Last Days of a House by Dulce María Loynaz

LastDaysofa House

byDulceMaríaLoynaz

LastDaysofaHouse

byDulceMaríaLoynaz

translatedbyMaryAnnNewman

©EmersonDorsch,2023

MiguelBraceli

Irazu 2016

Inkjetprint

43.3x65inches

1of5

Editionof5+2AP

RF2923

FortheFountainheadBiennialII,thegalleryinvitedaguestcuratortoselectfrom FountainheadResidencyalumniaroundatheme.López-Chahoudselectedartworkswith anaustere,conceptualstyle,whosemessagesarerarelydirect.Sometimestheonlyway truth-tellingcanlandisbytellingitobliquely,incode,orbehindaveil.Sometimes, absorbingthebindyouareinbecomespartoftheworkandpartofthecritique.

Duringtheprocess,López-Chahoudrecalledtheethosevokedin“Últimosdíasdeuna casa,”alongformpoembyCubanauthorDulceMaríaLoynaz,whowasbornin1902. Publishedin1958,thepoemisnarratedfromtheperspectiveofthehouse.Thiswasoneof thelastpoemsLoynazpublishedbeforeshestoppedwritingpoetryentirely.TheCuban Revolutionwasayearlater,andit’spossiblethatLoynazwasdetained.Sheneverspokeof it,butweknowthatshechosetostopmakingherartandthatshechosetostayinCuba,in herchildhoodhome,andthatshechosesilenceasherresistance.

Loynaz,likeherpoem,wasenigmatic.Straightforwardlanguageandpresencebelie existentialconcernsthatawaitanattentiveobserver.Thepoem’svividimageryoflives livedandlost,ofthecostoftimepassing,ofsorrowandevenbitterness,arealllaidonthe house’sbones.Thecorporealrootofthispoemisarepeatedmotifintheexhibition,aswell asthewaysartcanexistwithandasresistance.

DulceMaríaLoynaz’sbiographyisremarkableinthatshewasacelebratedCubanpoetwho chosetostayinCubaaftertherevolution.Beforetherevolution,herfather,awealthyand influentialfigureinCuba’sfightforindependencefromSpain,senttheseventeen-year-old

Loynaz’spoemstoLaNacióntobepublished.Theirswasahomefilledwithfriendswho wereluminaries,writersandartists.Afterthosefirstpoemsmostofherpublishedworks whichenjoyedwidespreadacclaimthroughouttheSpanishspeakingworldwere publishedinSpain.Herpoetry’slackofovertpoliticsinanenvironmentthatdemandedit amountedtoaresistancetorevolutionarygoalsathome.Followingtherevolutionshe stayedinCuba,inherancestralhome,afadingmansion,refusingtowritepoetryor publish.Shestayedbutstoppedmakingherart.HerworkwasignoredinCubaandeven activelysuppresseduntilshereceivedtheCervantesPrizein1992.Lateinherlife,her workenjoyedarenaissance,butherworkremainsobscuretoEnglishspeakingreaders.

InatimewhendogmatismandformsofcensorshiparerisingintheUnitedStatesand aroundtheworld,“Últimosdíasdeunacasa”hasbecomesoimportantthatthegallery commissionedMaryAnnNewman,DirectoroftheFarragutFundforCatalanCulture,USA totranslatethepoemintoEnglish.Thefactthatatranslationcouldnotbefoundwasitself aformofsilencing.Thepoem’sstanzaswillthreadthroughtheexhibitionasartwork descriptionsfloatintothisreadingofthepoem.

WehopeyouenjoyreadingNewman’stranslationof thispoem,forthefirsttime,in English.

TylerEmerson-Dorsch

LastDaysofaHouse

byDulceMaríaLoynaz

Iamanoldhouse,Iknow. Bitbybit—tomybewilderment— Ihaveseenalmostallmy sisterhomesdisappear asintruderswithpowerfulhaunches andhigh,defiantnecks roseintheirplace.

