Catártica: October'21

October 2021

No. 2

Vol. 10

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In our cover:

Gerda Taro A.G.C.

I've never liked horror, because, although it's hard to admit it, fear has paralyzed me more than once. For this month's cover, I thought a lot about what image could follow a theme about fear, what symbol or color could make the viewer understand the message. The answer did not take long to appear in my mind, because in spite of knowing several graphically aggressive, unpleasant, or violent artistic representations, the expression that still gets under my skin is war photography.

Taking as a reference the horror of war conflicts, the October 2021 cover intends to pay tribute to the photographer Gerta Pohorylle (1910 - 1937), better known under the pseudonyms Gerda Taro and Robert Capa. Considered the first war photojournalist, Taro's photography is characterized by its journalistic perspective, the use of small cameras such as Rolleiflex or Leica, and a deep approach to action. The highlights among his work are The Spanish Civil War (1936 - 1939) and the first phase of the Battle of Brunete (1937).

One of the strategies that Gerda used to achieve success and acceptance in an environment where photography was not well received from the hand of a Jewish woman, was to create, along with Ernö Endré Friedmann (1913 - 1954) a character from which both could publish and sell their photographs to a higher price and wider audience, therefore Robert Capa appears as an American photographer who works in Europe. This pseudonym became so famous that even after Gerda's death, Ernö adopted this name and continued his career as a photographer. Unfortunately, this overshadowed, for many years, the joint authorship of Taro's production.

In 1937, Taro and Friedmann continued independently, Gerda began to sign her work in "Illustrated London News", "Life", "Ce Soir", "Regards" and "Volks Illustrierte" as Photo Taro. Sadly, months later she dies at the Bruneteś front when she finished photographing a part of the conflict, exactly six days before her 27th birthday.

The photographs used on the cover, in this case, presented as a collage are: Mother and child, in the Spanish Civil War (1937). Gerda Taro.

Militia women at the front. Gerda Taro. (c. 1937) Two Republican soldiers with a soldier on a stretcher, Puerto de Navacerrada, Segovia front, Spain (1937). Gerda Taro. Negative recovered from the famous Mexican suitcase in 2008, which contained approximately 3,500 Spanish Civil War negatives by Gerda Taro, Robert Capa, and David Chim Seymour (1911 - 1956).

Catártica is a space to talk about art outside the official discourse, the one that escapes from definitions, and at the same time a place for fiction, essays and poetry to wander around naked, putting the writer and the public in confrontation

Today I ate dirt Fernando Salas

5

Naive and sacred heart painter Bruno Sánchez

10

Solace natcisa

16

Chronicle of a night at the fair

17

Victor Rivera

Lethargic apprehension & fleeting fraternity

20

Ernesto Ocaña Ortega

Red spots. Red spots.

M.I. Flores Nachón

22

Accumulated Sorrows Camila Ornelasky

24

Not everything is...

Rossanna Huerta

26

Like a child Arturo González Lara

31

Midnight Mass Gabriela Aguilar

33

Maru's house Alex.doni.ink

36

The past is a grotesque animal M.I. Flores Nachón

37

Hoy comí tierra 2021 thursday, october 7

saturday, october 9

5

Imagen: Freepik.com

monday, october 11

thursay, october 14

saturday, november 13

6

2022 wednesday, january 12

friday, january 14 7

wednesday, january 19

friday, february 4

8

wednesday, august 31

Fernando Salas

9

Louis, S. (1907) El Gran Ramo

Naive and sacred heart painter Bruno Sánchez

10

Beauty may not be entirely subjective, but their individual appreciation for what we consider beautiful, or at least aesthetically pleasing to observe and pleasant to perceive can be. Its expression in any sense has a counterproductive nobility, it is both placebo and nocebo because it stimulates the generation of endorphins for happiness until we realize the temporality of its effect.

Beauty is one of the few means we have as humans to share it indiscriminately and popularly; if you put your mind to it, causing a pleasant distraction or epiphany. If feelings are tangible but abstract, therefore, the only thing we can do to understand them is through the tangible and abstract, hence art and hence beauty.

Although the exemplification of the beautiful in a tangible object or situation depends on personal or social worldviews, a constant would be the spontaneity from which its creation or presence arises from the appreciation of its objective, since it creates very specific expectations about what to expect from the beautiful is a badly vaunted trap which decreases its chemical / emotional reaction compared when it occurs unexpectedly, so the demonstration of everything we perceive as beautiful should be treated; more than a surprise, as a convenient coincidence.

Just as necessary is naivety, the common deception of the perception of beauty under the notion that its sensation applies in the same way to everyone, with everything and at all times, as well as the adjectives derived from that ideal, so naivety is a necessary lie based on abstract hunches in order to be more susceptible to what makes us think what it is beautiful, on our own terms as individuals. Hence, the interpretation can be subordinated if the object or situation was made with the intention of being expressly beautiful or by mere subjectivity, for example, a natural landscape or the human physiognomy are not made with the purpose of analyzing the meanings of its beauty when these were generated from force majeure casualties, even though they are enjoyed, it does not go beyond the superficial. There are no specific guides on how to judge nor classify art as beautiful, but the awareness that an object or situation comes from planning based on theories and empirical ideas, with a palpable effort and intention to be appreciated, It is when the role of the spectator transcends that of the analyst of the subjective to make it tangible in an apparent objective to show, when in reality the interpretation is reasoned as a truth to be discovered or a reinforcement about oneself and their surroundings. When the work transmits with its beauty, the viewer becomes self-taught. Self-teaching is the achievement that leads to a work above just an aesthetic luxury.

