ENRIQUE ZALDUA: ART CATALOGUE

UTEROLANDIA

2011-06-28T11:24:00.000-07:00

IZAN

2010-10-13T15:25:00.001-07:00

(Industrial water paint, acrylic, wood, ink on canvas)

REACHING OUT (I): Plastic paint on canvas. August 2010

2010-09-17T17:10:00.000-07:00

REACHING OUT (II): Plastic paint on canvas. August 2010

2010-09-17T16:42:00.000-07:00

2009-05-29T16:21:00.000-07:00

NOCHE BAJO EL LIMONERO

2009-05-29T16:13:00.000-07:00

Me siento en el balcón,

junto al limonero.

Es de noche y sudo.

Llego de correr,

de moverme,

de hacer algo,

algo,

romper el tedio,

la rutina aceitosa,

otro día pegajoso,

áspero largo y corto

todo revuelto,

empaquetado con lazo

de plástico y enviado

por mensajero

a la tumba del tiempo.

La noche ha refrescado;

mejor.

Un limón cuelga

ante mis ojos.

Verde.

Brillante.

Hermoso.

Ajeno

a mi soledad.

Como un perro

que lame los pies

del amo

all llegar éste

a casa,

el limón

parece mirarme.

Lo tomo,

lo acerco a mi nariz.

Inspiro su aroma

suave,

levemente ácido

cómo el perfume

perfecto e improbable

de una mujer

improbable.

Y me emociono.

Un golpe súbito,

Inmediato,

al alma.

El olor, una llave al

corazón, a esa pena

eterna,

profunda,

grabada en

obsidiana líquida.

Roja.

Sangre.

Otro día será

llave de dicha.

Ojalá.

Pero no ahora.

…

El limón reposa sobre

la mesa mientras

escribo.

Admiro su piel verde,

silenciosa.

No habla,

que no es igual

a no decir nada.

Ya no lloro.

El corazón

se ha retirado

del espolón de proa

a su [otra] posición:

la sala de máquinas.

Aquí hay menos brisa,

menos humedad,

y no se ven las estrellas.

La caldera sigue

quemando energía,

tirando del buque,

aunque haya noches

[y días]

en que el océano

es más sumidero

que sendero.

[No me olvidéis].

---------------

Ostirala, maiatzak 29, 2009

GAUA LIMOIONDO AZPIAN

Jarri egin naiz balkoian,

limoiondoaren ondoan.

Gaua da eta izerditan nago.

Korrika egitetik nator,

mugitzetik,

zerbait egitetik,

zerbait,

asperra eten,

egunerokotasun koipetsua,

beste egun likatsu bat,

lakarra luze eta laburra

dena nahasian,

plastikozko

lazoz paketatuta eta bidalia

mezulariz

denboraren hilobira.

Gaua freskatu du;

hala hobe.

Limoi bat zintzilik

nire begien aurrean.

Berde.

Dirdiratsu.

Eder.

nire bakardadetik.

Txakur batek

nagusiari

oinak miazkatzen dizkion eran

hau etxera

heltzen denean,

halaxe antza

begiratzen dit limoiak.

Hartu dut,

gerturatu ene sudurrera.

Aditu dut haren usain

leuna,

apur bat bizi

perfumea legez

perfektu eta nekez gertatzekoa

emakume

nekez gertatzeko batena.

Eta hunkitu egin naiz.

Bat bateko kolpea,

berehalakoa,

arimari.

Usaina, giltza bat

bihotzari, pena

betiereko horri,

sakonari,

obsidiana likidoan

grabatutakoari.

Gorri.

Odol.

Beste egun batean izango da

zorionaren giltza.

Oxala.

Baina ez orain.

…

Limoia atsedenean da

mahai gainean

ni idazten ari naizela.

Miresten dut haren azal berdea,

isila.

Ez da mintzo,

ez du esan nahi horrek

ezer adierazten ez duenik.

Ez dut negarrik gehiago.

Bihotza

erretiratu da

itsasontzi-muturretik

bere [beste] posiziora:

makina gelara.

Hemen haizea gutxiago dabil,

hezea txikiago,

eta ez dira izarrak ikusten.

Galdara hor dabil

erre eta erre,

itsasontziari tiraka,

nahiz eta badiren gau

[eta egunak]

ozeanoa dena, gehiago

estolda-zulo

bide-zidor baino.

[ez nazazue ahaztu].

Itzulpena: I.B. 2010

2008-02-21T01:21:00.000-08:00

ESTHETIC OF LIFE

2008-02-21T00:54:00.000-08:00

Because life, mysterious as it is, can't help but be beautiful. Life is a gigantic and fantastic work of art. It's always been so and it will always be. We don't suffer more catastrophes now than 100 years ago; now we just have television. That's the difference. The rest remains the same: men who want to live, men who want to kill and men who don't care either way, men that are already dead.

But Nature is stronger than all of us. It's always been so and it will always be. I trust beauty and love. I know there are lies, nihilism, cruelty, violence, despair and many more calamities but I refuse to give in to them; I refuse to compromise my Liberty.

Liberty to feel excited, to reach out, to fight the good and imperfect fight to be human. Who was the idiot who invented political assassinations?

I like chimeras. Yes, I do. I like them because, first of all, I love the word. It makes me feel the whispering of a pair of sweet and sensual lips pronouncing slowly: chi...me...ra... And who do I care if you don't speak my tongue when you do speak my language?

