Seres perdidos Septiembre devuelve partes de mi ser perdido A dónde estarán todas las partes de mi cuerpo? En qué huella? En qué nube? Volveré a volar otra vez?
Nuestros restos Los restos de ellos aún nos miran Dónde están tus huesos? Pedro Martin Federico Victor María Alicia Dónde se fueron a morir? Dónde podré buscar y ensangrentar mis manos? Algo negro vuelve a supurar en la memoria Algo viene devuelto desde la estación del exilio.
El día de mañana Mañana moriremos cuando queramos buscar y no haya sombras ni acequias dónde enlutar la voz Solo un clavel blanco retratará tu figura desaparecida Más allá del ojo en negro Más allá del tendón cortado en dos Más allá del septiembre que humea solitario En la última carta que recibí Cuando la mirada no era suficiente ni el grito Ni la mano perdida en los barrotes oxidados. En memoria de nuestros muertos y desaparecidos en esta fecha funesta.
Writer 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. The Extraviados is her third book published by Espacio Sol Ediciones (2023)
Dibujaste una mirada muda perpendicular a la onda más leve el polvo, el concreto, la almohada ahogan la imagen pervertida de ti Estoy a punto de exterminar una idea, de convertirme en una imitación de la neblina en el vidrio.
Sahumerio
Reflejos anulan el acto hasta que olvidas mi presencia yo enciendo fuegos, derrito despojos de amor cada tanto escribo y un extraño nace del aire y puede aterrizar a pesar de mi estación forzada, el ritmo aplaza conjugaciones de un verbo que se sugiere desigual.
Vaciada
Mira antes de atravesar rumbos de la ensoñación pasan caminantes, articulan facciones rotas le sorprenden cada vez.
Recortes
Una sola ondulación contiene nuestras raíces contienen al hombre dentro lo meten en un saco y huyen, más el tiempo tiene pasajes en sus idiomas me voy a otra parte, cierro la puerta.
Imaginería
Te concibo desnudo como si fornicaras con tu reflejo ¡qué lenta desnudez ¡ ¡Qué precipicio excava mi construcción ¡ Vienes a mí a pesar de tus cuerpos vulnerados Yo profano tu vientre Me agacho a recoger cosas extraviadas el tacto enmienda mi orgía de océanos me disfrazo de caracola para alunizar contigo y nadie espera dormido en el sofá nadie corretea desnudo por estas piezas.
Writer 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. The Extraviados is her third book published by Espacio Sol Ediciones (2023)
ALL WRITING IN THIS POST IS A COPYRIGHT OF CLAUDIA VILA MOLINA. THIS AN AUTHORIZED DUPLICATION WITH PERMISSION AND EXPRESSED CONSENT FROM THE AUTHOR
Allí se ubicaron en un improvisado toldo levantado con ramas de calafate, apoyados bajo una gigantesca roca que le daba la espalda al viento que corría desde el NorEste y que traía las nubes del Atlántico.
La fogata ardió esta vez a cargo Ocetán quien no tardó en reunir material combustible para alimentar las llamas y depositar cuidadosamente sobre el suelo los hongos recolectados durante su pasada por los faldeos de la Sierra Boquerón.
Extrajo de su bolsa (mujii) los hongos y raíces que forman la dieta invernal del fueguino hongos que crecen sobre el suelo esponjoso de los pantanos donde sus raíces pequeñas se internan quedando solo visible la parte superior algo más colorida por la acción de la luz.
El sabroso shanamain, el suave y transparente Ahuichi, cubierto de pintas blancas y rojas la chahuata que crece allí en todos los árboles vivos y el lechoso chagadakaamáin que sabe muy bien asado cubierto entre las cenizas calientes del fuego.
Mientras los ojos de ella ardían en la noche Selcha hurgueteó en el componente mineral que formaba las rocas y con el pehí (cuchillo) raspó hasta dar con una veta de marcado tono rojizo que llamó su atención por la inusual extensión que ocupaba en la superficie del granito
Derritiendo luego un trozo de grasa de guanaco y separando la roca del pigmento, mezcló ambos logrando una masa colorida y viscosa que afinó machacándola en un improvisado mortero ubicado en la roca.
