Chilean artist – Page 3 – Mitchell Pluto

Secret of the Air, Enrique De Santiago

Huge old stars leaning out of the
horizontal cobblestone sheets,
were dictated by an ancient manual of glorious epic forms
where I did not read the cunning locks,
from there fall lights like eagles
what they hang before your pale fortifications
and despite the fact that I descend without air
I cling to the dissected edges of this abyss
walking away from the waves of floral promises
with summer mentions that anoint you.

The amaranth silence rocks the star again
and like the silent lymph
you seek to break beyond the fundamental shell
the one that you came to know in a primitive way
in the sweet stays of belief.

Blows the hydrogen on the leaves
and many cycles are enough for oblivion,
while the trees stand
because they keep their memory in the roots,
to later give shelter to life
vertical.
I am the extended earth,
I still have memories of that
Winter will come without you realizing it.

The specificity of the meander
winding secret of the air
like the grass with its distant star.

_{written and illustrated by ©Enrique De Santiago}

Victoria Morrison, Seed Wisdom

seed wisdom

Imperfect seeds also germinate,
in a more difficult way; painful stem grows
of the tormented plant
What will this spring concoction be?
that the drug that saves it

has turned into glycine – creamy smell
bittersweet sugar, citrus undertones
in disguised purple.
Wild birds recite verses in the air
Has the song of the mother bird healed her?

Am I really here, watching
the miracle of my fertile land
or is it my mind that imitates
to the dying man who escapes from the barren land
and look for the seed to save the world?

We are the witch poets, the ones with the mark on the face
my trade is the botany of the imperfect
that mutates to the perfect, to see the beauty in the
“not graceful” is to live many lives,
give wisdom to the marrow
spinal cord of the brain
in the seed of the plant.
The noose around the neck is the plant
tied to the cross, slowly
stop breathing and die
And what is life for?
if we don’t manage to be captivated
with all the trees in the world?
the intelligence and wisdom of flowers
is assimilated to the cunning of orphaned children
nameless beautiful bastards,
no handkerchief on the lapel,
they feed on fresh drops;
Those left by loving widows
in the tomb of the dancing moon.

the dead dance
imperfect seeds also flourish,
they love dew in rain
of scarlet evenings
in the smell of smoke, fire and mapacho tobacco.

At night …
the frost settles on the petal of her lip;
nice to freeze like this, being kissed
because of the cold that rests in the water garden.
I caress each stem without prejudice to its appearance
for me, the witch plant is so beautiful
like the scent of the holy white rose.
The twisted and mutilated lemon tree
has taken refuge in the grape vine
red wine lemon

Beneath the cement has grown
blooming dandelion and sphere
healing herb for the healer and sage.
Rescuing damaged seeds is the art
of the reasonable
We are the ancient poets, the ones with the mark on the face
Here I bring roots to decorate your hair.

I resurface in my garden

The wind blows hard, breaks promises.
Catastrophic hiss, fractures everything.
My hand no longer touches your figure;
broken marble.
underwater love nest
stifled desire.
You interrupted my spring
cold storm; wet paper,
You have erased all my love poems.
What do you keep in those pockets
how much do you protect?
the wind asked me
(the burden of my corpse)
Suffering for love deforms my face
-I disappear-.
I neglect my garden, I leave it without dew,
I turn to stone
and I cry my gloomy sadness.
Decay,
I look in the rocks
the calm of my weight.

I’m sorry for you ungrateful root,
when I suffer, I become bad.
I take shelter in the dead trunk,
I am dry firewood
I have no foolish claim
to be perfect for you.
Today I have seen butterfly lilies bloom,
-They talk about rebirth-
There is no end of the world, if the birds
at night they recite poems.
I resurface in my garden, I breathe, I smile.
My flowers, my steps where I recover my voice,
my singing
My silent cat and devoted friend.
imperfect seeds,
we also bloom at dawn.
What do you keep in those pockets
how much do you protect?
the wind asked me.