Onebyone,inturn, Theyhavesurroundedme likevictorioustroopsinvading theoldverdantspaces, uprootingthetrees,thegrilles, tramplingtheflowers.

Itissadtoconfess, butIamnowtheirprisoner, astrangerinmyownkingdom, dispossessedofwhatwasalwaysmine. Allmyroadsbumpupagainsttheirwalls; theirwallscutoffmyeverysky.

Thenewstructuresdividedupmyvistas, turningthemintothespoilsofwar: theyhaveleftmebarely aminusculerationofsun, andthefirstnewarrival sentthebirds’orchestratoflight.

WhenIwasbuilt,Isawthesea. Isawitnaturally, closeby,likeafriend; andwegreetedeachanother everyGod’smorningasweemerged togetherfromthenightwhich, throbbingwithmoonsanddews, wastheonlythingthatcouldplace itswingedbodybetweentheseaandme.

AndeventhroughthenightIcould sensethesea; ImightsayIbreatheditin throughthedampnightair,andI clungtoit,sleepingbyitsside asawifesleepsbyherhusband.

Nowithasbeenages sinceIalsolostthesea. Ilostitscompany,itspresence, Itssmell,differentfromtheflowers, whichperhapsonlyIperceived…

Ievenlostmymemoryofit.Idonotrecall wherethesunsetonthesea. Ican’tquitetellifthetintofitsvesperalwaters waspurpleormauve, norifsilverkingfishersflew overitscrestingwaves…Idon’tremember,don’tknow… I,whopluckeditstwilightpetals asiftheseawerearose.

Perhapstheseadoesn’texistanymore,either. Ortheychangeditslocation. Oritssubstance.Andeverything:thesea,theair, thegardens,thebirds, mayalsohaveturnedintograystone, cementwithoutaname.

Perforatedcement. Theworldisturningintocementonus. Ahouseisperforatedcement. Andtheworldhasbecomesmall,andnooneunderstandsit, formenwhononethelesslive, inthosetheirminimaldrills, madewithanarttheycallnew, butsooldIhaveforgottenit, whenthebeemanufacturedhoney andtheanthill,orphanedofsun, boreholesthroughmygarden.

Thereisn’tevenspacetodie inthosenewhouses; andifsomeonedies,everyone’sinahurry todragthemoutandtakethemtoothermansions builtforthatsolepurpose: toaccommodatethe everydaydead.

Nooneisborninthem,either. Iwillnotsaythatthespaceliesbetween; butthetruthistherearehousesforbeingborn, justastherearespacesmeant totakeincollectivedeath.

Thisleadsmetothinkaboutthenostalgia Ilearnedfrommenthemselves, asfromnowon, noneofuswillbedecorated --assomanyofuswereinmyday— withanobleplaque ofmarbleorbronze, thechaliceofourvoicetellingtheworld thatanancienttribunewasbornofusthere, asagewithasoulandabeardofermine, aherobelovedofthegods.

Iwascertainlynotone tohaveachievedsuchanhonor, becauseinalltruththepeoplewhosebirth Iwitnessedwerealwaysmuchtoohappy; andasyouknow,itisnotpossible tobesohappyandalsobeother beautifulthings.

Stillandall,Iremember whenthatthingwiththelittleonehappened, andherfatherwouldgointohiding tocryandwritepoems… Theywereprobablypoemswithoutprecision, whippedupjusttogive anoutlettohisgrief…

Ohyes,andtheother day,when theytookthebigbureauout, itsmanydrawersspillingontotheground, IfeltIcouldseethemflyoff carryingoldbills andportraitsofunknown deadrelatives.

That’showitfelt.I’mnotsure. AndnowI’mthinking,becauseit’sworththinkingabout, ofthatstrangeflightofthefurniture: thesofawhereloverswouldcourt,grandmother’spiano andtheenormousmirrorwiththegold-leafframe inwhicholdpeoplecouldseetheiryoungselves, theirimagesstillsaved inaformaldehydeofmelancholylights.