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As presumptuous, quirky and luxurious as an artistic piece is, the author does not always agree with the valuation they give to his work, the frequent myth that the quality of the work is equivalent to the quality of its author is a causal fallacy, because; as general culture eventually teaches us, both an artist and his work can be made anywhere. The rules of various arts begin as recommendations for first-time creators at will and it is precisely the will to believe in the quality of the work that evokes having value; in other words, the naiveté of the value by the author and the viewer must be reciprocal for it to have true value. This naivety based on the lack of technical and theoretical knowledge was consolidated as an artistic style of its own, the "naif" style, from the French "naïve" which means "naive."

It is a contrasting style in many aspects, with a simple technique, but complex themes, it is unconcerned about copying reality, but it is important to evoke the realistic and; particularly rooted in the artist's subconscious, bordering on the surreal. At the moment that drawing techniques, composition rules or artistic currents are learned, the "naif" dies, the intrapersonal intimacy with which one is born is its essence. To be "naif" is to be direct, rigid and even toxic, but sincere.

In this style you can see several names that gained their height: Henry Rousseau, Fernando Botero, Frida Kahlo, etc. The sorrows of their lives theyv́e reflected in their works were rewarded and their names dignified posthumously. This trajectory is present in almost all the greatest exponents of the "Naif", except one: Seraphine Louis.

At the end of the 19th century, in the bosom of the french rural mischief, Seraphine was born as the youngest daughter of a peasant woman and a battering worker,

Louis, S. (1928) El Árbol de la vida

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both ignorant and who would die after one year and eight years respectively, leaving her with no alternative but to live with her half-sister; that she hated her, and to work as a shepherd to survive, being nature the only balance that she could enjoy in peace until the death of her sister at 16, being left without any sustenance. Her instability of survival marked her subsequent behavior and gave way to the anthology of mental problems that would restrict her life like voices in her head, but those would also give wings to her career. At age 17 she went to work in a convent, more out of necessity than devotion, although soon those reasons would soon be reversed. In the convent, Seraphine even tried to be a nun, but the terrified refusal of the orthodox mother superior prevented the only conscious wish that she had so far, since Seraphine frightened by her intense gaze, her lack of tact and filter when speaking and by the aura of tragedy that carried with her. She liked to stay absorbed in nature for hours, somewhat contrasting to her attitude.

At the age of 38 she was forced to leave the convent and the expectations of her own relevance, she returned to her hometown to work as a maid for wealthy families of the region, becoming a second plane in the perspectives of people while; in the solitude of her nights, she painted her beauty compensations for herself. During the day he washed clothes and cleaned floors, at night he painted pictures in a completely self-taught and intuitive way where, her muses were flowers and her inspiration were the voices in her head which she believed were angels and the Virgin Mary.

Her mental health deteriorated over the next decade.

Without knowing it, her art entered fully into the profile of the style "Naif", contrasting color control, elaborated details with precision and the lack of perspective characterized by its technical ignorance but safeguarded by openness of abstract appreciation that increasingly valued its quality. She used whatever material she could, from paint leftovers, fruit, wax, clay and even her blood, creating new shades with a unique shine.

Seraphine was 49 years old, but she looks older, she has deteriorated physically and mentally, she has little work and practically lives as a beggar, she only painted when received a "divine sign" which is less and less recurrent. Almost illiterate, but maintaining a primitive imaginary created between religion and nature, harmed or encouraged by the accumulation of her life of pain, loneliness and despair. The art dealer, Wilhem Uhde, takes a getaway from the hustle and bustle of Paris to the countryside, staying right in the same house that Seraphine would be cleaning. They pass each other while walking, perhaps condescendingly wishing each other a good day, but without her having any idea that she is cleaning the room of Matisse, Rousseau and Picasso discoverer. At that time Uhde was dedicated to consecrating his fortune of "naif" painters, whom he called "painters of sacred heart". So when a vibrant painting of Seraphine was found leaning on the floor antagonizing the landscape of dead apples and contrasting with the grayish dead environment of the house, he was astonished, which would be doubled when he learned that the author was the one washing his bathroom. Uhde offered to buy her works, display them and protect their authorship. Seraphine; hitting rock bottom, she got into that opportunity.

The charm of her paintings is the contrast of their vibrant and colorful irregularity with the monotony of the chromatic environment that is based. This implicit charm was the basis for the modernist and positivist movements of the turn of century, which were on the rise and Seraphine's paintings were valuable bargaining chips. She took advantage of Uhde's opportunity to turn her valued paintings into a first profitable asset for her and so it could have been, Uhde returned to Paris with her paintings and he would take care of raising her talent in a matter of time, but the year was 1914 and the first world war began.

13

Uhde was forced to leave France and Seraphine, she felt cheated since she lost the only thing she had of value for herself and had to start over, despite the shortages caused by the war, she managed to get basic painting materials by mixing it with mud, wax and blood, she stopped working, going out and eating. Soon she'll begin to see the voices in her head. The war years and later were a frenzy for her, she painted every day, as if she could recover with her colors and patterns the shattered world of the war to a previous one that never existed or if she tried to leave to the corpse of time a saturated flower that represents everything but death. It wasn't until she was 55, in 1927, when Uhde came back telling her she´ll participate on an exhibition "Modern Painters of the Sacred Heart", her golden opportunity. Uhde visited her constantly, appreciated her new works and bought them. Her works were recognized both in Paris and her hometown for which she was able to modestly improve her quality of life. That exhibition provoked attention calls for both her work and her attitude, although all the idyllic modesty that she expressed in her paintings was transformed into abstract extremism, an unfocused change to the tastes of her intended viewers, her collection remained a moderate success. However, again the force majeure slows the advancement of her career, the great depression of 1929 hits Uhde, so Seraphine once again lost her only livelihood.