_{written by ©Victoria Morrison}

Victoria Morrison, Chile 1977, Social worker, poetry and short story writer. Current and active member of SECH (Chilean Writers Society) P.E.N Chile (Poets, essayists and novelists) Published books: A room in hell (2016) Ediciones La Horca Evicted poems (2017) Editorial Ovejas Negras Pupilas de Loco (2020) Rumbos Editores (Her writings are characterized by evoking psychological themes. A lover of nature, the author explains that in each word there is healing; if we assimilate that word to the roots of each plant, just as there are imperfect seeds, there are also humans imperfect; are not the goods called “crooked trees” those that, without water, shade, or fertile soil, continue to breathe on the earth. If the fragile plant resists the cold, the weather, the human flesh sheltered in wool and scarf I should be grateful and silent, listen in silence, the frozen and brave song of the frosty hour

www.facebook.com/marielavictoriapoeta

Pupilas De Loco

@victoria_morrison_

There is Never a Plan Jorge J. Herrera Fuentealba

The movement in my work is a consequence of a sincere trace of the unconscious. Movement represents life. In moments without inspiration, I try to maintain the discipline of continuing to paint, draw, because thanks to experimentation, inspiration returns.

There is never a plan, everything is part of the unknown (spots, lines, frottage etc.). Taking risks, experimenting and destroying the known to reach an unknown place. I have worked with a lot of materials, oil, pastel, acrylic, watercolor, pencils of all kinds, tempera and ink, but my favorites are oil, acrylic and acrylic pencils (markers).

Many artists influenced my work, not only plastic artists, but also musicians, colleagues and friends. The artist who most influenced my work I think has been Roberto Matta. For work I generally listen to music that has a guitar (because I also play electric guitar, mostly rock), from Jimi Hendrix to Death Metal.

Paulo Freire marked a period in my life above all with “Pedagogy of the Oppressed”, I carried it around in my backpack for months, but perhaps it was Mario Benedetti’s book “Spring with a Broken Corner” that impressed me the most. I saw the play during the dictatorship in Chile, I read the book later, when I was already living in the Netherlands.

_{written by ©Jorge J. Herrera Fuentealba}

www.jorgeherrera.nl
Instagram: jorgejherrera.art
Facebook: Jorge J. Herrera Fuentealba Art

Angel of the Paths Claudia Vila Molina

Texts extracted from the unpublished collection of poems “Ciénaga”

5
21 seconds they play your name
Like a shooting star I count the spaces
To lose myself in the water.

6
We are stopped by the claws of the wind
It’s time to sleep they tell us
we are asleep
Like fugitive silhouettes
We have gone astray.

7
The angel of the paths leads
our light
his hands lengthen the stems of the day
stretch contours.

8
My cloud brings pieces of time closer
I’m gloomy like these worm-eaten plants
Someone else will come from the night
To collect some forgotten landscape.

9
Unexpectedly I open my eyes towards you
I like to hear whispers from the outside line
Your eyes open other doors
And they stay sheltered from the shade.

10
Since that time I remember you
You slowly invade my landscapes
Cold voices bring the threads of that web closer
They surround the absent body.

11
I will open my eyes once more
When the stars dwell in our bodies
And a drop slipped through the skin
Suspend all reefs high.

12
Violet petals fall successively on us
The wind is gone, but the shadow remains
Water slides streams into the night
And the last fire extinguishes my stars.

Poems extracted from the book “Poemas de sur”

House and Plum IV

Stealth remains attentive to all caresses
My kisses keep looking for their route
And I remember the first home, the smells tremble with their laughter
Your look weighs on the eyelids of the imagination
The smells will come to dream of the intimate past
So long without looking back
Memory takes so long
It’s something illusory like the blue roses in the garden
The bridge where I whisper a name
a silhouette arrives tired to tell me
that figure sits in the memories
And I can no longer hide
in the holes of the old walls
but if the shadow is your name
I will continue whispering inside the empty space
and the walls will see their signs in the passing of things
beyond we will continue drawing in the rooms
and they will continue to walk through those passages
where the smoke today flies calmly.