Untó los dedos en la pintura tibia dibujando primero en su cuerpo y luego en el de su pareja desnuda la simbología de su clan y mientras el silencio de la noche se apoderaba de ese paisaje solitario, se alimentaron bajo las estrellas, al alero de estos grandes bloques abandonados por antiguas glaciaciones sobre la inmensidad de la pampa, allí donde durante milenios la luz de la luna recortaba sus pálidas siluetas graníticas en el azul de la noche, anunciándolas mucho más inmensas y misteriosas que durante los angostos días antárticos.
Entonces sólo el aullido de algún animal nochero se hacía sentir muy lejano trazando su oscuro guión en la noche, y pronto ambos se durmieron abrazados por la naturaleza que sabiamente todo lo acoge
-DCXCI-
“Trashumancia”, poema inédito del libro “Cuando la Tierra se Acaba”, de Claudio Rodriguez Lanfranco.
born in Valparaíso in 1968. After living in Patagonia and in the United States, a product of a scholarship, his first painting exhibitions 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.
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.
Contemplo la carne cruda de mi invalido rostro ligamentos de agua se transforman en quebradas ramas que vibran desde la medula del corazón atormentado
Aparecen mis desorbitados ojos rojos arañándome con mi bisturí pictórico reflejo invertido del otro lugar crecen mis quemadas pestañas desfigurando mi sonrisa que llora
Cosen mi apariencia con hilo de barro la espátula alisa mi superficie de arena disuelta las orejas de cobre son moldeadas en ácido nítrico
Escucho a los pájaros que salen de mi boca descocida desde mi roca cabelluda aumentan los hilos de seda enredándose en tormentosos vientos de remordimientos
Grito un silencio palido mis dientes amarillos se purifican con el cristalino cielo me veo completo en esta plancha de metal retratado por la luz que me engaña
Me cubro de mis despojos mi cuerpo me delata el renacimiento de mis cenizas.
Carlos Alberto Lizama Peña is a prominent Chilean Visual Artist has stood out in various national and international exhibitions, currently works and develops his work as a cultural and educational manager in the House of Culture of the Commune of El Bosque.Co-executor in the FONDART Project “Open Sky Gallery South Zone Cultural Corridor “Work Production Workshop Coordinator”. March – September 2008 Mosaic Art Mural Program, El Bosque, Artistic Director, December 2006-February 2007 Murals Program on Facades of Villa la Pradera and Villa San Fernando, Quilicura, December 2006-January 2007 Painting classes, Anselmo Cádiz Cultural Center, Commune of El Bosque, 1998 to date La Familia Foundation, Huechuraba, Painting Classes, 2002,2003,2004 Trigal Special School, Huechuraba Plastic Arts Classes, 2003 Painting workshop, Cristo Vive, Huechuraba April-December 2002-2004 Drawing and painting classes, Mun. from Huechuraba Oct-December 2002 Painting workshop, Municipality of Huechuraba October 1997Oil painting classes, Mun. of Quilicura October and December 1997 Muralism Workshop, Millahue Foundation May 1996 Extracurricular Painting Classes, Sta Teresa High School, Mun. of Independence, November 1995 – January 1996 Mural Art Project Paint your Paint, Mun. of Conchalí, June – August 1996 Paint Your Neighborhood Mural Project, New Orleans, USA October – December 1995 Painting Classes, Youth Development Program, Conchalí, September and October 1995 Artistic Workshop, PRODEMU Foundation, Commune of La Granja Esane Professional Institute, Graduate Assistantship in Advertising Graphic Design in Drawing and Color Branches, 1988Curatorship of the Local Gestures I, II and III Exhibition, Art Gallery, 2005, 2006, and 2007 Guillermo Nuñez Art GalleryLocal Gestures I and II Exhibition at Contemporary Art Gallery, Quilicura, 2006 and 2007 December 1998 Work “Cantata de Santa María de Iquique,” Fondart Project, El Bosque Cultural House November 1999 Play “Nemesio Pelao, What has happened to you”, directed by Andrés Pérez October 2000 “Chañarcillo,” directed by Andrés Pérez, Antonio Varas Theater April 2000 “The Exodus,” Chinese shadow play of his own creation October 2001 Chinese shadows for the play “El Golpe,” directed by Eduardo Saez, Teatro Novedades (selected for Teatro a Mil 2002) August-September 2004 Work ”1907 The year of the black flower’‘, La Pato Gallina theater company, pictorial work of curtains.
