Nudist communist parents

I read that 'Dogville' could be either qualified as 'affected and pretentious' and 'genial'. Perhaps. I just love the movie and I am beginning to understand how ideas from the sad 'Lars Trier' found their way to the path of creation. See, in these times it is not easy to be original. JB asked me how many 'isms' in art have there been in the last 30 years. Could not think of a single one - is it that artists can be clustered together just after they die, or is it the lack of manifestos, or are we humans merely producing selfish nonsense now?

It was JB's idea as well that Leonard Cohen's music is quite naked: just his deep voice and a tune. It was not even hard for him to have such a velvety way of singing - just came naturally. I thought Rufus Wainwright and his piano were simple as well, but they are not - he is a flamboyant diva that sometimes likes playing straightforward sweet ballads just for the sake of it. He is complicated, like Dalí, and his art is difficult to get. I am enjoying more and more difficult references such as 'Rufus' and 'Lars', but on the other hand I love the voice off of 'Grey's Anatomy' and the fortune-cookie philosophy it is based on. Sometimes I'd like to live in black and white, like when I was four. But then the colours, and Mike. Worth to live in a complicated world when the best comes by closing your eyes.

A fight for love and glory, a case of do or die

A butterfly gets to live from six to eight weeks. I have tried to google goldfish, bugs, algae, and bunnies to understand the ephemeral. Tried as well to look into a Big Mac's life cycle to put some economics into it... but... what I really want to know is the lifetime of a real kiss.

It has been sixteen hours, one lunch appointment and a whole movie and I don't even need to close my eyes to feel that I touch your mouth, with one finger I touch the border of your mouth... and begin to draw it as if it was drawn by my hand, as if it was the first time your mouth ever opens. A kiss is just a kiss, a sigh is just a sigh... Not this one with your fingers running through my back and we both getting deep into the darkness of the unspoken. I am really scared to turn the lights on.

When the painting might as well be hanging upside-down. The deal with abstract art

Two memory-worth moments: Arturo actually liking German Expressionism and pretty Priya keeping one of Rothko's 'windows' on her desk. The affair between abstract art and me has been going on for quite a while and only until recently I decided to share with the class. I have always been terribly afraid of saying out loud that one canvas painted in blue actually makes sense to me as it sounds pretentious. But how it all began?

Some years ago, there was this Centro Cultural Arte Contemporáneo in Mexico City. My brother, being very young, told me there was this 'Impressionism' exhibit and there we went. It happened that there were neither ballerinas nor corny scenes in pastel colours, only paintings that seemed like a big-format pre-school end-of-year exhibition (happened to be the biggest American Abstract EXPREssionism show ever brought to Mexico).

Although the affair did not began back there, it was a window that oppened by mistake, and that has led me to save money to go abroad just to see the paintings myself. That is the deal with abstract - you can see a Renoir reproduction and kinda feel good, but to 'feel' Pollock you have to stand right there.

So, what is abstraction? It is to divest objects of their external appearance to reveal their 'inner sound' and to give concrete shape to spiritual content. The hard part to explain is how can people like 'those' paintings or sculptures... and here is where it becomes fuzzy. See, in Picasso you see an African mask, an elbow where the knee was supposed to be and in general you discover a horse if you try really hard. In Dalí you see an elephant with insect legs and rub your eyes once or twice to make sure it was there. But in abstract you might see patterns - or not. It is the idea, the feeling, the sensation... doesn't have to mean a thing, or to express a moment, but the composition and the combination can reach your soul if you are open to it. So that is the deal about abstract. Be open and enjoy. I have found many answers to my own life by standing in front of Rothkos.

Believe all good things in life began from that simple principle.

Why nice is good?

Joel: Sand is overrated. It's just tiny little rocks. If only I could meet someone new. I guess my chances of that happening are somewhat diminished, seeing that I'm incapable of making eye contact with a woman I don't know. Maybe I should get back together with Naomi. She was nice. Nice is good. She loved me. Why do I fall in love with every woman I see... who shows me the least bit of attention?

-The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

They showed up and were beautiful

Rather speechless these days because I have too much to say. The name of the post comes from a song from Tingsek - I just loved the title and kinda describes how I felt during my trip(s). When I tell people that I flew to New York and stayed there for three days, they all go: 'ONLY three days?' as if the number between two and four could be stretched a bit more. But I found a lot of beauty. Not American Beauty, and there were no moments of following a flying plastic bag with a handicam. I mean earthly beauty, pure joy of being alive and right there.

What should I remember? Well, the hotel in London was so dodgy that I slept with the socks in my hands just to avoid touching the floor with no less than some thick piece of clothing. I saw Billy Elliot (the musical - go figure) and the slangy English was incredibly difficult to catch, so allas there was a lot of dancing. I was so looking forward to a hotdog in Manhattan, soaked in relish, that I almost cried when the Pakistani guy screamed at me: NO RELISH! after I asked three times. I took a complete tour of all Manchester beauties... and after those 10 minutes we went to the movies. I looked for the Serpentine Gallery and got terribly lost - tend to read the maps and then walk exactly on the opposite direction, so I said fuck it (or 'bugger off!' given the context) and let my aching feet to feel the grass in Hyde Park. I went to Victoria's Secret as a first target after setting foot in the USandA (always do the same). And then I came back. And also the next day. I stared at Rothkos and Picassos and Calders and Magrittes and the Yves Klein's blue... my soul got stronger. I dwelled at the Tate and the MoMA, feeling I had so many stories to tell. I made a Dane blush like hell when I talked to him about the Pollock he was struggling to explain to a very blonde... blonde. And as usual, bought more books than I could carry and tea that I could drink. But no mustard this time.

Thanks LeeAnn, gracias Bichito and Jorge for letting me look through your window and spoiling me!

Sometimes the most important part of our history is the one we're making today.

More art to come.