House and plum V

We remember the fog visits us through the window
The green eyes returned to tour our nights
And an old walker passed through the house
We return to the site of the visits
The lamps lulled the traveling sound
Only God listens to us on this winter Friday
And I whisper to you not to repeat things
Our gestures turn off the lights
Fall memories unwrap
That house creaked in the front room
Eyes flickered subject to the crackle
A voice speaks words
I don’t know them anymore, the voice is barely heard
Between the trees you fly to contemplate the past
And the tree held by the foreign night
We are silent to hear each other in this stillness
Sleeping trees glow in the dark
They stretch their arms towards the house in the silence
The wind returns
And we as relic-weary passengers
We take care of the necessary gestures
Things twinkle distrustful of destiny
And only tonight can they blink in regret
Because the trees examine our deep voices
And no one will be able to descend from the passageway
And listen to the unknown song.

_{written by ©Claudia Vila Molina}

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.

Featured art photo Peppermint Patty girl Oil, collage Mitchell Pluto 2022

René Ortega Space Map

Inner space, mathematical entities, organic architecture and time doors from the liminal mind of artist René Ortega

From TvoTiltil October 3, 2022

El artista plástico y vecino de Huertos Familiares, René Ortega, resultó uno de los ganadores en la bienal internacional de arte contemporáneo que se desarrolló la semana pasada en Cali Colombia. En el encuentro participaron más de 3000 pinturas y representantes de 15 países y fue trinfador en la categoría de arte abstracto.
La premiación se llevó a cabo en la Universidad Santiago de Cali. Sin duda es el logro y reconocimiento más importante en mi carrera hasta la fecha nos indicó el artista hace instantes.

The plastic artist and neighbor of Huertos Familiares, René Ortega, was one of the winners in the international biennial of contemporary art that took place last week in Cali, Colombia. More than 3,000 paintings and representatives from 15 countries participated in the meeting and it was the winner in the category of abstract art.
The award ceremony was held at the Santiago de Cali University. Without a doubt, it is the most important achievement and recognition in my career to date, the artist told us moments ago.

Feature art photo was selected as the award-winning work.

Be a Poem by Lorena Rioseco-Palacios

EVE LIGHT

Life
Death
The sense
What are they worth?
Ties to Life the illusion of being special
unique
That everything hidden will be revealed and bring peace
The fall
God
Crying
The vacuum
the tear
The torture of ignorance.
The worst of wheat
the howling of the cattle
The bark of the stubborn
The silence of the wise
(To whom God gave a name and assigned a Path)
Fall and worry our fate
Our truth the poppy has bloomed
The morphine has deadened the pain
But the power of God gives us the strength to continue… to continue
WHERE?

TWO NOISES

There are only two noises left
In the relaxed silences after the bloodless waters of the cold
There are only two noises left
Between the waking dream
Field where all the faded desires lie
While in his fury the candid blood
born in his look at the dawn
In your breathing relief
After the suns of August and the snows of July

There are only two noises left
My body knows its moment in the soul
Half bite and half die

There are only two noises left

Kisses and debauchery

What will become of so much love?
What will become of so much thirst?

I WILL GET LOST

I will lose myself as those sleepless nights are lost.
As the swallows fly uncertainly in their freedom.
Thus, like the breath drowned in a puddle of muddy tears
between slopes whipped by a harsh winter.
I’ll get lost on those dead end streets
in the midst of a time without stay.
Suffering soul
Deep sorrow of the soul.
I will write her name in crystals in the catacombs where lost loves lie
in each fragment deposited on a paper evicted from oblivion
between puddles of muddy tears on slopes whipped by a harsh winter.

SEPIA

As I watched the roll
roll of your wheels
I rolled off the ledges of cement buildings
There is no time…
Just muzzled birds
who observe my mourning of fluorescent colors
I’m looking for a bloody drink
Lower the face to the bottom
Bottomless background.
soul of lockdowns
absence of soul
there are no greens
SEPIA only…

LONELY

Lonely my autumn sighs pass by
Lonely the night of stars without wicks

Of loves in transit to the corridor of oblivion
Presence of leaves dancing as our love faded
In the middle of our world
always unfinished
Present as the cold through my careless open windows

I live and die
I smile and agonize
I dance and fall on cement floors
in dark spaces
in adornment people

I wonder-

In what unknown wind do I find you?
In what shade of September?
In what square of yesteryear do you walk your nostalgia
your unlived times
your life in my absence
my presence not available
or our words always so petty?