Itwasn’tjustacoming-and-goingoffurniture.. Theyhadalsobeentakenawaybefore --neverthepianoorthemirror— butthathadonlybeentochangetheoldthings fornewer,moremodernandsplendidones. Nowtheyhaveallbeensweptout oftheirhollows,hollowswhere someofthemhadevenputdownroots… AndIsaythisbecauseofhowpainful thefinalwrenchingswere; andbecauseofthestainslikewounds theyleftonthefloorandthewalls. Thosestainspersistandvaguelyaffect thevanishedforms, andtheyarelikescars strewnovermybody. Itisallverystrange.Nightfalls andIbegintofeelapeculiarfear: fearofthissilence,ofthiscalm, ofthoseoldpapersthatthebreeze vainlyrufflesinthegarden.

Myhourofjoyhasnotlasted somuchasanhour. Theycame,yes…Theycameyesterday. Butsoontheyleft.

Theywerelookingforsomethingtheydidn’tfind. Andwhatcanyoufindinanempty housebuttheanguishof remainingempty?Andwhathadtheylost insidemethatwasn’tImyself? Butdespitehavingme,theykeptsearching…

Later,thelittlestonewenttothegarden anduprootedmyclimbingrosebush; shetookitwithher,whoknowswhere. Beforeheleft,myowner turnedbackfromthethresholdtolookatme, andhelookedlong,andhelookedslow, asmenlookattheirdead, throughanunrelentingglass…

Butbetweenthetwoofus therewasnoglassnorwasIdead, but,rather,joyfulatthetouchofhisbreath, theaccustomedmossofhishand. AndIdidn’tunderstandwhyhewaslookingatme withhandkerchiefsofunsaidgood-byes, withtheanticipationofworms, witheyesofremorse.

Theyaregone.Maybethey’llbebacktomorrow. Andmaybethey’llstay,asbefore… Iftheabsenceisforreal,iftheydon’tcome untilmuchlater, thissummerisgoingtobemuchtoolongforme; verylong,withtherainandthemosquitoes, andtheetchingofitsaciddays. Butnomatterhowlongtheytake, theywillbebackinDecember becauseChristmasEvecanonlybespentathome.

Thatchildbornwithoutahousedecidedthatwe, thegoodhousesoftheearth, shouldhaveournightofgloryonthatnight; hisnight,then,isournight: anocturneofNativityscenesandshortbread, carolsaboutanemones, songsofinnocence recovered…

Theheartrejoicesintheanticipation, andinhopingtofindtherewhatithopesfor. FromChristmasEveIthink Imyselfcouldstringthekindofrosary thegrandmasusedtosay gatheredintheeveningsofmylove, andlikethemIwouldsayeachbead onthesesaddays,

startingwiththefirstbead onwhichthenewlyweds —nestlingforthefirsttimeinthehollowofmywings— pretendedtobetheparentsofallthelittlekiddies oftheneighborhood… Whatparties!Rollerskatesandhoops, andblueChristmasballs,anddolls incardboardboxes! Andhowthelightpouredoutfrom thesmudgedfacesofthekiddies, andfromHisandHers,sensing, sniffingtheirownintheair!

Beadbybead,withoutrealizingit, Iwouldreachtheverysad Christmasof1910, whenallthegiftswerethere butthelittleonewasmissing… Justso:theoppositeofsomanyothertimes inwhichitwasthegiftsthatweremissing; thoughintruththerearenevertoomanychildren…

Butotherchildrenweretocome! Andthosechildrengrewandbrought morechildren…Andthiswaslife:arenewal oflife,aferriswheelofdreams. AndIwasthecircletheymovedin thecourseoftheirgentleflow, thecertainbankoftheirwaters.