Louis, S. (1930) El árbol del paraíso

Seraphine paints with great despair, waiting for a solo exhibition that will never come, she is increasingly carried away by visions of her loneliness, not only voices in her art, but presences that indicate the loss of control of her life and even her awareness. In 1932, at age 60, the frustrated potential artist began to wander the streets insulting whoever she saw and announcing the end of the world. Her last conscious contact was with Uhde, who saw no other alternative rather than admit her to a psychiatric hospital, diagnosed with chronic psychosis and schizophrenia, left at the mercy of the brutal and invasive behaviors of psychiatry of the time, undoing all remnants of what she went and believed she was Seraphine until he abandoned her to her worst death, ceasing to feel like part of this world.

14

Louis, S. (1907) Sin título

After the Nazi invasion of France, the hospital lost medicines, services and personnel until leaving the inmates on its own. Seraphine would starve to death there in 1942 and be buried anonymously in a mass grave. She painted around 200 paintings, although only 70 survive to this day. Uhde devoted himself to disseminating her posthumous work after the war.

Her name and her life have fallen into the precariousness of relative oblivion, partly due to lack of sufficient information, the unattractiveness of her life and the worldview she had of Its reality, reasons frequently misinterpreted or left to the superficiality of the aesthetic and the unpleasantness of listening, reading or knowing. An artist is not born, it is made, and although circumstances can influence the way in which the author decides the origin and meaning of his work, the way of expressing it and the result of it is unique and independent of the traditional ideals of art, the artist and Its concept of beauty.

REFERENCES Alain Vircondelet(1986) Séraphine de Senlis. Editorial Elba.

Carlos Sala (2020). The enigma of Séraphine Louis: the mystical maid who painted like angels at night. S Fashion. The country.

Wilhelm Uhde (1949) Five primitive masters. Quadrangle press.

Jean-Pierre Foucher, (1968) Séraphine de Senlis, Ediciones du Temps.

Séraphine Louis - Naive painter abandoned in a madhouse. Team Torrese. 39ymas.com.

15

solace

If I tell you how sick I am, are you going to stop loving me? (If you do, of course.)

That is one of my biggest fears. It bothers and mortifies me that people treat you differently — the bad way — after you tell them about your mental disorders, so I bottle it all up, I keep it. Yet I long for something that I can't have, never had, that I need so badly without knowing how it feels: comfort. I want to be honest and that a hug, a word repair the ruptures that I have repaired without help since I can remember, but that always fall again. I want comfort, solace.

Collage made with manga panels: Given by Natsuki Kiso, Orange by Tanako Ichigo, Jujutsu Kaisen

by Gege Akutami and Haikyū !! by Furudate Haruichi.

collage digital

natcisa @natcisa / @tablerodeolas

16

Victor Rivera

Chronicle of a night at the fair 1 "[...] Once nothing more is given the soul with the sweet and total renunciation […] " Agustín Lara (1941). Solamente una vez

First he heard the rumble of bells ringing over the study windows, the splash of water balloons falling on the sidewalk, the spirited, youthful laughter eager for illusion, the arcade machines and their 8-bit weapons, the sound of the Estudiantina that announced the saint of the town and with it the arrival of the fair and the celebrations. Then he found himself sitting on a bench next to the target shooting tent, bewildered, listening to the keen blinking of the kazoos and the meandering of the bells that the children wore tied to their legs. In the distance, he recognized the sound of tokens or coins bouncing off one of the glass shelves.

The sensitive remnants of his own footsteps crossing the avenue as he left his house and the impact of the hall closing behind his back, had concocted in his head not as a close impression, but as an epiphany; as if that digression of events had been, rather, an authentic vision of the future.

He had left home without remembering the exact reason, while his wife and his three-year-old daughter were dozing. He was sitting on a bench in the middle of the park, right in front of one of the busiest fried food stalls at the fair. From there I would see the families come and go with their fried bananas on Styrofoam plates, I watched the children with the snot still running from their noses due to the cold, holding their flags, and others who stained their shirts with the chocolate from the churros fillers. But then there was him, in the crowd, watching carefully the play of the rotating cups orbiting like planets in their own solar system, dazzled by the trails of led light that projected the clothing of the horses on the carousel, listening to the noise of the little witches that chased away the packs, imagining that they were comets impacting on the planet. He was there, watching the night bathe with the explosion of fireworks and it occurred to him that if he had had to describe that bombardment of sensations to someone, surely he would have been unable to do so, because from the beginning he was beside himself, trying to remember the reason why he had left his house.

1

17

I ask all the people who read this story that, if it is possible for them to do so, listen to the songs that appear in it, scanning the code that I attach at the top of the first page.

It was then that she recognized him; the sound of a piano that was diluted between the songs of the studentina and the brass of the band music, gradually dissonant, while it was lost among the shouts of the attendees, because no one else was listening to that tiny sound stimulus. That was why she had walked through the door late at night, had forgotten, because he had heard that melody buzzing in his ear while he was preparing a class for his students. He could have sworn the keys were hammering in his room, but he felt ridiculous to believe it, because they had sold the piano that used to be in the room many years ago, and just to prove to who knows who or who he was not freaking out, he had taken his coat, descended the stairs, and walked to the heart of the fair in order to find tranquility.

