Diana Martín
Siempre en la búsqueda de nuevos sabores, los Gourmets prueban todo. Ella tiene un paladar exquisito, detecta los más mínimos cambios en la sustancia saborea de todo aquello en lo que posa sus papilas gustativas. Podría prescindir de cualquiera de sus sentidos, menos el que alberga en su boca. Él se adormece al escucharla paladear sus experiencias. Grafito y acuarela sobre tela.
Los insaciables del Callejón de las Agujas, retratados en un día de hambre canina. Grafito y acuarela sobre tela.
Ella no se da cuenta de que quisiera comérselo, introducirlo dentro de su carne, hacerlo suyo, y que viva de su misma sangre. Uno solo. La perrita somos todos los que miramos la escena. Él no puede con ella, sus ansias nunca alcanzarán las de ella. Grafito sobre tela.
El Señor Gourmet haría bien en escuchar a su mujer. Los mensajes vienen y él no los capta. Ella bulle de secretos que él no sospecha por nada del mundo. El teléfono está desconectado. El colibrí suspira aburrido. La laca en las uñas de él es demasiado. Grafito y acuarela sobre tela.
Cuando las provisiones se acaban, las cosas se ponen feas. Los cónyuges comienzan a pensar en qué sabor tendrá la carne del otro. A final de cuentas, es otro ritual de posesión, otra forma de conocerse mejor. Y ni les gustan los chícharos. Grafito y acuarela sobre tela.
Una salida a comer al campo siempre calma las ansiedades de los Gourmets. Tras el comelitón, el buen vino adormece esa hambre que nunca queda del todo saciada. La muñeca de la caja no para de bailar. El sol se pone. Grafito obre tela.
Han sido invitados a una magna fiesta: una bacanal de comida y baile. Ella no puede subir la cremallera de su vestido. A él siempre le ha encantado ayudarle. Y mirar reverentemente como la tela negra abraza su formidable trasero Grafito sobre tela.
El Sr. y la Sra. han comido demasiado. Nunca dejan un hueso sin mondar de la más pequeña partícula de carne. La perrita es testigo. No le han dejado mas que los tuétanos. Grafito y acuarela sobre tela.
El horno es demasiado pequeño para el gran lechón que la Señora desea hornear. Deberá cortarlo en piezas y hornearlo por partes. Esto la tiene angustiada. Romper el marranito va contra todos sus ideales de armonía. Grafito sobre tela.
A ella la trajo una ballena, en una noche de luna pálida y menguante. Él prometió hacer suya toda la fuerza de su feminidad. Sobre la arena como un espejo la poseyó. Grafito sobre tela.
La nietecita de los Gourmets llega a comer. La niña es remilgosa y su abuela le enseña que no debe dejar nada, absolutamente nada en el plato, limpio como un espejo. Grafito y acuarela sobre tela.
Esta dama tiene un descomunal apetito. Aparece satisfecha de su gran comelitón y limpiándose los dientes con el largo hueso de alguien. ¿A quién se habrá zampado? ¿A quién quería poseer? Ha integrado a alguien más a su inmensa corporalidad, ahí vivirá para siempre, dentro de sus células. Pero por ahora, sólo piensa en eructar. Grafito y acuarela sobre tela.
La Sra. Gourmet ya no sabe cómo despertar la pasión de su esposo. Es como una oruga envuelta en un capullo y el hombre quisiera cumplirle, pero ella sabe que las cosas ya no pasarán a mayores. Ella se ha convertido en algo incontenible para su disminuido cónyuge. Grafito sobre tela.
Surely there must be something else in life than this.
I miss LA.
El señor Gourmet frecuenta la compañía de interesantes hombres que gustan de ahogarse de muy diversas maneras. Los peces muertos podrían ser un símbolo del estado de sus vidas, o quizá sólo es un sashimi sin cortar. Como sea. Este señor, a diferencia de su mujer, tiene amigos. Grafito sobre tela.
I keep a lot of stuff to myself and i don´t speak about things on this blog because of the stalkers.
But i just came back from LA and i simply want to talk about what happened to me there with no restrains. I write in english as a form of forcing the non-english speaking bystanders to be overwhelmed by the effort of translating. So here i go.
My flight departed at 7 am so i had to be up at 3 am. It is a common and sure fact that in the wake of such a day one doesnt sleep properly even if you want to, and i was not an exception. I only got two hours of sleep.
The last time i visited LA i was a child. Who would have thought id be back in my adulthood, and not for pleasure purposes, but to get to know an art collector better? And with all expenses payed.