Confío más en tus huesos que en tu carne, por las noches sigo amando tu fantasma que huele a tierra infiel, confío más en tu bufanda roja detenida en el tiempo, el pasillo de nuestra casa gime llanto muerto, flota mi cuerpo en la tina, agua de árbol con espinas. Recogí mi pelo mojado en tu vieja toalla de mi melancolía, arrojé todos tus libros por la ventana.
Imperfecto
El hombre frente a la tumba desprende de su boca su prótesis dental, la envuelve en un pañuelo blanco, la oculta entre el pasto y la tierra de tumba, solo frente a sus muertos puede ser él, así de imperfecto. Ahí descansa su llanto desdentado, se sienta sobre la piedra, saca de una bolsa de papel café una lata de cerveza y bebe deseosamente el sorbo de vida a su garganta de flores mareadas que iluminan su rostro, suenan campanas a los lejos. Allí, frente a sus ancestros sonríe a carcajadas recordando alguna anécdota pasada, nadie lo juzga ni lo critica, allí frente a sus antepasados puede revelar su sonrisa imperfecta.
Tierra seca y olvidada (desierto)
El cerebro atormentado resuena en el grito del árbol abandonado en tierra antigua de la cuál brota maleza de llanto. El sol neurálgico y odiado nos quema la piel y el sudor es el brillo de su reflejo que nos tortura y nos humilla en esta hermosa y vacía tierra donde los hombres caminamos sobre arena hirviendo. El único árbol sobreviviente no tiene hojas ni semillas, es un muerto de pie frente al inmenso viento de arena en la boca y los ojos. Ahí, cuelgo mis pertenecías, en sus ramas de volcán. Mancho mis dedos y pinto mi cara de maquillaje negro, dispongo mi improvisado refugio, mi instinto animal es más poderoso que mi humanidad inservible en esta atmosfera.
Pan y caldo con arena refuerzan mi sacrificio.
El florero de tu madre
Visito tu sepulcro con una sonrisa camuflada, retiro minuciosamente pétalos muertos, (flores que dejan tus viudas amantes), uno a uno recolecto en mi bolsillo de lana hojas secas en distintos tonos, agua limpia dejo caer en el florero de tu madre; flores frescas para ti, leo tus poemas para recordarte. -Ya no vengo a llorarte al campo santo- a veces cuando se hace de noche, descanso sobre tu tierra de muerto, hago el amor contigo.
Abril y mayo
Dos retratos en dos marcos diferentes, dos fechas de nacimiento, dos nacionalidades, dos identidades. Ella no abraza a los árboles, los besa apasionadamente, la sangre que brota de su boca rota es savia dulce. No es blanca ni negra, ni adinerada ni necesitada, ni culta pero tampoco ignorante, educada y también puede llegar a ser una marginal. Por las noches se acuesta en su tina caliente, los cabellos que flotan en el agua talvez pertenecen a esa mujer que no existe. Dos retratos en dos marcos diferentes; la adolescente que escribe poemas de amor aullándole a la luna, el otro, la belleza de una anciana de ciento veinte años moribunda, declamando sus últimas palabras a la muerte.
Cama de hoja
Cuando lloro por los vivos, son mis muertos quienes me consuelan, no los veo, conozco sus nombres, su edad los huelo, susurran delicias a mi oído de hierba fresca. Florencia es la mujer fantasma y ciega que toca el piano entre ramas del bosque. Mi cuerpo pequeño cubierto de hojas secas; he descubierto que a los árboles también le gustan las melodías de cuna.
Herencia de lo mágico
Tengo el don de la sensibilidad, ver, oír con gran sutileza lo que nadie, y los fantasmas recorren el bosque conmigo; placentero como fumar a escondidas sobre enormes arboles retorcidos en donde reposa mi silueta delgada, hija del hombre, herencia de lo mágico, el humo se cuela por las hojas, canta la rama, silenciosa raíz mágica, dulces espinas te embellecen.
