I Thank all my Amigas and partners for their inspiration and support.
Email: miguel@loboestepario.com
For portraits, sculptures, to pose for the artist or performance please contact Miguel: mailto: miguel@loboestepario.com
©Miguel Lopez-Lemus
More than a portrait: a work of art... Miguel Lopez-Lemus
312 498 9937 or mailto:
miguel@loboestepario.com
PHOTOGRAPHY/FOTOGRAFIA
©Miguel Lopez-Lemus
I Return. The avenues look
familiar, so much time has passed that the Paris of yesterday is no longer the
same. I allowed time to go running between dawns and memories, serious,
unreachable. I allow myself to walk into the cemetery, facing the deep profoundness of
death, I am always fleeing, becoming absent at the precise moment of the decline.
I have looked at their eyes, I have seen myself reflected in their soul, like
the water mirror of Parque Mexico; and I believe, at times, that I will never
understand what they contain. Distant, I have never known a colder being that I:
it is the dialectics, that disrespectful materialism, inevitable. In the face of
the reality there is not a question, neither is there an answer. One is. Whether
we like it or not, one is what one is; neither religion, nor
theology, or anything can replace reality.
The presence of your face, at half a second of distance, plays with the movement
of the wind that unites us. Swimming in the Rio Bravo I remembered you; as thousand of times before I repeated your name and submerged myself in the brown
water. Escaping from destiny and crashing head-on with reality, with a
reality that I can still not escape. Thirty years already. thirty years already.
Your voice in Zipolite was softly recorded in the sand, stompped by seagulls
that fell suspended in the ocean of your anguish. Dawning, hidden, your words
took form between the rocks, measuring the ancestral mystery of the red in your
face. Mine..., transparent and faceless; you came from Australia soaked of
night and silence.
I don't own anything. When the cold arrives, I cover with your body, nothing is
mine. Maybe I never was an ascetic: however, I look at my hands, destroyed, from
indecent ocuppations and I deny the emanated forms. Just yesterday, I seriously
wondered if at all it is worthwhile to hit the stone, to leave the blood between
the powder of the marble, fill the lungs of sand, in order to discover, inside
the stone, the dreamt face. I look at myself in the mirror and there is no
answer. (Enero 21 2004)
Pronto se podrá ver mucho mas trabajo del artista.
Gracias.
Monday September 03, 2007 06:10 PM -0700
POR FAVOR DÉJENME SABER SI HAN VISITADO ESTA PAGINA, Miguel mailto:miguel@loboestepario.com