Alone
Alone in the midst of eclipsing clouds
And suns that don’t kill

Alone in the siesta of the day
While the good runs adrift
In that ocean that I never get to cross

What’s up?-that nothing in me is enough
that my passing is the passing of a deaf bird in a night cloak of mirrors?

devoid of me
devoid of all
abandoned by my lyrics
Unable to happen in life
All that I no longer say

FOR A SHIRAZ

ruby meteorites
Imitate God’s Sediment

meaning to the air
that the air I lack

That I need one last sip of a great Syrah
To say, what my lyrics hide

The costume without forgetting
Your body smells like grapes and my body smells like you…

_{written by ©Lorena Rioseco Palacios}

Lorena Rioseco Palacios

10.29.1969, Viña del Mar, Chile

Poet, narrator and reciter of the soul. Social Communicator, law graduate. At the end of 2015 she published her first book of poetry, stories and haiku “Ecos errantes” In 2016 together with 18 Chilean women poets she published her poetic work in the anthology “Mujeres al fin del mundo” (poetic voice of Chilean women), awarded by the Chilean Society of Writers with the “National Reading Fund”, with presence in all National Libraries. In 2017, together with outstanding national poets, he presents his work in the Anthology “Underworld¨ “Blood brother”, “Without borders” (Society of Writers “Without borders”. 2018), “ After poetry, in 2019 and “After Poetry: the festival of poetry”, in 2020 he publishes his work in the International Poetic Anthologies “Palabras Necessarios”, 2021, among others . The artist vigorously participates in literary, poetic, cultural and environmental dissemination activities. She also participates in different poetry forums, where she maintains a constant literary and poetic activism in social networks and groups of poets in America and Europe. In 2021, she publishes her second bilingual poetry book “Sé un poeta (be a poem)”. Since 2017 she is a member of the cultural corporation of writers and artists “Les enfants terribles” and of the Society of Chilean Writers (SECH). Poet invited to the II National Poetry Meeting, 2021.

Featured art photo Scyphomancy Oil on 9inx12in coldpress Mitchell Pluto 2022

Poetics of Erotica, Loves and Heartbreaks by Claudia Vila Molina

Crossing

be you
the stray who returns
into the mist
of our bodies.

Ignition

I wonder if you’re touching the sky now
as I extend my sight to these mountains
what part of space
will be created with your presence?
What ocean will I cross
to incinerate you slowly?

Prophecy

Your body dissolves things
to announce a moan
or remote end of the night
that no longer hides anything
not even a new way
of shivering

Estrangement

You look at me as if I were your fetish
you touch me when we’re alone
I am nothing of that
nor the shadow of our own steps.

Secrets

The mirror projects two lovers at the edge of the night
the itinerary of its own history is broken
They don’t sleep because they know how to distinguish whispers
that fly by and saturate the air
of people looking through the keyhole
and are suddenly reflected in a pool
It is not true to say that these bodies look at each other
it would be better to sketch the moment
when they intersect with the dark
but aligned as they were they knew how to possess themselves
and stood out against the background of shadows
of a white that was dreamed at night
and he did not even stop to contemplate the stars
but if he looked at himself naked
except when she unbuttoned her dress.

_{written by ©Claudia Vila Molina}

Feature art photo Sun Set Women Oil, collage by Mitchell Pluto 2022

Inheritance of the Sleepless Rodrigo Verdugo

INHERITANCE OF THE SLEEPLESS 61

under the jasmine,
there are beautiful sentences.

I search with hands of fog,
something in my bones.

And to my aid comes,
the girl who knows
read backwards.

TENIA

She had the profile of a raven
and she covered her navel
with a lotus

she in dreams
she drank beer
with Alejandra Pizarnik.

She wanted to rent a small apartment
in Latin American Union neighborhood
only to have parties or orgies.

An apartment where beer
will fly like a raven
and the girls in full frenzy
they will remove the lotus from the navel
and the men will arrive like castaways
and burst in at sunset.

then someone comes back
to rent that apartment
and before putting the furniture and inhabiting it
read aloud to Alejandra Pizarnik
and a lotus enters through the window
pushed by the evening air.

