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Diciembre '21

No. 2

Vol. 12

Buymeacoffee.com/catartica

21 de las 39 obras expuestas por Malévich en la exposición 0,10. 1915

Is said that endings are new beginnings, in Catártica we like to think so, that is why the cover of the last month of 2021 frames the work of two artists Adrienne Antonson (1982) and Kazimir Malévich (1879 - 1935) whom, in their terms, address the subjects such as change and cycles in their work. Of nocturnal habit and dressed in opaque colors, the big moth that is the central element of the cover design refers to a long tradition of legends and popular beliefs that have given it a reputation of death. Augury of loss, a symbol of bad luck and even mere manifestation of evil, moths have an unfair reputation that their cousins the butterflies - so to speak - do not carry, although both are charged with the important task of pollinating and being part of the cycle of life. Adrienne Antonson leans towards this last premise and chooses to focus on recovering materials to generate objects. Using natural fibers, especially human hair, Antonson produces clothing and insects from which she discusses the duality between life/death and beautiful/unpleasant while recalling the important use of hair to make jewelry or mourning objects during the Victorian era. As the German sociologist Norbert Elias (1897 - 1990) would say, by the nature of these objects "the body is still present in the memory of intimacies." As a background, the black part of the famous black square on white background of the painter Kazimir Malevich accentuates the reputation of the moths and at the same time reminds us of the plastic liberation proposed by Malevich with Suprematism. Intending to represent the whole (black painting) and nothingness (white background), in short, what cannot be represented, a world based on geometric abstraction that reproduces a universe without objects. For this, the artist had to free himself from his reality, change his perspective and generate new ways of seeing the art he wanted to produce, new contrasts, new harmonies, and another color palette. This is the way Catártica wants to end and start the year, so read on and wait for the change.

Adrienne Antonson, (2008), A moth made of human hair and glue. Kazimir Malevich, (1915), Black square on white background, Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow, Russia. Enciclopedia de Historia, Suprematismo, https://enciclopediadehistoria.com/ Halsey Institute of Contemporary Art, (2008) mend: love, life, loss group-exhibition https://halsey.cofc.edu/main-exhibitions/mendlove-life-loss-group-exhibition/

CICLES A.G.C

Martian Graphemic Omar Khalid

The Oracle of Warsaw Ernesto Ocaña

Winter Poetry Victor Rivera

Not Everything is... Rossanna Huerta

Unaware

Moons 70 Days away from eternity's gate

M.I. Flores Nachón mourning alone Nat.cisa

What eyes shush Arturo González Lara

LA GRAFÉMICA

MARCIANA

Omar Khalid 5

“Retrato con lenguaje marciano II” Omar Khalid óleo sobre adera 60x60 cm 2020

"La Piedra" óleo sobre tela 30x48 pulgadas 2019

Since 2014, my work has focused on the study and exploration of human emotions from an extraterrestrial vision. I start from the idea that to understand something in its totality, it is necessary to move away and analyze it from the outside. I began to develop semi-humanlike Martian characters, called Visitors, capable of living on our planet, with the sole intention that they experience life on Earth. Little by little these Martian beings understand human life, but from the emotions that we usually call negative. Visitors, from their neutral and alien gaze

do not conceive the goodbad or negative-positive duality, since for them any knowledge acquired on our planet is a generator of experience, therefore they test their ability to feel and to think, taking them to the limit. I play with visual rhetoric, to create complex images, scenes, or situations, where the Visitors show us, between metaphors, difficult to understand, some answers to our existential questions. In addition to this, the Visitors try to transmit to us that knowledge that they have obtained during

"Retrato con lenguaje marciano I" Omar khalid óleo sobre madera 16x16 pulgadas 2020

Instagram: omarkhalid_artist

heir stay on Earth, also in writing, as a log of their expeditions and what they have obtained here; mainly analysis on pain, sadness, death, and failure. The pieces "Portrait with Martian Language I and II" are a series of graphemic explorations as part of my research called Marcian Esthetics, these explorations have no translation since they are intended to be written about emotions that we are not yet able to understand or decipher.