Victoria Morrison, Chile 1977, Trabajadora social, escritora de poesía y cuento. Miembro actual y activa de SECH (Sociedad de escritores de Chile) P.E.N Chile (Poetas, ensayistas y novelistas) Su poema Ñamku fue premiado con el segundo lugar del “Concurso poesía Indígena”, realizado por el “Museo de la memoria y los derechos humanos” en Chile el año 2020. Libros publicados: Una habitación en el infierno (2016) Ediciones La Horca. Poemas desahuciados (2017) Editorial Ovejas Negras. Pupilas de loco (2020) Rumbos Editores Sus escritos se caracterizan por evocar temáticas psicológicas. Amante de la naturaleza, la autora explica que en cada palabra existe sanación; si asimilamos esa palabra a las raíces de cada planta pues, así como existen semillas imperfectas, también hay humanos imperfectos; no son acaso los bienes llamados “árboles torcidos” los que, sin agua, sombra, ni tierra fértil continúan respirando en la tierra. (Si la frágil planta resiste el frio, la intemperie, la carne humana cobijada en lana y bufanda debería agradecer y callar, oír en silencio, el congelado y valiente canto de la hora escarchada).
Seas tú el extraviado que regresa hacia la niebla de nuestros cuerpos.
Catástrofe
El amor será poseído por los únicos sobrevivientes de esta masacre.
Vaticinio
Tu cuerpo disuelve las cosas para anunciar un gemido o recóndito extremo de la noche que ya no esconde nada ni siquiera una nueva forma de estremecimiento.
Extrañamiento
Me miras como si fuese tu fetiche me tocas cuando estamos solos no soy nada de aquello ni la sombra de nuestros propios pasos.
Escritora nacido en Viña del Mar, Chile. Profesora de Lengua y Comunicación de la PUCV, poeta y crítico literario. En 2012 publicó su primer libro, Los ojos invisibles del viento. Ha publicado en reconocidos medios digitales chilenos y extranjeros: Babelia (España), Letras de Chile (Chile), Triplov y Athena de Portugal, entre otros. Durante el año 2017 participa en el grupo Xaleshem con textos poéticos para las antologías surrealistas: “Componiendo la ilusión” en honor a Ludwig Zeller y “Luna Llena”, en honor a Susana Wald. En 2018 integra la antología feminista IXQUIC estrenada tanto en Europa como en Latinoamérica. En 2020 participa reseñando el libro de conversación “Poesía aleatoria, Surrealismo en América Latina” de Alfonso Peña (Costa Rica), también escribe un texto en prosa poética para el libro “Arcano 16, La torre”, del mismo autor. Asimismo, participa en el libro “120 notas de Eros. Retratos escritos de mujeres surrealistas” de Floriano Martins (poeta, escritor, artista visual y gestor cultural brasileño surrealista). En este año (2021) publica su segundo libro de poesía Poética de la erótica, amores y desamores de Marciano editores, Santiago.
René Ortega utiliza fórmulas de liminalidad para iniciar al espectador a experimentar los misterios del inframundo. Hay una puerta de flores, una escalera de anillos a túneles, afinada con un aro de colores. Todo esto está aquí dentro de los secretos de nuestra tierra. En estos pasos buscamos un centro que ya es un estado completo, un lugar unido por los opuestos e igual a sí mismo. René agrega esquinas al círculo giratorio para crear una faceta para ver otros espacios y otros tiempos.
Mitchell Pluto
TIERRA PROFUNDA
Mi enfoque se enfatiza en la búsqueda de las respuestas transcendentales las problemáticas ecológicas y sociales de la humanidad que enfrentamos actualmente.
Con mis obras pretendo hacer conciencia para situar al ser humano como parte importante de la naturaleza es el volver encontrándose con muestro yo interno y nuestros sentidos que se encuentran en un estado dormido es el volver a mirar y observar como un niño para situarnos en las profundidades de los infinitos subsuelos y planos de tierra imaginaria de mundos micros organismos vivos subterráneos que se transmutan constantemente en máquinas orgánicas voladoras y así te llevo transportándote a mi imaginario poético donde danzan líneas interminables y planos de vida que se juntan y separan al mismo tiempo incansable búsqueda de lo desconocido como las estrellas y la naturaleza transmutando a infinitos planos profundo de colores y formas que voy realizando atreves de esta incansable y cambiante movimiento y sonido de la vida.
René Ortega, fue uno de los ganadores en la bienal internacional de arte contemporáneo 3 de octubre de 2022. René ha expuesto obra en Chile y Argentina. Está involucrado en muchos programas de arte cultural que se han relacionado con hospitales, niños y la enseñanza del arte profesionalmente. Su muestra más reciente fue Mental Labyrinths en la galería de arte del Centro Cultural Til Til el 18 de junio de 2022.
“Mi preocupación es la figura humana como sentimiento de estados primitivos e irracionales, cuyo punto principal son las cabezas, pensamiento universal de la creación del hombre y centro del universo. Todo ello condujo a una mutación del lenguaje plástico y pictórico”.