INHERITANCE OF THE SLEEPLESS 82

I
lightning strikes
the blood bans
the eyelids of a son confuse the stone,
he has spilled on his knees
that burning milk,
which they throw in the face of the lamb.

II
I was spawned
in full abyssal torture.
and I have shields
about all my children.

III
You have petrified aspirations
and you say that you will become
in wolf at noon,
and you will bite a blue breast.

IV
You moan from the preacher’s throat
and thorns appear,
you want to be and not be at the same time
under any sky
pleasure shatters the night
and your bones watch over you in the hunter’s house,
and he ash in orgy with lightning
it’s just the picture
of that mother that she said
please open the door for me
welcome me, my house is burning down
she will burn me
and all my children.

V
I forgive him, but he repeats
I forgive him and he tells me
I want all my children together
forming a tragic link.

VI
I’m the father,
I drag bags with abundant fruits,
vegetables and goat cheese
I visit all the markets
all vegas and slaughterhouses
at five in the morning,
he wore a marbled coat,
a split in the middle of the forehead,
the sea spends angels and demons
and I spend the gold
with what should I cover
the mouth of all the unearthed.

VII
And who wants to sit at my table
he can talk to me at sunset
about my old gold digger aspirations
while we bite fruits,
and goat cheeses.

VIII
my children say
I have minotaur feet
and that I’m crazy.

IX
They were distributed.
The first met lightning envelope
and he finished as server in fifths of recreation.
The second was tempted by alabaster prostitutes
and he ended up ripping the bones out of all the fish with his mouth.
The third was suckled by a mule
and he ended up inspecting faucets.
The fourth was confined in a monastery
and ended up transcribing dictations from a blind nun.
Suddenly I wanted to have them all with me
forming a tragic link
on the precipices of the species.

X
And the mother in the hunter’s house
hid in the meantime
she said: “for now I am safe here,
although everyone outside
see the ash in orgy with lightning
and that is the image that remains of me in them”.
I will put my children to shelter
I’ll get them up at dawn
they will have the plague of a wolf that bit a blue breast
and they will fall one after another
and I will put compresses on the body
and I will invade my mother’s house
and the living room will be enabled as a sanatorium
and I will wake up at dawn to serve them
like a blind nun
and I will fear that a few steps of minotaur
are getting closer.

XI
those were my kids
and they were my gold digger pride
Of that gold that I will ever find
to cover once and for all
the mouths of all the unearthed.

XII
Come and let’s continue biting fruits
and goat meats and cheeses
That’s why I’m at five in the morning
with a marbled jacket,
and a split in the middle of the forehead,
in all vega, slaughterhouse and market.
That’s what lightning goes for
against all the prohibitions of the blood,
That’s why I choose alabaster prostitutes for my children
and with ashes I increase the abyssal torture of generation,
and with shepherd’s throats, I increase the desire
of those who want to be wolves at noon,
and bite a blue breast,
and have petrified aspirations,
or pluck fish bones with their mouths
and from the confused stone I make a shield
under which the wolf will drink burning milk
in the snout of the lamb.

Rodrigo Verdugo Pizarro: Santiago, Chile, 1977. Poet and collagist. He was secretary of the Pen Chile and formed part of the Surrealist Derrame Group. His work has been published in national and foreign journals and anthologies being partially translated into: English, French, Italian, Portuguese, Polish, Arabic, Uzbek, Romanian, Bulgarian, Catalan, Dutch Albanian and Greek. He has participated in collective exhibitions in: Spain, Portugal, Czech Republic, Costa Rica and Egypt. He is author of: “Veiled Knots”, Ed Derrame, 2002, “Broken Windows”, Olga Cartonera, 2014, “Advertisement”, Rumbos Editors, 2017 and “3 Anuncios, 3 Annonces”, Plaquette, Coedition Mago Publishers, Home Notebooks Bermeja, and Hesperides Publishing House (Argentina), Hispanic Academy of Fine Letters (Spain),2019

Feature art photo Mercenaries at the neural pipelines Oil, collage 9inx12in Mitchell Pluto 2022

I Drink from the Paleozoic Salts Enrique de Santiago

It is then when the tree that tomorrow will summon the thorns loses its leaves,
and the bumblebee falls, prey to the polar trails,
to reinvent the powerful patient engineering of lytic promises,
Well, that’s where I shelter, and where I rescue the omens,
there I drink from the Paleozoic salts, which today move the migratory herds,
those who come to the eyes without ears, of those attending Sunday services.
By nature, I approve!!