THE ORACLE OF WARSAW Ernesto Ocaña Be observant of all your dreams and impish nightmares, and the impossible structures that the architect that is your mind can assemble. In order to feel lacking in talent and incapable of any and all creativity, we don’t really need to study Picasso or Magritte, but to think deeply when opening our eyes on the designs that inhabit our minds after we fall asleep. I fight, day after day, to translate those worlds into either pictures or words, I make an effort to break the clumsiness of my hands and the fog that runs through my mind; because I long for others to witness what I see on the canvas of my eyelids, but it’s impossible, I am only human. We believe that we are our mind, when in fact we are but one of its aspects that has achieved consciousness. When we sleep, we are surrounded by everything that our being encompasses, and the chains of nerve cells that run from both feet and small intestine, to our heart and the tip of our nose, begin to dream of a reality that crushes our self. In nightmares they take revenge for not being allowed as part of our ego, they create confusing realities and dominate almost half of our lives keeping our body still, they painstakingly remind us of everything that is gone and night after night reveal each and everyone of the things that don’t really exist at all. But above all, they torture our active imagination and intellect, they exhibit wonders that we can hardly remember, much less reproduce.

Zdzislaw Beksinski, was however, a peculiar man, perhaps an emissary of dreams. For decades, he painted windows to a world that we all recognize, but for the first time we can observe and confirm within a shared reality. He didn’t paint dreams or nightmares, like everything else, the world of midnight is not black nor white, it’s a full spectrum of perennial possibilities. It’s art like few others, from a forgotten path, without any theoretical discourse or even a title, it’s simply an image impossible to ignore, just terrifyingly there.

Beksinski's art is not very well known, and at the same time infamous. It’s a body of work that constantly figures in popular culture, but that art as a discipline often ignores. Perhaps it’s the closest we have to the classic, romantic vision of art, that mythical sort of art that never existed, where art just exists, independent of any other context. It’s art for everyone, without any cultural or socioeconomic barriers, but it’s also art that everyone would need to see, feel and at least just once, cry at its sight. I feel enormous regret from my feeble creation, and after seeing my work compared with these dreamlike portals, that weighs even more on my mind, it hurts a little bit more. But it also allows me some rest, because it’s just what I was longing for, being able to finally see that post-structural reality, that meaningless truth and being able to both remember it and talk about it with others.

In the cruciforms of his art, I find a palpable divinity, in his grotesque creatures I find unusual sensuality, in his absurd landscapes I seek to find improbable futures, in his person I find nothing but art without the artist. Unfortunately, Beksinski died in 2005, in the era of a different Internet, before being capable of understanding the magnitude of its production in most of the world. He was murdered, not for leading the hedonistic, depraved and dangerous life that we assume from the title of artist, he was murdered for being a normal person with normal sensibilities, his name echoes in my mind only because it also conveys his production.

Sometimes it’s difficult to put the Death of the Author into practice, because many authors refuse to die, no matter how many times you try to execute them. The conceptual artists of contemporary art in particular can be stubborn zombies who refuse to receive a shot to the head without shreking two paragraphs of theory and three more about their personal lives. They defend against our murderous rage with busy texts on museum walls and long articles on Wikipedia, with videoessays on YouTube and ample college curricula. We cannot escape the author because he has subordinated his work to himself, to make art you first need to already be an artist, that is the first thing one needs to understand.

I could’ve left tomorrow being meat of my shadow mirror of my absence trace of my finger on the window I could’ve saved a little opened the curtains recognized winter known another or the same in another time I could've

So much I could’ve done

Maybe hope Maybe tomorrow

Victor Rivera 13

If I

It is the paw of a tiger tearing the heart Not of the one who is missing but the one who is left it is a fortress of sand demolished by the blow of an unexpected wind vengeful dagger first ignominy contained overflow and profound silence a second abandonment disembodied torment a mute requiem that pierces the hypothalamus and reverberates already in the dream already in the wake

We should have known the end not to get attached have it marked on the calendar From the beginning and wait for it in silence have written in a letter we have five springs left together and embrace the winter

it would be necessary: to accommodate the heart in the suitcases and make the bed who will come later to occupy lock the door

don’t look through the windows in the transport and dodge the withering questions who does not know anything find comfort in yourself reconcile and let go of the plural

NOT EVERYTHING IS ...

