THE SECRET GARDEN
WHISPERS OF SILENCE
Under my gaze these women who hide in the silence of their secret gardens are one. A beautiful, devastated woman. An aged young girl. A dreamer anchored to the rituals of her toil. A girl rooted by the weight which she carries.
It is for this woman, for you, that I write these words. For your strong beauty.
OLD AGE OR DEVASTATED BEAUTY
Your multicoloured landscape of emotions captivates me. Your smiles, your sadness. The trace of a fear which solidified and became strength.
I love and flee from your resignation. I follow your fleeting eyes and your evasive gazes. I can see your flight from the weight of being watched.
Suddenly, without a sound, you turn, and look at me, and your eyes whisper: I am the other, I am your mirror.
I drink from the contagious resonance of your hope and your fears. Your eyes dance. I want to write their sweet song but I stumble against the sound of emptiness.
Observed you open yourself and, whilst asking me for silence, I draw your strength and trace the features of your beauty faded by the sun.
YOUTH OR DISTANT DREAMS
The perfection of your youth bursts through like a caress. I come closer to smell your freshness and fly in the trace of your dreams.
You cannot see me and you feel invisible. I see the layers of your beauty, intermingled, sheathing you. Protected, you travel far from here.
Anchored by the freedom of your dreams, you surrender to a tranquillity which has no name. You breathe in the desires of your youth.
I try to follow the trail of your silence. I imagine the gentle gaze hidden by the veil of your closed eyes.
You are both far away and close. When life reappears, the sweet melancholy of hope fades away silently.
MARÍA MANDINGA OR BROKEN INNOCENCE
One day, without you knowing, life changed your grapes for the toil which sculpts your aged hands of a child.
Each day you work, sometimes without haste, sometimes anxiously, and every day life moves on in steps, two by two.
I hear the songs of your eyes and see how the wings of your infernal birds grow. You have not even reached the twelve years of the girl with copper hair.
From time to time I glimpse, I rescue the gestures of your stolen childhood. Your radiant eyes and your newborn skin.
The distant learning of your rituals stole the lightness from your laughter and now you play the game of life.
I turn and as I walk away I feel the warmth of your gaze on my back. I feel the warmth of all of these gazes.
(Text written as a response to artist Gema Herrero's piece El Cuerpo Sutil.)
To go to artist's webpage: www.cuerposutil.com
(OPENS IN NEW WINDOW)