Iwas…ButIstillam. Inmylapstillfitsevenmorebatches ofmen,sevenharvests, sevenvintagesoftheiryearnings. Inevergrowtired.Theydo. Iamallthere,forthebreadthanddepthofit.

Myentirelifecanbesaidontherosary, forthoughithascertainlybeen averylonglife, itwasmygoodfortunetoliveitatleisure, tomakeitsheerasatrickleofwater…

AndthuswewillreachChristmasEve oflastyear.Notoneofthebetterones. Maybethewine spilledontothetable.Orthesalt… Maybethissadness,thatsoonwouldbe theonlyflavorofmysaltandmywine, wasalreadyineachofuswithoutourknowingit, likethewaterabouttofallfromthebellyofacloud.

Nowthesadnessisminealone, muchlikealove sharedwithnoone. Ifitwasrain,itfellonmyshoulders; ifitwasacloud,itisboundtomybones. Anditdoesn’tbeartoomuchrepeating:

evenifIhaven’tyetheard itsnameorseenitsface, itisthethingmostmineIhavehad --Iwhohavehadsomuch—…Sadness.

SowhatwasItalkingabouthere?Islip inandoutofmyownmemories…Mymemory beginstodissolveonmorerecentthings. Likeasucklinglambcharyofnewgrass, itclingswithdelight tothedelectableuddersofthepast. Bethatasitmay, ImustsayasImakethisstop onthepathofmyblood, thatwhatIamtellinghereisnoyarn; itisaplainstory,itismyhistory; itisanhonorablelifeIhavelived, astyletheworldhasbeguntolose.

Theworldisusedtolosingandwinning, andsoamIwhenlifewillsitso; butwinorlose,whatIhavebeen isastonetossedintotheair, andtheveryhandthatthrewit cannothaltitsflight, anditmustslicethroughtheairaloneuntilitfalls.

WhatIhavebeenisintheair, astone’sflight,ifIcouldn’tbeadove.

Intheair,andthoughitbenaught, itisthelifeofmen;andalsointheEpistles theycanbejoinedbeforeGod, andIcanbeofferedasamirrortothebride withmycloisterofcypressesandnards.

TheHome,IamtheHome. Morethanstoneandfence, morethanshadowandearth, morethanroofandmorethanwall, forIamallthat,andIamsoul.

Notevenmen,intheirfeeblebodies, cansaysomuch, thoughtheyareconvincedthatthesoulisthesole provenanceoftheirestate…

Perhapsitisastheysay;butmineisminealone. Andyet,itoccurstomenow thatperhapsmysoulcamepreciselyfromthem, fromhavingmeandlivinginmeforsolong, orfrommyalwaysbeingsoclosetotheirsouls. MaybeIhaveasoulbycontagion.

SothenIsay:Isitpossiblethatthesemen cannotfeelthesoultheyhavegivenme? Cannotrecognizeitrighttherenexttothem? Wouldtheynotturnaroundifitcalledouttothem? Evenbeingtheirownisitstrangetothem?

Weawakenonceagain. Anewday,whichwillbe thesameasalltherest. Operhapsnot…Lifeisalways adoorstubbornlyclosed onouranguish.

Anewday.Newmenapproachme. Thestreetsmellsofearlymorning, anancientsmellofmist, andwomeninthewindowsstrainingcoffee; asmelloffreshsmoke comingfromkitchensandfactories. Itisanancientsmell,andyet, itsuddenlyfeelshardandforeign.

Suddenlyinmygarden, comingfromwhoknowswhere, astrangedense cloudofmenisfanningout. Andtheyallbubbleuplikeants, andtheyarealllikeasinglestain uponmytremulousgreen…

Whatdothesemenwantwiththeirnakedtorsos andtheirpickaxesonhigh? Theyoungestonecomestowardme… Icanjustmakeouthisinnocentblueeyes, which,fromfarofflikethisseemedtoresemble

theeyesofourAnaMaría nowsolongdead…

AndIdon’tknowwhyIamrememberingheragain. Well,itmustbethoseeyes, nowpeeringmorecloselyatme,directlyatme… Theeyesofamanlikeanyother, who,nonetheless,fromonemomenttothenext mayturnouttobethetoolofdestiny.