ITALIAN RENAISSANCE

Rossanna Huerta

To tell the truth, this month of “Not everything is…” has become an attack on myself, for my love of Italian art, since I am really a fan of the drama and composition of its sculptures and architectural structures. But the objective of this column is not me — although I would like to— but rather that you discover a new artist every month. I feel that I have mainly spoken of artists from the late 19th century and early 20th century, I am already becoming redundant, so I dedicated myself to curing someone of another era. This will be the case of the Flemish painter, Pieter Brueghel, the Elder. Let's start with a little story about our beloved artist of the month: at first, we don't have that much information about him, but according to Karel van Mander, Brueghel was born in a small village near Breda. He began his apprenticeship in Antwerp in the workshop of Pieter Coecke de Alets. He traveled to France and Italy —where the most characteristic currents of the Renaissance and Baroque developed—, he did not show any interest in ancient architecture and sculpture but rather, he was interested in the landscapes of the mountains of the Alps and the Apennines. Several experts in Flemish art comment that aesthetically no noticeable evolution is appreciated through the dated paintings, which is why they have preferred to catalog his work according to the thematic core of each piece. Something that has become quite noticeable in Brueghel's art is that, between 1557 and 1563, his motives turned to capricious and diabolical affairs in the style of Bosco (Díaz, s.f.). And from here we have taken our work of the month: "The Triumph of Death."

This piece was produced between 1562 and 1563 —a little before the Eighty Years War between what we know as the Netherlands and Flanders—; Let us consider that the image of Death has become something inseparable from the life of the Middle Ages, so much so that it became a fundamental part of the thinking of the average individual to the point of considering death as the reason for existence. Brueghel's work is what we call a moral work and shows the triumph of Death over the earthly world, we observe a great army of skeletons devastating the Earth with various scenes of destruction almost superimposed on each other, it reminds me of chaos in the style of Bosco (Afonso, 2019). We are going to analyze it little by little. In the foreground —practically in the center of the painting—, we see Death leading his legions on a reddish horse, destroying everything in the World that comes his way.

The square structure on the medial right side is a huge coffin and we observe how all the participants of the Apocalypse guide people to their final destination. Every social stratum is included in the composition, we see the King suffering in the lower right corner, the nobility suffering, and the people ... without hope. Some try to fight his dire fate, others abandon themselves to fate. I will give you a curious fact here, even the composition is organized by social strata of the late Middle Ages —king/clergy / people — but with so much chaos, it may not be so visible to the inexperienced eye (Haindl, 2011). Matías Díaz tells us the following:

Brueghel, P. (1562-63) De triomf van de dood, [óleo sobre tela] Museo Nacional del Prado

Pieter Brueghel turned his back on man's trust in the heroic and optimistic universe in which he lived, to remind us of his miseries. Not only does it revive the darkest medieval spectacle evoking visions of Bosch, but it also provokes social criticism, a spur of the CounterReformation that was to come, and an advance of a society where all social classes and men are equal before God and your destination (n.d.)

Afonso, S. (2019) El Triunfo de la Muerte. Historia del arte!. https://historia-arte.com/obras/el-triunfo-de-la-muerte Díaz, M. (s.f.) Brueghel el Viejo, Pieter. Museo Nacional del Prado. https://www.museodelprado.es/aprende/enciclopedia/voz/bruegel-el-viejo-pieter/7db5ac82-26fd-4d5d-93b3-a13b48e848d1 Díaz, M. (s.d.) Triunfo de la muerte [Pieter Brueghel el Viejo]. Enciclopedia: Museo Nacional del Prado. https://www.museodelprado.es/aprende/enciclopedia/voz/triunfo-de-la-muerte-el-pieter-bruegel-el-viejo/5a1ea2bfa269-44be-8466-95e5ae34396e

Some capital sins are represented right here: Lower left side: Greed and Avarice are represented by the barrels with gold that are next to the emperor and the cardinal emphasizing the fact that no matter how much money you have, no one escapes death

Lower right side Gluttony, Sloth, and Lust are symbolized by the players and lovers who are at the table who, despite the tragedy that is coming, continue to enjoy the pleasures The painting reproduces a common theme in medieval literature such as The Dance of Death —btw, listen to Danse Macabre by Camille Saint-Saëns— but a little more macabre than we can consider. As we have seen in this painting, dance seeks to physically represent death and put it in a central position in literary and pictorial discourse.