In the same way that he had done minutes before, now he was getting up from the bench and looking to face the notes, not caring what he might find along the way. As he progressed, the frequencies were much clearer and he believed he recognized the cadences and progressions that he himself had played during his childhood, although he could not be sure. He ran through the park feeling the crackle of the earth under his soles, crossing the footing and the fountain of wishes until he found the canteen on the block. He hesitated in front of the door, but when one of the waiters escorted a group of drunkards to the exit, he had no choice but to go in, so as not to have to give an explanation on his own initiative that surely no one would have asked. He then entered without looking up from the ground and took one of the seats in the back, without paying much attention to his surroundings. When the waiter approached, he asked for a crown and a plate of chips, and the next thing was to keep silent, expectant at what he did not understand.

After a while looking at the adjoining tables, he noticed the piano, which was right next to the bar: a wall-mounted Steinway from 1875, badly treated, the same one that his family had sold to the former owner of the place. In those days it was more of a restaurant than a canteen and the buyer did not hesitate to invest whatever it was for his business, while they had to cover the expenses of the funeral home, once his grandmother was absent. A death that, by the way, he suffered more than anyone in that house that little by little got used to the silence.

Looking at the piano for so many minutes, he remembered those unrecoverable days: his grandmother who loved him so much sang for him and he played the piano for her. Without a doubt, the happiest moments of his childhood had been playing Nereidas, Caminito Sunny by Carlos Gardel, and María Bonita by Agustín Lara. Both prepared recitals that they presented for guests at birthday parties and Christmas dinners, and for that reason they were almost always the last to sit at the table, although that did not bother them because they loved those moments. From time to time her mother played the guitar and accompanied them with her contralto voice, and they both sang Piel canela, Arráncame la vida and Amémonos, that masterful poem by Manuel María Flores that would be immortalized in the voice of Julio Jaramillo; then he responded by interpreting El andariego, Bonita and La negra noche. Finally, the concert gave its final thrust with the favorite songs of his grandmother, The Black Night and Three Gifts, to later be applauded by the guests.

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He was so immersed in his memories that it suddenly occurred to him that his reunion with the piano had not been entirely a coincidence: that it was not that he had invented the chords resounding in his head and echoing in his study, but that the impulse to flee from that house that had given him so many joys, to flee even if it was only one night and even if it was crossing the park and in that canteen, was an invitation to return to his childish fantasies, to reconnect with his old life. He realized immediately what he had been chasing, not that night, but all of his life.

After gathering his courage, finishing his third beer in one gulp, he waited until one of the workers came over and asked who the piano belonged to. The young man replied that it was a decorative object, and told him that it belonged to him, because the former owner had left it before crossing the Atlantic. "That's right, it belongs to me." You will know that I am the owner of the place and, although it does not interest me much, I like to keep it clean and tidy, ”he added as he removed the empty bottles from the table and the plate with chips. When the owner started to walk away, she got up behind him without thinking and asked if he could touch it. Although at first he preferred to ignore his request, it was not until he took a two-hundred-peso bill out of his pocket that the boy finally agreed.

With his permission, he went to the piano and brought the bench closer to the keyboard. She did not remember him so small, but of course, he had aged quite a bit. His hands now covered the ninth with ease and he didn't have to stretch his legs to access the pedals. Without giving himself the opportunity to think about it much, to reflect on the time he had been away from music and particularly from that piano, he began to play it with the impatience of a child. His fingers, which at first felt clumsy from years of abstinence and the cold of the night, soon began to move with precision over the keys, and he, detached from his surroundings, directed the strings of the notes like a puppeteer, and their fingers walked with the same subtlety with which black widows glide before devouring their prey. It was true, he was not virtuous, and it could be said that maybe he was not even very good, but he had loved that time so much making music with his family, the only one he had, that he had worked hard to achieve a mature sound at his young age. However, when his grandmother died, it was he who no longer wanted to continue playing, to be in mourning, and it was he who also begged for the piano to be sold.

When he played the opening bars of Solamente una vez, tears inevitably fell from his face, bathing the ivory of the center keys. As he sang, with each verse, she felt again the bewilderment he had experienced when he was sitting on the park bench. It was his favorite song, the one he had learned to play for his grandmother's eighty birthday, which never came. He had chosen her without really knowing why: at that age he didn't think he cared what the word "love" meant, but he was wrong. He knew that he liked that the rhythm of the melodic line was, in his opinion, so unpredictable, and he thought that this temporary insubordination, if anything, would be the meaning of a much larger idea.

When he finished playing the song, the few that were left began to applaud him, but he, without saying a single word, got up and went straight to the door, leaving an untranslatable silence in his place. He went back through the stalls that were already empty, while the darkness of the night covered everything. He sat in the same seat where he had watched the great feast, and began to count the stars that he saw in the sky. After a few minutes, he resolved to go home, heaving a great sigh. Yet when he turned around, his wife and his daughter was still waiting for him.

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LETHARGIC APPREHENSION & FLEETING FRATERNITY

Ernesto Ocaña

I'm thinking of ending things (2020) is a film that frustrates me to no end. To begin with, I don’t find it works very well as a film. It's exhausting to watch, extremely pretentious and yet still ridiculous at times, it lacks a consistent tone, and feels much lengthier than it actually is. The first time I watched it, I did it because a friend asked me to watch it in order to discuss it.

