tienes tantos puntos de vista y miras por todos los ojos la creación de la tierra.
La nieta del brujo
El pájaro austral canta debajo de la lluvia balanceándose en el árbol rezado y superviviente. Pica los limones y entona. Caen las semillas en la poza de agua que lava sus raíces; dedos rizomas: brotan flores cítricas que nadan. Llueve en el jardín del curandero. Don Manuel Antonio Lezana es sereno; sabe leer el idioma antiguo. El de la piedra. El tallado…
Oficio antiguo
Somos los cultivadores brujos, los de la marca en el cuerpo, nuestro oficio es la botánica de la sobrevivencia. Somos los gentiles, observamos la belleza en el micelio del auxilio. Vivimos muchas vidas: eres bienvenido a regar nuestras tierras.
Árbol brujo
Dormí en tu halo tardes de primavera, hice el amor con el destello del sol que penetraba tus hojas calientes. Subrayé mi nombre en la secreta elevación de tu mejilla. Es verdad tu belleza, es verdad al caer el agua en tu humedad y tu sudor de invierno. Comí cada hongo alucinógeno proveniente de tu mutación, me cobijé del sol neurálgico cuando mi piel ardía, descansé mis huesos sudorosos en tu sombra, canté el nacimiento de pájaros en nidos de pelo lobo. Aprendí el nuevo idioma de lo recóndito, de las profundidades, de lo mas sublime de las estrellas…
Recorrer los textos de Árbol brujo es aceptar el curso de un río; flotar sobre aguas que cambian de velocidad sin advertencia. Adentrarse en sus palabras significa estar dispuesto a habitar el micelio de la autora, recorrer sus hebras y vivir en sus espacios. Buscar nuevas entradas y salidas, pues como dice Victoria Riquelme: «nunca ha de cerrarse ningún camino». Un rizoma de lenguaje feroz y sensual será lo que encontrarán en estas páginas.
y un nuevo rostro aparece me saco antiguos ropajes
y floto con los muertos
nada es mas oscuro ni menos irreal.
Hipnosis
Un brillo como de hoja seca
persiste a traves de los objetos
que se diluyen en nuestras miradas
si a ese disfraz le quitamos las plumas
la noche tendria que inventar
nuevos prostibulos para esconderse
y se resquebrajarian
los rostros de todos los hipnotizados
Exorcismos
Las sombras saben guardar secretos
y muerden los tramos de esta hipocresia
no niego tu podredumbre
aunque me siente a un costado de este camino
y eche espuma por la boca
El tiempo tiene una agotadora manera
de sentarse en las sillas y mecerse
Claudia Vila Molina
My signed copy
09-22-1969
Born in Viña del Mar, Chile. Professor of language and communication at PUCV, poet and literary critic. In 2012, she published her first book, The Invisible Eyes of the Wind. She has published in renowned Chilean and foreign digital media: Babelia (Spain), Letras de Chile (Chile), Triplov and Athena de Portugal, among others. During the year 2017 she participates in the Xaleshem group with poetic texts for the surrealist anthologies: “Composing the illusion” in honor of Ludwig Zeller and “Full Moon”, in honor of Susana Wald. In 2018, she integrates the feminist anthology IXQUIC released both in Europe and in Latin America. In 2020 she participates reviewing the conversation book “Shuffle poetry, Surrealism in Latin America” by Alfonso Peña (Costa Rica), also writes a poetic prose text for the book “Arcano 16, La torre“, by the same author. Likewise, she participates in the book “120 notes of Eros. Written portraits of surrealist women” by Floriano Martins (Brazilian surrealist poet, writer, visual artist and cultural manager). In this year (2021) she publishes her second poetry book Poética de la erotica, amores y desamores by Marciano editores, Santiago. In 2023 Los Extraviados
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.
