They
touch our eyes, and we continue. We grow used to them just as when it
rains and it’s okay and we look for something to cover our heads and we
continue. We know what the rain is, of course, and it thunders and we
continue; they get into our heads, inadvertently, and we go on, then the
purchase, the repetition, what you buy, what you see, what you want or
curse.
It
was the summer of 1996, as I stood on the corner of Prince and
Broadway with a friend, when I turned my head against the oncoming
traffic and saw that almost perfect face.
-You are beautiful -I
said off the top of my head, just like you’d say “it is raining” or
“it’s hot” or “I am hungry”, unconditionally, ultimately conditioned by
the image we’ve been taught to enjoy as beauty.
-Thank you -she retorted, enlightening me.
The red light went on, and we crossed.
-That girl looks familiar to me -I told my friend.
-Sure she does, it’s Christy Turlington. Look up, we just passed her up on Houston and Broadway.
She
was closer to the sky than we were, and so it seemed she had just
descended, much like the rain, to let me see that she was a live
creature. From the humongous billboard a couple of blocks ago, she had
already seduced me into buying Calvin Klein undies. Now Christie has
thanked me!
I
dashed across the street to Dean & Deluca, bought a fresh bouquet
of red tulips and ran after her. Ten paces short of the corner on
Lafayette, I said:
-Excuse me.
She turned around, looked at me, amazed, with an almost mandatory smile and perhaps some fear.
-This is for you.
I
gave Miss Turlington the tulips and ran away, back to my friend,
without even expecting the grace of a second thank you. I was the one
in fear now.
That
woman, conceived by the hands of some unknown God to procreate, to
enlight and wet the day and our eyes with the grace of the rain, had
just been desecrated by the merchants who’d turned her beauty into a
mere commodity.
Salt
bodies, bodies tied down that are snatched away by the wise rage of
Rafael the artist, only to be recreated and given back to us free from
the merchant’s usury and avarice.
Armando Suárez Cobián
------------------------------------
Nos
tocan los ojos, y seguimos. Nos acostumbramos a ellas de la misma
manera que llueve y está bien y buscamos algo para cubrirnos la cabeza y
seguimos y sabemos qué es la lluvia claro está, y truena y seguimos,
se nos meten en la cabeza sin darnos cuenta y seguimos, y luego la
compra, la repetición, qué compras, qué ves, qué quieres o maldices.
Era
el verano de 1996, estaba parado en la esquina de Prince y Broadway
con un amigo, giré la cabeza contrario al tráfico y vi aquel rostro
casi perfecto.
-You are beautiful -le
dije, sin pensar, como uno dice llueve o hace calor, o tengo hambre,
de manera incondicional, condicionado por la imagen que aprendimos a
disfrutar como belleza.
-Thank you, respondió iluminándome.
Se encendió la luz roja y cruzamos.
-Esa muchacha me parece conocida, le comenté a mi amigo.
-Claro, es Christy Turlington, mira hacia arriba, acabamos de verla en Houston y Broadway .
Estaba
más cerca del cielo que nosotros, como la lluvia parecía haber
descendido para hacerme visible que estaba viva que caminaba. Ella era
entonces la imagen que cubría el Billboard de la ropa interior de
Calvin Klein. ¡Christie me ha dicho gracias!
Crucé la calle, fui al Dean and Deluca
que está justo en la esquina, compré un ramo de tulipanes rojos y
corrí tras ella, poco antes de que llegara a Lafayette, le dije:
-Excuse me.
Se dio la vuelta, me miró sorprendida con una sonrisa casi obligatoria, creo que con cierto miedo.
-This is for you.
Le di las flores y sin escuchar su respuesta salí corriendo a reencontrarme con mi amigo. El que sentí miedo fui yo.
Aquella
muchacha concebida por las manos de algún Dios desconocido para
procrear, para iluminar y humedecer el día y nuestros ojos con la
gracia de la lluvia, era entonces desacralizada por los mercaderes que
convirtieron su cuerpo y su rostro bellísimo en un producto más.
Cuerpos
de sal, cuerpos atados que la sabia rabia de Rafael, el artista,
arrebata, recrea y nos devuelve para liberarlos de la usura del
mercader y su avaricia.
Armando Suárez Cobián
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