They speak of love, and my bet is more on compassion, which is a kind of continuum in a collective warp, of an ineffable equation that they will never understand.
Because perhaps love (like that image shown to us) does not exist and if it does exist it is a sum of chemical reactions where a set of hormones stimulates our syntax, and which may also be subject to the need for genes to be perpetuated. Maybe?. But there is also one who breaks this previous theory; crazy love, passionate love, eternal love, etc. that love that becomes unclassifiable. I only know that I know nothing.
After all, I believe in love.
Does the egg use the chicken to make more eggs?
It is possible, but in a global and precisely circular analysis, the plot of existence is supported in a shed crossed by the polyform reality of infinite logics and illogics, where each of its corresponding paradoxes and balances avoids its critical tension.
But, we can order them in the not well understood compassion, which could be a feeling deeper than that of the corruptible flesh (physical theory and cognitively plausible), which leads to understandable and celestial simplicity. But what if an infinitesimal were more than an integer, or if that time circulated in all directions? or love will not mean more than a necessary impulse to take risks in order to live the contradictions, so that the soul, when dying, will return with the pertinent knowledge to correct, deconstruct or ratify the whole of the so-called divinity .
For this reason, the next step opens the temporality to dedicate more time to essential reflection, and to put aside an imposed competitiveness for the accumulation of objects that lead to the void that means pursuing a way of life that is subordinated to the symbolic relationship. of the object or objects, which is useless and inconducive (a simulacrum of the society of the spectacle) for our true purpose in this brief transit called life.
Ars longa vita brevis. Or your existence is just an accident to offer a limited amount of data to accompany the equation that gives additional information to find the way out of the answer.
By the way; nobody takes me into account, since my infallibility is very poor since periodically and statistically, my failures are more abundant than my certainties.
And therein lies my wisdom; in realizing that my hypotheses are only attempts to find the truth within infinity. To think otherwise would be to err drastically and in the process lie to them. It would be, subjecting myself from the ego to an option to dress elegantly, but in the end, it would strip my limits. It is better to be honest in clumsiness than false in an inane and temporary charade.
But:
What if love were one of that unknown design in my intrinsic astral writing, waiting for you?

*Primordial circulation approaching from a past spring,* acrylic on Fabriano paper 250 gm. 35x45cm

So the wide dividing width
will unload its useful molecules
in this useless impertinent distance
there where the lightning reigns
without asking for their
blind blows.
Is when my pale measures
they embrace their designs devoid of elytra
to save the waters
possessed of salt and fire
that bathe the limits of my suffering body
without entering the first cause
that brings me down from within
the muscle periphery.

*Eros Phasianidae*, acrylic and ink on Canson 300 gms paper. 11″ x 8.3

EROS PHASIANIDAE
Yo
And she saw the chicken rise from the ground
a brilliant and ectoplasmic epiphany
and she remembered the words of the feathered prophets:
“before the primordial egg was the verb”
and the pyrrhic evolutionary expedition embraced me
so necessary and indeterminate
where we are more but under sheds
and I saw the grayish uncertainty that shakes my being
h = 6.626 0693 (11) x 10 – (34) J. s = 4,135 667 43 (35)
x10–(15)eV. s
and the beast arose from the miasma
without the feminine warmth
it was in the offensive of the arches thousands of years ago
on the Cartesian line of Har Meggido
under the law of y = m x + b
and those tears originated at 32°34’59″N 35°10’56″E.
II
huge old stars
leaning out on the horizontal cobblestone sheets
were dictated by an ancient manual of glorious epic forms
where I did not read the cunning locks
and from there lights fall like eagles
that are suspended in front of your pale fortifications
and despite the fact that I descend without air
I cling to the desiccated edges of this abyss
turning away from the waves of floral promises
with summer mentions that anoint you.
Thus the amaranth silence returns to rock the star
and like the silent lymph
you seek to break beyond the fundamental shell
the one that you got to know in a primitive way
in the sweet rooms of belief.