My friend had found the movie quite confusing, I watched it and as a first impression I also found it to be quite confusing, but I also thought it was fascinating as very few films I’ve watched before.

absolutely right to perceive it that way.

Charlie Kaufman loves his blatant symbolism so much and is so unsubtle about it that his films feel both dense and evident at the same time.

Jessie Buckley and Jesse Plemons really pull off that forced bond that only two people without any hint of chemistry can share. Their conversations feel terribly tedious, but most of all they feel real, uncomfortable, familiarly human; and ignoring the secret that the plot feigns to hide, also feel inconsequential. I have tried to talk about it with other friends, but most of them say that it is either an insufferable film or that they did not understand anything about it. I think they are

I’m thinking of ending things feels unnecessarily intellectual, and patronizing on many occasions, quite awkward and not too approachable. I think it is a very human-like movie, it reminds me of many people I have met in life and distressingly, sometimes it also reminds me of myself.

Actually, it is not really unnecessarily intellectual, as it reflects the characteristics of one of the characters, the only true character of the film.

They are like a magic trick, once you understand how they work it’s almost embarrassing how obvious they seem to be; and yet that is still admirable in a certain way, it is a very particular talent.

It's worth mentioning that the rendition of Lonely Room from the musical Oklahoma featured in this movie is my absolute favorite.

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This is a terrifying film for me. I was a little anxious to see it again in order to write about it, but first of all, here’s a little aside. I loathe the movie Joker (2019), without delving too much into it, the way I see it, it’s a romanticization of a certain pathetic and masculinized fragility, celebrated by the same people who love Fight Club (1999) while not being able to identify any sort of irony in it.

Joker is not a critique of the system, it simply justifies responding violently to it and against anyone as a target, it fuels the narrative of victimization for the privileged. It’s not exactly propaganda, but it is a film produced by a propaganda consuming society.

It appeals to the preferred belief aesthetics of a certain segment of the male population lacking in socio-emotional intelligence and skills, unwittingly abused by Patriarchy, that has adopted a reactionary perception of the world as a coping mechanism; but one that seems to originate from the apparent apolitical approach of entertainment media. I also find it quite a bit boring.

I'm thinking of ending things can feel frustrating, lengthy, or uncomfortable, but it's never boring.

While Joker celebrates the things about myself that I want to get rid of, this Kaufman film brings them to light, it brings me shame, and causes in me an indescribable dread so that I may never stop questioning the person that I am and the one I long to grow into.

The film is the internal world of a character, it reflects his anxieties and human characteristics.

Jake idealizes himself as an educated, pleasant and cultured being, but we perceive him as condescending, tedious and clumsy because he only has a vague idea of what he seeks to idealize, his passion is conveyed as resentment, and his idealizations as remorse. The film ends up reflecting all of that, and that's why it feels so humanly abject, so fascinatingly pathetic, and so excruciatingly relatable.

Jake is played masterfully by Jesse Plemons, but truly, he is actually represented by all of the characters, the furniture and rooms and all the images that inhabit them. The character of Jessie Buckley, the girlfriend or woman is kind of a self-awareness, it’s a small voice in Jake's mind that refuses to comply with his fantasy, it’s the most distant part of his own soul. I sometimes seek to embody a similar voice for some of my immediate otherness, I'm not sure if out of mercy or more likely out of cruelty.

I've met all sorts of Jakes in my life, and I've seen him dwell in my person at times. I've tried to exorcise him from within other people, but I don't think I'm really cut out for it. I have carefully observed all these creatures, I have examined them and tried to understand them, but I do not have enough sympathy or patience to know how to help them, I can only help myself.

Imágenes: Netflix

Red spots.

Red spots M.I. Flores Nachón The hardest part is not waking up every morning. Fuck all of those motivational posts with the intention of keeping us all alive. The hardest part is going to sleep. The excruciating effort I make to fall asleep with my arms crossed over my chest and a pillow over my face.

I’ve begun to experiment; perhaps if I put the pillow over my eyes, they won’t be moving so much during the REM phase, perhaps, I will dream a lot less. The hardest part is not dreaming, scientifically impossible avoiding the rapid eye movement that makes me dream and shiver, even with weight over my lids. The hardest part is not waking up every two hours with a half gasp trapped in my throat, trying to be silent as I have a panic attack.

It has been five years since I’ve had this constant dream. A face with the most terrifying... terrifying? uncomfortable expression. Bright green eyes, some lines next to his wicked smile, his teeth are not perfect, not white not yellow. Crooked. His face is crooked. His bushy eyebrows are always pointing towards the bridge of his nose, creating even more lines in his forehead. His cheeks are blushed as if he had just finished an intense workout. He is always behind me. Over my shoulder, breathing into my ear with great agitation, and his breath, that makes me shiver from my neck to my thighs, is fresh. Fresh but it somehow reeks. As if I could reach his putrid soul through it, and in its putrefaction, he projects his crooked intentions and his sick imagination.

I've given me the tools to lock it in my mind. In a safe, inside my brain, guarded by a dog and surrounded by an electric fence. Or at least that's what the psychologist told me in the most intense session I've ever had. There he is locked up and there he will stay. He can't come out again, but for some reason, He always finds the way. He has the key. Sometimes I feel like he is already part of me. I believe that I have caused it myself, and I believe that I have sought it out myself. In songs, in places and in colors. But I don't want it. Half the voices in my head are asking me to ignore and get on with my life. The other half of the voices ask me to please turn around and challenge him. In the end I don't do either of the two, and it's still there, every night, in every dream.