The taxi driver who took me downtown was having a hell of a bad day: all cranky and swearing at everybody. I tried to ignore his foul vibes and focused on the distant skyscrapers i was heading to while i listened to «Hey Jude» on my ipod. I realized then that i am gonna weep hard the day Paul McCartney will finally meet his mates in the afterlife. And god, i will cry buckets when David Bowie does the same.
I have been pretty insensitive the last months, i came to the temporary conclusion its just the reaction i took unconsciously to avoid getting hurt. Last week i found out a way to dig a hole into my aparently numb inner world. The brigdes were music and hunger. I realized i liked to be hungry because i feel lighter, and the LA trip was slowly getting inside me, waking up some unknown apettites and familiar sentiments which i profoundly welcomed.
Mr. Aframian´s office was located of Hill Street, in the heart of the jewellers district, i realized LA´s ugliness (as a lack or harmony, LA is not like Paris) while i stepped down the cab and headed into the old building. The weather was a little cold, the displays sparkled with diamonds as i entered the elevator and pressed the number 5.
The next six hours or so i kept myself busy talking to Sam´s employees, two of them of Mexican origin. I was starving so i ate all the pistacchios they had on a cute tray. Sam finally greeted me with great warmth and i gave him a present: two soft ground engravings i had printed for him the day before. He was delighted and marvelled, next i unpacked the pictures that Luis (my patron) had taken to LA some hours before i arrived. His reaction and how everyone at the office rushed in to catch a glimpse made me feel a little out of place, i wanted to weep but i couldnt. I just stood there giving explanaitions of each picture, the meaning and technique. I don´t understand why people want everything figured out; most of the time i don´t know why i paint or draw certain things: the creative process is always a step ahead of the rational thought. And you find out what part of you surfaced and why sometimes until years have passed.
At last i showed him my latest works, with this i finally managed to kill him. I had never seen such a look on any man´s face: lover or friend, the utter look of admiration, almost adoration. An enchanting old jewish gentleman who works for Sam held my hand and said to me that next time i came lo LA he would cover my hands in gold. His kindness was disarming, i could have hugged him endlessly like the loving grandfather i never had. It strikes me that lately, the men that have seen me are over 60.
My eyes were all stingy from the lack of sleep, buy Sam still wanted to take us to dinner, so we went. It was a marvelous evening, great food for the body and the soul. I discovered Sam´s love for everything japanese, something we have in common. He asked me «Nihon go hanashimasu ka?» and when i answered «Chotto nihon go hanashimasu» he couldn´t be more bewildered.
Sam had to leave us because he had a late flight to Atlanta. I hugged him good bye, hoping that the warmth i had seen on this ruthless bussiness man was true. I wished i could trust him entirely, i wondered if he would be my friend for real, i hope he is.
I spend the next three nights at this beautiful hotel called The Los Angeles Athletic Club, i had a room for my own: huge, luxurious, on the eleventh floor, the beds where impossibly cozy, the lightning perfect. I knew i didn´t miss anything or anybody at that moment. I felt i belonged.
I left the windows open, i wanted to see the sunrise from my bed in a few hours. And so i did. The feeling of waking up in a beautiful hotel room, wrapped in soft sheets and looking at the LA skyline, with its endless lines of little windows, the sun smiling coyly from the clouds and the soft racket of the traffic as a lullaby was powerful. I felt happy i was alone, for the first time in a long time. Like i really own myself and owe noone nothing. At 31, selling my artwork abroad i felt there was no other place i wanted to be.
I keep a lot of stuff to myself and i don´t speak about things on this blog because of the stalkers.
But i just came back from LA and i simply want to talk about what happened to me there with no restrains. I write in english as a form of forcing the non-english speaking bystanders to be overwhelmed by the effort of translating. So here i go.
My flight departed at 7 am so i had to be up at 3 am. It is a common and sure fact that in the wake of such a day one doesnt sleep properly even if you want to, and i was not an exception. I only got two hours of sleep.
The last time i visited LA i was a child. Who would have thought id be back in my adulthood, and not for pleasure purposes, but to get to know an art collector better? And with all expenses payed.
The taxi driver who took me downtown was having a hell of a bad day: all cranky and swearing at everybody. I tried to ignore his vibe and focused on the distant skyscrapers i was heading to while i listened to «Hey Jude» on my ipod. I realized then that i am gonna weep hard the day Paul McCartney will finally meet his mates in the afterlife. And god, i will cry buckets when David Bowie does the same.
I have been pretty insensitive the last months, i feel its just the reaction i took unconsciously to avoid getting hurt, but last week i found out a way to dig a hole into my numb exterior. The brigdes were music and hunger. I realized i liked to be hungry because i feel lighter, and the LA trip was slowly getting inside me, waking up some unknown apettites.