Nowhe’srightinfrontofme. Asongplaysabouthislips. Withhishairyarm hewipesthesweatfromhisbrow.Hesighs… Themorningissosweet. theentireworldsobeautiful, thatIwouldliketosayasmuchtothisman; totellhimtoturnaroundforaminute andseewhatheisnotseeingtolookatme. Butno,he’snotlookingatmeeither. He’snotlookingatanything,he’swieldinghisblade… Oh,thoseeyes!

Anotherdaygoesbyandnooneapproaches. I’vestartedtofeellikeasickhouse, aleproushouse. Someoneneedstocome andgatherupthemangoesfalling

ontothepatioandgettingruined withoutanyone’ssavoringtheirsweetness. Someoneneedstocome andclosethelivingroom windowtheyleftopen, andlastnightthebatsflewin… Someoneneedstocome tostraightenup,tocryout,something.

Withallthepeoplewhohavelivedinme, andsuddenlytheyareallgone!… YoucanunderstandthatIcanonlysay foolishwords. ThisissomethingIdon’tyetunderstand, justasnooneunderstandsanunjustact whichislesstheworkofmen thanoffateitself…

Howcanonespendone’slife shelteringthedreamsofthesemen, lendingthemwarmth,breath,shelter; howcanonebethecornerstoneonwhich posterityrested,andfamily, watchingitgrow,liftingitup, andbeingatthesametime foundation,pedestal,hopechest… Andthentobenomorethan anemptyshellleftbehind, clotheswithoutabody,fallingapart…

Imustnotfall,no,Iamstrong. Cycloneschargedatmeinvain andtimehasgnawedmyfleshandbone, anddampnesshasopenedgreenulcersinme. AlittlebitoflimeandI’llbefine alittlebitoflimeandsomeaffection.

Myailmentsandmyremedies. thatmustbewhat myownerwastalkingaboutthatlast afternoonwiththeothers whomeasuredmywalls,garden,patio andeventheverygroundIstandon.

Andyet,thosemenwiththeirmeasures leftabadtasteinmymouth, andthewomanwhocamelater toputapriceonmygate. Iwouldhaveliketoaskher howmuchherkidneysandhertonguewereworth.

Theyhaven’tcomeback,butthenagain nooneelsehaseither.Mywindows arecoatedwithdust andIcan’tseeifanyoneiscoming. Dustisterrible…Thewomen Iknewwereright todetestit…

Farinthedistance thefamiliarchurchbells stillkeepmecompany, andinthismiddaywithoutclocksortime, thebellshaveslowlystruckthree…

Itwasatthreethatmother wouldsitandsewwiththeyounggirls andcolddrinkswouldbepassedontrays;threeo’clock wasthepinkdawnofwatermelon, frostedwithsugarandsnow, anddreamssewnintoruffles…

Itwasatthreewhen…

Thedoor!

Thedoorhascreakeddownstairs!

Someoneisopeningit,yes!…It’sopen. Aherdoffootstepscomesin,comesup… Finally,they’reback!Iknewit; Inevergaveuponthem,notforaday…

Ah,thefruitsthatwillgrowinmytrees!

Ah,thebellsthatonceagainstrike thehourofmyjoy!

LastDaysofaHousebyDulceMaríaLoynaz

translatedbyMaryAnnNewmanwaspublishedby EmersonDorschontheoccasionofFountainheadII: LastDaysofaHouse,curatedbyOmarLópez-Chahoud. TheexhibitionisonviewJuly27-September30,2023.

Translation©2023EmersonDorsch

ISBNpending.

Publishedwithissuu pendingISBNnumber.