Falso pudor

Falso pudor, a work from the series El Ensueño de los Ángeles cansados: hands seeking one another within a haze of grey; a hand tentatively touching another; hands gazing downward, one concealing something while the other asks why.

Slaves to dogma, naked in the waters of truth, the eternal light of spring kindled in the still waters of lakes of yesteryear, the fleeting instant veiled by the bewilderment of sex upon the magical bed of the unforeseen. Doves circling an unfinished peace; the white dove of life suspended in levitated ecstasy. Lady Verse, the ivy fairy, tolls the bell at the top of Siegfried’s staircase, aided by the spectre of his reality at the apex of dawn. Boreal, in the strange compendium of stigmata embroidered for dreams. Awaiting the chariot of litigation among the fates to conceal the route of eternal doubt. Peter Pan seeks his eternity through the fissures of lost light. Tomorrow I shall persist in the breach, a tightrope walker along the edge of juniper branches, living within the ivy the charm of the portrait of Verse—the English lady reborn in this chapter of reverie by Celestino Mesa, his brush enraptured by the weary angels who once ascended from the car where you slept, and who, after contemplating beauty, returned to heaven beside the stellar throne of an all-seeing God.

To meditate on love—on the love that expands across the nudes of this Canarian artist who surrealizes and delights in forgotten chambers, resolving himself as vital and limpid as Venus upon the Ludovisi Throne, ever virginal following contact with mortals. One must die and be resurrected like the gods within a madrepore, rising from the waves of a faint, pearlescent sea to be reborn into the flesh tones of Celestino Mesa, immersed in the sensation of being and dwelling on the underside of leaves along a corridor of no return. The voices of the undines sang with Circe who, like you, dares to hear them, yielded and bound to the vessel of the future. Hope cleft by the clouds of the past within the sensuality of a woman perpetually waiting in her skin. Tomorrow, once again, it will be your art that contemplates from the clarity the smiles of your ladies, feverish with the anticipation of an unbridled love.

I shall part the cloud from the interpreter held by blossoming fields; I shall also say that into the drama you venture with a restless cadence across the table of interludes. I shall turn to contemplate the work of doves, of staircases, of chairs, of converging opposing paths, contre-jours, dragon trees, and fish depicted fleeing from the bodies of men. Wise women will speak of all you are, and from the beyond, in the Bible of the prophets, we shall learn how the enigmas of your feminine beings were deciphered. In the alchemy of pigments, shadow and light flare and return; the humble hut of the unknown forest hovers at the apex of the canvases. To hear how the stars cloud over in the night you play upon the piano of your fingers, under the guise of the chess game we all play, Celestino Mesa.