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Tonight was no different. The pillow became suffocating after a while. The fact that I was breathing my own exhalations caused in me a greater heaviness in my apparent tiredness. My eyes were shut, although they were already closed, but now I didn't have to keep them shut. I don't know how long it passed since I closed my eyes until I opened them. Eyes open again, this time lying on my stomach, with an impressive weight and pain on my lower back, as if an elbow, a knee, a head were nailing me. Something was. As much as I tried to twist my head, something kept me subdued. Maybe it was one of those night terrors. It was precisely that. I noticed a light in the ceiling and another under the bed.

Everything was silence, a terrible silence, except for the sound of a song coming from the speakers of... my phone?

You showed him all the best of you But I’m afraid your best Wasn’t good enough The pain became excruciating. I started to feel pins and needles inside my body.

I tried to shake myself to make it go away. My arms began to flap towards my back, until I felt it. A fresh breath on the back of my neck. I closed my eyes again, this is not a good time to be awake. I wish I hadn't been awake. Again I lost track of time and woke up in a toilet. White all over except a few red spots. Red spots.

Red spots. The speakers of the phone kept playing a song, probably the same one. Time did not pass. From that moment, eternal, constant and permanent, my life stopped.

Oh broken angel Were you sad when he crushed all your dreams Oh broken angel Inside your dying cause you cant believe

Eyes shut again, this time I forced them to stay that way. I woke up on my bed, laying on my back, with my arms crossed on my chest and a pillow on my face. I got out of bed and took a shower. I sat on the floor and washed my hair. My hair in which song lyrics and red spots were tangled. Red spots, red spots. The shampoo seemed to take everything away. I washed my lower back, my thighs and my bum, the soap was gentle on my skin and unlike the warm breath from my dream, it took everything away, the maddening pain and the red spots. Red spots, red spots. Coming out of bathing, I went to breakfast, took my backpack and the usual. I went to work where the little fish wait for me every day to feed them. I listened to happy music on the way, and both the sun and the wind ruffled my hair and caressed me. This is a matter of dreaming every two days, once a week if I'm lucky.

It is a never ending story, it is a story that will never end, in a time that stopped and will not continue. The hardest part is not waking up in the morning. The hardest part is falling asleep at night and starting over. The difficult thing is not to smile at others, the difficult thing is to feel the warm sigh behind my ear as I try to speak. The complicated thing is not living, terrible lie. The hardest part is to do it again and again after washing every red spot that cannot be removed with soap.

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Accumulated Sorrows

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Accumulated Sorrows- acrylic and embroidery on linen - 150x100 cm - 2021

When was the last time you cried until you felt dehydrated? Why do we give more importance to positive emotions than to those we consider negative? Emotions have no hierarchy, they just are.

We are so used to the false idea of ​perpetual happiness that we ignore and discard anything that manifests differently. We call "drama" or exaggeration to any demonstration of vulnerability without understanding that anger, sadness, helplessness, and fear are there for something. If we decide to feel the "positive" to the fullest, we should also allow ourselves to feel everything else with the same intensity and respect. Accumulated sorrows speak precisely of that.

It seeks to vindicate emotions such as sadness and cement the importance of crying. I use the human body as a means of expression and the nude as the maximum representation of vulnerability. The faces are abstract, they do not have features or determiners so that anyone can identify with them.

Our sorrows are different, so pigeonholing their representation would be exclusive. Each face is embroidered with metallic thread, symbolizing the tears that fall. I used 27 meters of yarn and it took me 6 months to complete this work, which is just one of the many that I will do around this concept.

I am Camila Orleansky and I am a Mexican artist. I finished my architecture degree at the IberoAmerican University of Mexico City in 2017 and since then I have dedicated myself to art. My works have been exhibited at the 4 Caminos Photo Museum, Ovalo Gallery, Maco Zone, and Villa San Jacinto Gallery, among others. I seek to address different themes through the self-portrait, which in my case always consists of the female nude.

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Not everything is...

Beautiful Rossana Huerta

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Are there only 3 artists in all the artistic production of humanity? Van Gogh, Picasso and Kahlo. I reiterate that it is not entirely the fault of any of us for not knowing more artists, for various reasons that are infinitely long to explain —political, economic, social, cultural— most of the art is not taught. But all is not lost, you could skip this article and stay in the darkness of art history or you could take advantage of this small section and educate yourself a little more.

Now that we are talking about the theme of raw beauty and reality, why don't we talk about Georges Rouault's Odalisque? Before we begin, let’s remember what an Odalisque is: Odalisque is a theme that is represented through the history of various genres. Usually, it has great connotations of beauty and sensuality, this is due to the fact that odalık —Turkish— is that woman who was brought to the Ottoman Empire to be part of the Sultan's concubines (Etymonline, n.d.).

For this same reason, we see that most representations of odalisques have this tendency to be guided by the parameters of the ideal of beauty at the time of their production. Let's look at several examples:

The great Odalisque Jean Auguste-Dominique Ingres 1814 Oil on canvas Louvre Museum, France.

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The brunette odalisque François Boucher circa 1745 Oil on canvas Louvre Museum, France.

The Odalisque Mariano Fortuny 1861 Oil on cardboard National Museum of Art of Catalonia, Spain.