BLENDED IN THE HOURS From the place where the abrupt sound of the loica ventures
(1) the evanescence of your future breath appears among the vegetation that hides your name and the blue and gray stones of the primal mystery there I will drink from the mist that shouts the perpendicular miracle the only reason at all that moistens the vegetal belly of the beloved and shines the incessant desire. How long does the star take to announce your coming? or there will be no signs in this already long life of chordates
(2) while the empty horn waits for its winds and the opaque flame of sleep leans into oblivion
(1) Signature and unpredictable bird before being (A) bird in the light areas that are shaken by the wind mythical and loving red that drew a smile on a child to open the celestial fields of my pupil that stirred my early neurotransmitters before the new cycle (B) (A) Before being Before discriminating the gray hours from the clear ones I inhabited the only and always proud clarity of my imaginary friend (B) New cycle My lymph is rocked by the wind in a theater of new opportunities those that favor the sweetness of the coots of sober stride mating in the repetition of miracles so that the aromas perpetuate my arcane name and the wandering clouds welcome their polar persistence. I had the option of ascending to lightning by the cosmic warp where perhaps the root of the word would have questioned in coming times of etheric colors where time would have curved for your eyes and I would raise your elusive silhouette that lies in the angle of a sunset irretrievably withers the thaumaturgical vowel (B1) as simple as a smile or the collapse of a galaxy since everything is corresponding and apparent with its prodigious lightness (B2) Like a breath from the forest.
TRAVEL I went down to the inside of your belly caressing the rafters of your cosmic cloud the one that received me with the aroma of the sacred bulbs. There you were the clear love of wood and the vegetal wisdom that embraces the ancient verb when the wind ceases its journey on the shoulders of the floral liturgy How many skies inhabit your seed that furrows the seer’s eye? Is there a niche of smoke that hides your salty voice? Or simply the root of everything has its home in that mystery.
Each step collects behind you, the daffodils that inevitably lose your mark the one that wanders in the deep sands that in the empire of shadows shelters you. The messenger has a singular noise I’ll feel it that dreadful day I will know then that the epitaphs for the sepulcher arrive, where nothing else needs to be done, the metal swallows are an illusory replacement, since the truths remained in the lock, and blind to certainties, I only rest for a few moments to give me strength in the pilgrim sea, the one who confuses the epistolary tides and enjoys seemingly innocuous sacrifices.
I will kiss your lips according to the prophecy
while the breeze will speak the unfinished language
And you will see me with your green eyes
that are not green
are brown
But when you laugh they turn green
and you can draw a different morning
with an approximate solstice
with snakes in the window,
so my useless life becomes useful
because I’m a hobo of solar systems
and I become a wanderer in your body,
as a geographer of your corpse altar
and intruder in your zodiac cenith.
At this moment the end of the thread
talk about the miracle of one day
unrepeatable and mild luck
How strange of an eclipse
under the brief abyssal tides
like ghostly cardamoms approaching
in the deserts of disease
appealing to the late corrections
as it did for millions of years
moss persistence with its epicness
selecting the right humidity
with your organic and fruity hug
in that I put my hope
in what you find in front of your eyes
because I am the one who reads in the borrascas
as I advance toward your directions
who fires violent canines
before those who offend you
to heal that sadness
that leaves the middle of the night when you slip
inevitably and persistently beneath
out the door.
Chandelier in the mornings
this useless armor
And the leaves are blank
soaking up her violently dance
they burn in front of the cabinets of dubious origin.
I hear the birds giving birth to the woods, in the upper angles of a nebula.
At this moment the end of the thread talk about the miracle of one day unrepeatable and mild luck How strange of an eclipse under the brief abyssal tides like ghostly cardamoms approaching in the deserts of disease appealing to the late corrections as it did for millions of years moss persistence with its epicness selecting the right humidity with your organic and fruity hug in that I put my hope in what you find in front of your eyes because I am the one who reads in the borrascas as I advance toward your directions who fires violent canines before those who offend you to heal that sadness that leaves the middle of the night when you slip inevitably and persistently beneath out the door.
Featured Image: “Beyond the visible world is the non-Euclidean horizon for the dragonfly” acrylic and ink on 250 gm Fabriano paper by Enrique De Santiago
Mitchell Pluto 