ERAWANU

The ending that we want, that we desire is complicated. You think, write and think about it again. We find ourselves condemned to it. Thinking about our ending bring us closer to it. When we start to desire it, to analyse it, we start to try to answer questions that does not have answers, but questions are necessary, more necessary that the answers. The lack of answers entertain us, curiosity moves and motivates us. We think we know what another person thinks, what they are and we get surprised when we discover is not like that. What we present to the world is the best of us in order to be accepted, what we think is the best of us without caring if it’s well perceived and morally correct or we choose to present ourselves in the way we know it will bring us the most benefits. Being conscious, creating the lie of our identity, we try to leave behind and shut the thoughts, thoughts that appear out of nowhere, so fast that after a minute we can’t remember them, thoughts that constantly reminds you how we are just nothing else than a farce in society.

Does finity exists when thoughts can’t end, can’t die? When thoughts live and live until we stop doing it? At the end our thoughts are what we are. Thoughts aren’t fake. Thoughts are the reality and the answers of the questions humanity has, they are the questions before perception, narratives and the true torture to the human beings. We are conscious that we think, but not of what we think, they are a fast inopportune infinity of our mind. Thoughts are uncomfortable, intrusive, inopportune and they don´t stop, not even for a second, they torment us if they are negative, they motivate us if they positive. Thoughts are the only infinity thing we have, they are there no matter what and they are finite because once we are gone they stop existing to.

MOONS Floral collages by: Daiva Sauke

70 DAYS AWAY FROM ETERNITY’S GATES 21

Real darkness has love for a face. The first death is in the heart. Kurvitz, R.,et al. (2019), Disco Elysium Having grown up in the Catholic faith has allowed me not to be afraid of the end, on the contrary, I long for the sleep that would allow me to reach eternity. Not an ending point, a wall, or a barrier; something more like doors. I suppose there will be those of us who are dead before we really are, the first death is in the heart, the second ... I wouldn’t know. Vincent van Gogh (1853 - 1890) is one of the few names that I have a feeling I don't have to review for people to recognize. His works have been, after his death, a legacy that has caused more than one first artistic approach. Although his paintings are sensitive and friendly, undoubtedly pleasant, I have one that manages to move me in an indescribable way. The first time I saw Sorrowing Old Man, also known as At the gates of eternity (1890), my heart became small. In general, Van Gogh’s story squeezes my soul. Talking about him is similar to talking about a mythological being, a legend like Juanote from Xalapa. Vincent van Gogh has a lot of name, a lot of work and a lot of history, which I recognize is public domain, so I will not try to narrate it but understand it from my eyes. The last 70 days of Vincent are an object of study and the protagonist of thousands of cultural products, provoking emotions. I have been a victim, I have hated Paul Gauguin and I have cried for the mind of Vincent. Without wanting to skip his life, I will focus on his death; Arles as the first stop towards the gates of eternity. His arrival in Arles is dated to the beginning of 1888, two years before his death. The place ended up becoming one more character in his works, Van Gogh himself said that no source of inspiration was necessary other than the mere fact of opening one's eyes. Let's not blame the places, let's understand Van Gogh as a human being whose diagnoses, although perhaps correct, were poorly treated.

The legend that his life has become narrates the various conclusions of his “sane” stay in Arles, which ends with the incident of the ear.

Van Gogh's ear, has been one thing and at the same time other. There is talk of a gift to a woman, an altercation with Paul Gauguin, a self-mutilation or a mutilation that was finished off by one's own hands, some say it was only a little piece of it, some say it was the complete thing. In one way or another, Van Gogh's ear was no longer part of his body by the time he decided to enter the Saint-Rémy-de-Provence Sanatorium, a place that allowed him to see through the window, site for his work: The Starry Night (1889). Through Vincent's letters, dedicated to his brother Theo, it is possible to detect his mental and emotional decay; attacks of terror and hallucinations seized him in his own mind.