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And now you may be wondering, what does this have to do with the raw reality? Well, once we have reviewed the subject of the Odalisque we can go to see Rouault. Georges Rouault (1871-1858) is a French painter with a rather personal style but with fauvist overtones - although he considered himself anti-Fauvist. He has a penchant for non-decorative social themes, with a cool palette handling of color. The expressive resources in his works denote the "cold cruelty" behind a subject that was highly idealized - the Odalisque. Rouault first entered the arts as a stained glass apprentice, something we can still see in its thick black contours in contrast to warm or intense tones within its contours.

Much of his production is dedicated to religious passages but does not leave aside the marginal characters of society, such as prostitutes or clowns, but painted in a not so favorable light, that is, crudely and gloomily. . In his work he wanted to demonstrate the three traits of humanity: cruelty, hypocrisy, and vice. With his paintings, he showed the ugliness and depravity of humanity through elements or grotesque almost cartoonish forms (Calvo, 2016).

We can say that Rouault reminds us of the truth behind those images painted for the male gaze.

Whereas most artists glorify the image of the Odalisque and by doing so ignoring all the crude cultural and historical context behind it, Rouault rescues us from perfect beauty and shows us the bleak reality of his time.

Odalisque Georges Rouault 1906

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Tragic Clown Georges Rouault 1911

REFERENCIAS

Worker's Head (The Wounded) Georges Rouault 1911

Calvo, M. (2016) Georges Rouault.

En Historia del arte. https://historiaarte.com/artistas/georges-rouault Online Etymology Dictionary: Etymonline (s.f.) Odalisque. https://www.etymonline.com/word /odalisque

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Like a child

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Fotografía original de Arturo González Lara

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A reflection of the human being through the unknown.

Mike Flanagan’s most recent creation is titled Midnight Mass. Despite his vast experience in the world of horror (with features such as Hush, Oculus and Somnia), Flanagan dares, with this latest series, to leave for a moment the adaptations of novels to series and brings to life a work of his own creation, with a total of seven chapters, some lasting beyond one hour and each with a name from a Bible book. Midnight Mass comes to the streaming platform Netflix as a horror drama enriched not only by the not only by the wonderful photography (characteristic of this director), but by the dynamism of each of the characters within each chapter. The lack of dependence on sudden frights makes this series an enveloping and addictive horror genre.

The story, as shown in the teaser and trailer, begins with a young man who, after serving his prison sentence, returns to the island where he was born.

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Póster original de Midnight Mass (2021)

His arrival coincides with that of a new parish priest who replaces the old priest of the village, who, for reasons of health and age, has left on a trip to Damascus. The arrival of both is an omen for both horrors and apparent miracles to begin to take place within a largely Catholic community.

Through this series, and in a more specific way, in the extensive and detailed dialogues of the characters, themes such as human fragility, death and existentialism are explored. Starting with Riley, the main character who follows this story, we see several images that pose -both in the character, as in the viewer- a constant doubt and a seemingly endless quest to know what is the meaning of human existence and how a way to survive what becomes our worst fear.

Doubts about how to survive alcoholism and bear the blame for the death of a young woman are what lead Riley to study different sacred texts, belonging to different religions and, according to his own testimony, making him an atheist. Our main character finds himself in a constant dilemma of not letting go of his sense of guilt, and resentment, to what he once had faith on, as he returns home to a community almost entirely religious. Memories of his past torment him constantly and in an attempt at resignation, he intends to live facing his what has become his worst nightmare every night, accepting deep within himself that this is a constant reminder that he must not let go.

Without a divine being to go to or consult with.

After Riley, and in a contrasting and emphatic way, we meet Erin Green, a teacher belonging to the community school, devout Catholic and future mother. Erin is introduced as Riley’s childhood and adolescence friend who, unlike the rest of the town, can look at him the same way she did before he left. Green makes a big impact on the series not only because of its varied features, but also because of the large amount of dialogue it presents within the series. Unlike Riley, she does not seek a solution to the torments with which life has found her, presents, rather, a hopeful perspective on the solution to these problems and the various surprises with which life could compensate for the mistakes and horrors of the past. Within dialogues that seem to become theatrical -almost Shakesperian- and aesthetic monologues between scenes, Erin touches on a particular theme and mostly unknown to many: Death. To which Riley has brought a more medical than human perspective, while Green, with the help of his beliefs and thanks to his own personality, seems to describe it as a step towards a welcoming future; a stranger where there is peace unlike life on earth.

Finally, among our main characters, we have priest Paul, who replaces the old parish priest John. Paul, in every scene in which he is presented at first, makes the viewer doubt his true intentions and it is only thanks to the advance of the chapters and excellent monologues that we can find ourselves fascinated by his devotion to God and the fervent passion with which he shares the message of Catholicism. A devout, open and empathetic man who constantly keeps the public’s attention and seems to steal the main role with his dialogues and questioning about Christian life and values.

So where does terror really start?

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With a community that is Christian with the exception of the city sheriff and his son (Who are Muslim), the terror of Midnight Mass unfolds little by little and in an enveloping way in the constant distortion of the biblical and religious message, through the fanaticism that replaces faith. Which presents the viewer with a close reality that they can be ca part of in any moment or with any background. We observe how strange (and in turn frightening) events, miracles and tragedies are constantly attributed to a divine plan of which we are only pawns. And it is this same force in faith that distances this work from fiction at times and makes it a reality with which more than one has lived: fear of judgment, ignorance and distortion between faith and fanaticism through a charismatic leader.