*Interruption*, acrylic on cut Fabriano paper, on black cardboard. 18x24cm.
The inclination of one of the elements is voluntary.

GOLDEN VISION

The nothing, the void
hold my duplicate fragments
(Φ2 = 2.61803398874988…)
It is the hollowness of the past and the future
what you don’t have and don’t want
the illusion of time and line
Infinity
so love surrounds swelling wisdom
while on the musty boards of a camp
absent light filters
to tilt reciprocal reality
that drives your transformation
(1/Φ = 0.61803398874988).

Maybe this reality is true
on this twilight island
where the already worn bones falter
by the persistent violet stings,
and there is no choice but to live among the cyclones that guard the whimsical and invisible knots
with its container meshes
that hide half-open portals,
those that I will leave like this for a while,
since everything circulates in the promised packaging.

**Paintings and Poems by**
**Enrique de Santiago**

Formulas in Liminal Space by René Fernando Ortega Villarroel

The self is the unconscious and conscious that allows you to enter these imaginary worlds of creation, that is why it is important

Bueno el yo es el inconsciente y consiente que te permite entrar a estos mundos imaginarios de creación por eso es importante

I knew when I entered the experimental artist school and I liked all the artistic disciplines such as sculpture, engraving, drawing, forge, in short, I wanted to learn all the arts and be good at it with a lot of discipline and read the theoretical and aesthetic knowledge, and I realized that I could do it.

Bueno supe cuando entre a la escuela experimental artista y me gustaron todas las disciplinas artísticas como escultura grabado dibujo forja en fin todas las artes quería aprender y ser bueno en ello con mucha disciplina y leer el conocimiento estético lo teórico y me di cuenta que podía hacerlo

The environment has a strong influence on my paintings sketches sculptures from the observation and reflection of nature as something as small as a seed or as big as a tree and as infinite as a hill and from an insect to a bird in flight

El entorno tiene una fuerte influencia sobre mis pinturas bocetos esculturas desde la observación y la reflexión de la naturaleza como algo tan pequeño como una semilla o tan grande como árbol y tan infinito como un cerro y de un insecto a un pájaro en vuelo

It inspires me when I get up every morning and breathe the pure air of my mountains and feel that I am alive again to create with my hands and my eyes and feel the smells of my trees

Me inspira cuando me levanto todas las mañanas y respirar aire puro de mis montañas y sentirme que estoy viví otra ves para crear con mis manos y mis ojos y sentir los olores de mis árboles

Looking at nature influences my work and the action of carefully observing the plants and everything that surrounds me is part of my daily work.

En mi trabajo influye el mirar la naturaleza y tener la acción de observar detenidamente las plantas y todo lo que me rodea es parte de mi trabajo diario

I read many authors and artists bibliographies, as many as ancient and contemporary books on aesthetics, books on theorists and mathematicians, I like it a lot, and I am investigating fractal logarithms, why life was created that way, matter multiplies thousands of times and infinitely. that what I want in my work

Bueno leo muchos autores y bibliografías de artista tantos como antiguos y contemporánea libros de estéticas libros de los teóricos y matemáticos me gusta mucho y estoy investigando los logaritmos fractales por qué la vida se creo de esa manera se multiplica Miles de veces y infinitamente la materia y eso lo que quiero en mi obra

Rene has exhibited work in Chile and Argentina. He is involved in many cultural art programs that have related to hospitals, children and teaching art professionally.

René ha expuesto obra en Chile y Argentina. Está involucrado en muchos programas de arte cultural relacionados con hospitales, niños y la enseñanza del arte profesionalmente.

“My concern is the human figure as a feeling of primitive and irrational states, whose main point is the heads, universal thought of the creation of man and center of the universe. All this led to a mutation of the plastic and pictorial language”.

“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 esto llevado a un mutamiento del lenguaje plástico y pictórico”.

Rene Ortega Villarroel