What can I say about these two months? Things are not going well at all, I am sadder and more bored than I could describe you, and I don't know where I am anymore ... While, however, I still did some small memory canvases that you will see later, souvenirs from the north [souvenirs du nord] ... so melancholic I feel. Letter from Vincent to his brother Theo, dated late April 1890

Although there are several theories that explain the use of colors in his works during his stay in the sanatorium, as a direct relationship to his mental state, it seems daring to assure something. I believe that, from the beginning Van Gogh's works were marked by a strong sensitivity, which he tried for a long time to adapt to the aesthetic current that was consumed at the time. I also consider it impossible to mention that he did not sell anything, because it was true, or that his work had no defense whatsoever before the critics since colleagues of the century accompanied some of his works exhibited in the Impressionists Hall during 1889. Vincent's work is a visual journey through constant experimentation, in search of oneself. In the prison of his mind, he rested his brush on a canvas to unleash the despair of not being found.

Van Gogh's last 70 days are as legendary as his entire life. We know where the story ends, but it seems to me just as adventurous to assure the reason. After his stay in the Sanatorium, he decides to leave; he moves to one last place, Auvers-sur-Oise, a small town near Paris. It is spoken of up to 69 paintings signed in his last days, a dispute between Tree Roots (1890) and Wheatfield with crows (1890) to decide which of the two was the final work. Again there are a series of comments that narrate his death between two stories: a shot of unknown origin on July 27, 1890 or a shot by his own hand. The last 70 days of Van Gogh happened in a deep depression, a complete misunderstanding of his own being. His work throughout his life was the cause of significant exclusion, altercations between fellow artists, criticism about the "ugliness" hidden in his brush, aggressions by villagers who saw him paint in a "grotesque" way in his field studies, among many other forms of hatred; or fear. His work, throughout history, has been the reason to take him to the gates of eternity. The last 70 days of Vincent Van Gogh were the beginning of his long recognition.

Van Gogh, V. (1890). Campo con Trigo y Cuervos, [óleo sobre tela]

I would like now to speak briefly about my favorite work of his; Sorrowing Old Man / At the gates of eternity (1890), there is talk of a series of lithographs, studies and drawings in different techniques and periods, this old man in pain rests his elbows on his thighs. The first time I looked closely at this work, it was in an old Art History book in my grandmother's library, who was also an admirer of Vincent. I didn't cry because I barely understood the history of the man and the name. Thanks to the many cultural products I was able to slowly get closer to the legend of him.

During the class we had about him, with Professor Lázara Guadalupe, I cried, for the first time I could see sorrow and pain behind the old man's heavy elbows. Perhaps now I understand that the old man was already dead before he really was, near the gate but not yet crossed, hidden, scared, worried, but surrendered. The beauty lies not only in the feeling that rests on his heavy elbows on his knees, but also in the warm light that awaits, the eternal light that never ceases.

Van Gogh, V. (1890). Anciano en Pena/ En las puertas a la eternidad, [óleo sobre tela]

Vincent Van Gogh walked through doors from which he never returned. He was dead throughout his life, but he has been alive throughout his death. It overwhelms me to understand that the conditions in which his story unfolded were not optimal for a person who suffered from the illnesses that he endured. Vincent had his first death, long before the second one. I believe we share something, he, at some point decided to make a pastoral, Protestant life, in addition to extending himself in a spiritual way after that. I want to think that we share the non-existent fear of death. Neither the first, nor the second, we share the emotion, the awe, the fatigue. We share our faces hidden between our hands and our elbows on our knees, the but also the hope of crossing doors that lead us to an endless destination.