With constant mentions of biblical passages and the interpretation of each character of them, We can observe how religion replaces various elements of the judgment of the inhabitants of the island and takes them to the limits of each of their personalities in order to reach the divine being that is presented to them. It is important to highlight that each chapter is written and directed in order to present the characters, make them empathize with the viewer and present different themes and ways to approach them in different perspectives, not in order to create awareness against religion, but to present the distortion to which any faith can be subjected when taken to extremes and manipulated to the advantage of every believer it possesses.

The characters’ analysis of their own situation and how they got to that very point helps viewers find themselves questioning different aspects of their life and, in a wild assumption, they can also find themselves terrified by how close the possibility of being a substitute for any of the characters can be. We find meaning, even beauty, through a belief in a divine being that allows us to continue with what we can change and accept what we cannot, through constant analysis and selfforgiveness, with different confrontations and resignations; each human being learns to live with his worst fears, to face them from time to time and, if successful, to overcome them through the discovery of the unknown.

Gabriela Aguilar 35

Póster fanmade de Midnight Mass (2021)

Imagen original en acuarela de Melanie Gürtler

Maru's House Maru's house was made out of 3 million stacked stones With gray paint so you can keep an eye on what's important, the windows were 2, each one facing the street and they were small enough for mice to enter but not rats.

I never sat on any of the beds, and not because I didn't want to wrinkle the sheets, but because whoever was lying on them would make me uncomfortable with their sadness.

I spent 5 years on that house, and I did not move from the dining table, but because they used to tell me: "You don't stand from here until you finish eating." and I did not want to eat. not because I was not hungry, but because whoever got up suffered; either by taking Maru's quasi-vegetable mother to the bathroom or because Raquel came home slapping whoever misbehaved.

I don't know who recommended my mom to leave me with Maru, but the smell of her house lives in my nose when I see blood and concrete dust.

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Ilustración de INLAND EMPIRE, obtenida de Disco Elysium (2019) Za/UM.

The past is a 1 grotesque animal M.I. Flores Nachón.

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The title is a reference to Montereal’s (2007) song. .

My section has been dedicated to the rewriting of Art History, so today I will dedicate a text to the inclusion of a new artistic manifestation. Before deciding on this career, I had a special inclination for video games. Why are video games never discussed as art? It is true, I consider that there are certain video games that can slide through many other categories before being called art, such as the annual FIFA, but I also believe that if I have fought to include pieces of art with the legend that art does NOT seek to be beautiful, pixels can and do fall into the category.

In June, I was suggested to play Disco Elysium, developed by ZA / UM, an independent studio that without hesitation, I would say prioritizes the aesthetic experience -really aesthetic- rather than the appearance of the game. It is a role-playing game, in which we are introduced to a "fictitious" island, through a disastrous character, disastrous in first and last place. He is lost in his own mind and in his non-existent memory. A terrible episode of amnesia caused by… why was it? An intense hangover that haunts him throughout the game and a mystery to be solved, who am I and who killed the man hanging from the tree next to the hostel?

Escena obtenida de Disco Elysium (2019)

Disco Elysium stands out for the way in which it attracts the player to the game, from the construction of the main character, who ends up being a part of us and vice versa, to the very fluctuating game experience. It will never be the same. This game does not seek to have the amazing graphics that are fought between other studios and consoles, this game seeks to muffle you in the warmth coldness of the city of Revachol, with insipient experience, you and your character have the same information: You are a drunk, with a breath derived from substances and no one has the slightest bit of respect for you. You earned it. Your past is a grotesque animal.

Afraid of saying something that could ruin the gaming experience, Disco Elysium consists of an adventure, part of an investigation that takes you through the deepest internal dialogues, with every possible intervention on the part of your aptitudes, abilities and segments of your mind. The way in which your character (and you) relate to objects and characters will depend on you and your interest in relating to them. The value of Disco Elysium lies in something that I consider goes far beyond the development of the game itself.

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Through it, I have allowed myself to go into catharsis, without really finding relief. My past is a grotesque animal. It will always haunt me, even with a broken memory. I do not want to remember, but without trying there will be one single detail that will take me to the beginning of the thread, my disappointing beginning. I am not who I was, nor am I who I will be, however it will always be there. The why of what. I am who I am because of what I was. And what I was is a story of love and broken glass.

Who killed the man hanging in my window and who am I? I will never know until I finish my game, and even after finishing it, my conclusion will not satisfy me, because I am a game without an end.

Escena obtenida de Disco Elysium (2019)

Disco Elysium is a game without end, which confronts us with the torment of our own minds. We invest ourselves in it, searching through made-up characters, parts of ourselves stuck in star maps tattooed on pixel skins. The search for Elysium with a very disco look and attitude. Utopias buried under revolutions. There, that's how it stands, buried under the white blossoms of a cherry tree, under the holes of bullets and frozen roars by the wind.

Why do I take the time to review a video game in an Art History column?

Because it has been seen in the last century, the development of works of art steeped in new media, new technologies. If I enjoy something, it is the pleasure of interactivity hidden in artworks. At some point, I was able to read Katja Kwastek in Interactivity- A word in process (2008), a text in which she develops interaction as a very important means for the development of the aesthetic experience. Disco Elysium not only allows us to interact but also immerses us in a state of indivisible awareness before the confrontation of our own thoughts. There is no way to run away from ourselves, our character is a vivid demonstration of it. We will always be haunted by our past, like a grotesque animal.

Kwastek, Katja (2008) “Interactivity- A word in process” Sommerer,C. & L.M. (eds.) The art and Science of Interface and interaction design, Springer, pp. 15-26.

39 Escena obtenida de Disco Elysium (2019)

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