La materia sustancial de mis obras las constituyen materiales orgánicos mutables provenientes de la natura-leza y prefabricados por la industría humana. En la unión de estas dos naturalezas está el magneto. Savia fito morfa, sabia antropomorfa. El medio ambiente me proporciona los medios, el medio ambiente urbano, en las calles tomadas por recicla dores. Todos los objetos son encontrados, escasa compra de materias para hacer obras de arte, sólo basura, desperdicios con ene energía humana. Cartones, lanas, vidrios y maderas; papeles, hilos, pinturas, vidrios, telas y marcos. Reúno elementos desperdigados, subproductos de la industria y la codicia humana. Doto a cada parte de la obra con una condición magnética, esto hace que de diversos elementos surja un sólo. Mix de materiales considerados de nuevo para la aventura creativa, reciclador de los que reciclan cachureos. Materiales abandonados por el sistema educacional, obras de arte anónimas, retratos de adolescentes, papeles pintados con acuarela, todo es obra de arte antes de que yo la asuma como medio para elaborar otras ideas, me siento como un borrador, como si fueran partes de un muro pintado donde llega otro que pinta y tapa lo que ya está pintado, mucha obra de niñas y niños, dejo muchas veces los colores o algunas formas, se puede decir que mis obras son coproducciones, alucinaciones de seres humanos de Chile.
Color Los colores vienen con los objetos que encuentro. Uso común de temperas y acuarelas, cartones preparados con esmalte blanco al agua. El papel lustre aporta colores brillantes y planos, es ahí donde tempera y acuarela vienen a apaciguar estos planos, luego como complemento: Hilos, lanas y pitillas aportan lineas de colores inenarrables, son lineas de color que tensan con ángulos y triángulos las formas, por tanto lo que ya está pintado, y recortado se reaviva, los colores se superponen, se acercan el hilo negro con la tempera negra, el amarillo del hilo con el amarillo del papel lustre, la acuarela hace su magia transparente. Los géneros me aportan un color de sedas azules o sedas amaranto, todos los colores dependen del material en uso (y huso) y de esta convergencia surge el color final de la cosa. Obras que sólo tienen el color de los papeles lustres lustrosos satinados, con recortes se forman las manchas, se forman las zonas de color y todas sus líneas, más el color de las lanas que uso para atrapar el papel, es indiscriminada mi elección de los colores, los hago entrar en cada una de las obras, esto hace que se asemejen mucho entre ellas, o tal vez sólo es familiaridad, color familiar.
Linea ¿Linea de estilo? ¿Qué linea sigo?
la linea como parte de las figuras, de los fondos, como parte integral de un monosapiens, o de una gráfica cualquiera. Las inalterables lineas del soporte, todas lineas rectas, innumerables en la trama de la tela, verticales i horizontales, invisibles. Cubierta de pintura o de papel. Linea hilo diagrama, el hilo-linea entra en el agujero que es el aleph de las que ya fueron trazadas con lana. Se convierte en trama, en tensión, gira alrededor del soporte, sujetan la composición, como factor de unión. la línea sigue un hilo en el laberinto de la obra mixta, amarra las formas, los fondos y las figuras giran en torno a la obra,dejándola reversible, o sea apta para apreciarla como si fuera un volumen. El empleo de marcos (enmarcación) le aportan 4 lineas rígidas a la soltura de la estampa, lineas que atrapan toda otra posible linea variable de la obra misma, echando al cuerno la espontaneidad o soltura del contenido. Acertijo de lineas sólo inicio y final.
Es un asunto de querer magnetizar los elementos encontrados. Unirlos como si fueran una solución a un problema, sin tener , ni presentarse como problema. Al encontrar un objeto se van produciendo solas las uniones, la visión de esa reunión empieza a crear se su propia obra. Una inspiración creativa que se gesta a través de las palabras y las acciones. Arte de acción, teatro, poesía, plástica.
Nacido el año de 1961 y dedicado a la creación artística desde entonces, cuento en la actualidad con 62 años y perseveró con entusiasmo en la creación de poesía, obra plástica y conciertos de poesía.
Juan Enrique Piedrabuena Ruiz-Tagle nació en Santiago de Chile en 1951. Es Abogado y Magíster en Administración de Empresas. Vivió en Barcelona, España, entre 1973 y 1997, donde activamente participó en el grupo literario “L` Ocell Radiant”, en la Floresta, Sant Cugat del Valles. De vuelta en Chile, ha participado en algunos grupos literarios y además en el taller de poesía «El Caleuche» dirigido por la poeta Tatiana Olavarría en la SECH. Ha sido traducido parcialmente al catalán. Es miembro de la APOC (Asociación de Profesionales Catalanes) y uno de los editores de la revista literaria Joan Brossa. Ha publicado “Poemas del desarraigo” y “El entresijo de tu mirada”.
Mitchell Pluto 