"It seems to me that a painter has a duty to try to put an idea into his work. I was trying to say this in this print, but I cannot say it as beautifully, as strikingly as reality, of which this is only a dim reflection. Seen from a dark mirror, which seems to me one of the strongest evidences of the existence of 'something above' that Millet believed in, that is, of the existence of a God and an eternity, is the indescribably moving quality that there may be in such an old man, without him being aware perhaps, as he sits silently in the corner of the fireplace. At the same time, something precious, something noble, that cannot be destined for worms ... all theology aside - simply , the head of a farmer on the threshold of eternity. " Van Gogh, Vicent (1992). Cartas a Théo. Barcelona, Editorial Labor

e n ol a g n i nr u o m

I tried to find images, words, photos where I could see this pain reflected. i did not find any. any. and it is that nothing more than those that are reproduced in my mind could explain the pain of this loss. the words are kept by force, because they will no longer be listened to by whoever was supposed to. the feelings that consume you for knowing how long, because there is no way to accelerate the grieving process. the strength to continue after making peace with the absence, your absence. if I think about you, you occupy half of my life, of my memories. the first time I saw you it is a beautiful picture that is constantly reproduced behind my eyes. you were very restless, you escaped us and got under some fish tanks. In the background the noise of the crowded giant and the intense white light didn't make her feel like a vet. i don't have a picture of when you left, what's more, they told me a month later and only because i would return home and i was not going to find you. i don't know if i should be grateful that i didn't see you leave. i think it would torment me. although i would have wanted to see you once more, to have that last memory of yours, no matter how horrendous it was, because they told me how everything happened and it is worse not to have been there for you when your fur, that short and thin and all coffee, stopped rising and go down.

the end, what happens to what ends? with life ending and all that remains? it is sad to see how everything continues in its path, it does not stop, it is as if it were any event but it is not, at least not for me. i had a hard time thinking about you without crying. yesterday i visited the little piece of grass where you rest, where you liked to lie down. your son misses you, I think more than I do. I think you're calling him too, right? because he got sick. You are calling him and I understand it, because we are not used to the absence of someone we have known since we were born. death, what is death? where are you? do you have any way to see this world or see us from where you are? or are you no longer anywhere? the finitude of a life, in a moment everything ends but not for the other people around, they continue, we continue. i don't think it's unfair but it is horrible. i have never been afraid of death, of mourning yes because it feels eternal, i feel it eternal. how to process a loss in loneliness? where do the deaths go?

Nat.cisa

What the eyes shush Arturo González Lara How many times, love, did I love you without seeing you and perhaps without recollection, without recognizing your gaze, without looking at you, centaury, in opposite regions, in a burning noon Pablo Neruda

I wanted to take my eyes off when I saw you with another, go blind and strip myself of this hell. I couldn't bear to admire your beauty from head to toe; staring hard and holding firmly with such purity another fool's hand, so I decided to gouge out my eyes

There was a very small man who had no guild wandering aimlessly through his own hell. Desolate, he wished someone would give him a good argument for his harsh feeling that left him thirsty and in pain. He did not understand what he felt in that cold mania to discover more than what ailed him. Locked in his own cage of wishes, he just watched the man with the harp play that morning. You want to be like the little man you want to succeed in music, write your own melodies and play them with great joy, but you don't dare little man you are your own hell, creating with your follies a world where you are the victim, the martyr, the man desolate misunderstood. You fill with dread of any creative activity and label everyone who wants to use his imagination as a child as mentally ill. Little man, instead of having wisdom you prefer a gun that violently gives you manliness; You kill your desire to be a great artist because you are afraid of being exposed to the labels that society has taught you. Little man, today I tell you do not build your house on quicksand if not on rock, do not listen to your neighbors if you do not listen to yourself and do not prostitute your soul by working on something you do not love. Your little man, you are the beginning and the end of your own universe, in a desolate world you can start to make the change, not even the last day of life is too late to start again and perhaps today you will not be a wise man, but tomorrow you can. begin to be. Little man from here I give you some advice, dream and dare and give the world the best of yourself, he lives your life and do not live for others, he takes that harp and begins to play.

I believed already to see you forgotten until I dreamed of you yesterday. I saw your eyes, your curls, your smile and your way of being. I woke up with the emptiness of your absence, the one that had filled keeping me busy, I wanted to tell you that I miss you, but I am afraid that you will reject me again like that time, so I wrote you a verse which I know you will never be able to read

Dear Author

@catarticarevista catarticarevista@outlook.com catarticarevista@gmail.com

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Artists and Writers

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Moons.

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