I also like it because it speaks of windows, of spaces, of new universes, of impossible horizons that become possible simply by defining them. Just like the contours of a painting containing life's perpetually flowing heart and chaos. Because love and art are born from chimeras' uterus; and from a strawberry ice-cream; and from a kiss; from a sunset; from the sweat of a birth; from a wave breaking against the rocks; from your eyes; from a common cause that inspires
us to give our lives (never to take it); from a walk on Coney Island at dusk. Points, marks, memories, sensations, tastes, touches, sounds, scents, colors...

I see men walking down Seventh Avenue, Brooklyn. Some are friends, some are not. The normal thing. The sun rises and sets. In Spring flowers bloom and in Summer we believe we are immortal. It's life, nothing more, nothing less. My esthetic proposal.

UTEROLANDIA (Industrial water paint on canvas. 10 feet x 6.5 feet)

2008-02-21T00:50:00.001-08:00

UTEROLANDIA (Detail)

2008-02-21T00:50:00.000-08:00

MAN IN CAGE (ALMOST). (Industrial water paint on canvas. 10 feet x 7 feet)

2008-02-21T00:48:00.000-08:00

INITIAL MATRIX (Ink and pastels on paper)

2008-02-21T00:30:00.000-08:00

IZAN (Industrial water paint, acrylic, wood on canvas)

2008-02-21T00:25:00.000-08:00

CAN SYMMETRY BE SO DECEIVING SOMETIMES?

2008-02-21T00:23:00.001-08:00

White clouds advance at the beginning of the evening crawling slowly above the quiet waters.

The lake is nothing but a roll out carpet, barely poked by a scatter of rain. I can see a duck meandering in the middle. Perhaps he's lost. I saw a flock depart last night. Has he been left behind? Will he be able to reunite or will he die lonely and cold in the winter? Will he join other forgotten birds and create a colony to survive the cold?

I digress somewhat transfixed by the phantom blanket sprawling over the lake. Then, I refocus and see that the clouds are like a wall of cotton. My playful instinct takes over: I want to reach out and feel them in my hands (could it be cotton candy? Wouldn't it prove that magic doesn't only resemble, but actually exists?).

Alas, they are ethereal. As I extend my arms, they withdraw and dilute, like a laughing chorus of frivolous women with red lipstick and snow-white teeth. My imaginational hope comes gliding down back to the balcony where I sit.

Where have the cicadas gone? They were here yesterday and the day before, and the one before… Now I only hear a woodpecker and the crackling of leaves under a squirrel's feet. Is this Fall, again, coming to meet me?

It's getting darker; the clouds cover the lake completely now and the rain has thickened; what were droplets, is now a curtain. If it were butter coming down I could easily lather thousands of slices of bread.

The water remains placid though, like a sleepy alligator in a hot bayou; not bothered a bit by the steady invasion from the sky. Only the duck seems restless, swimming alone in the middle of the lake. Its wake resembles the shape of a flock flying.

Can symmetry be so deceiving sometimes?

KOLOREZ DANTZA (Ink on paper)

2008-02-21T00:20:00.000-08:00

OUR MOTHER, WHICH ART IN HEAVEN...(Acrylic, industrial water paint, marker and paper on canvas)

2008-02-21T00:19:00.000-08:00

ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE FACE III (Installation. Detail)

2008-02-21T00:17:00.001-08:00

ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE FACE I (Installation)

2008-02-21T00:15:00.000-08:00

ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE FACE II (Installation)

2008-02-21T00:08:00.000-08:00

ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE FACE

2008-02-21T00:02:00.000-08:00

Al otro lado de la

cara encuentro la

verdadera

esencia del no-ser

ser

On the other side of

the face I find the

true

essence of not-being

being

BIDAIAN NAGO...

2008-02-21T00:00:00.000-08:00

Bidaian nago. Baina ez naiz mugitzen.

I am traveling. But I don't move.

Estoy de viaje. Pero no me muevo.

PSYCHOBABBLE (Acrylics, pastels and marker on paper)

2008-02-20T23:55:00.000-08:00

WHERE DO DRAGONFLIES GO TO DIE? (Industrial water paint and marker on canvas)

2008-02-20T23:53:00.002-08:00

FACE 2 (Pastels on paper)

2008-02-20T23:47:00.000-08:00

MOBILE POETRY (Industrial water paint and marker on bricks). THIS IS AN INSTALLATION OF LOOSE BRICKS; CAN BE ARRANGED AS WE DESIRE.

2008-02-20T23:45:00.001-08:00

MOBILE POETRY (Industrial water paint and marker on bricks. Detail)

2008-02-20T23:45:00.000-08:00

FACE 4 (Colour pencils and pastels on paper)

2008-02-20T23:38:00.000-08:00

AND DEATH IS THE BEGINNING OF LIFE... (Installation)

2008-02-20T23:31:00.000-08:00

I SENT YOU A THOUSAND BUDS

2008-02-20T23:29:00.001-08:00

…I sent you a thousand buds
enveloped in perfection,
like the space between your neck and shoulder
my love has no thorns,
yet fear sucks the scent
out of the air
around us
and we remain separate
but we will live,
we have to
soon the skin of your petals
will soothe me
as I slide down into the world
and there you are now,
on the other side,
looking at me
from behind the glass
tremulous and fragile
like a kite trying to break away from
its bearings
like fresh air
out of a loving lung
a simple rose.

MATRIX OF LOVE II (Pastels and ink on paper)

2008-02-20T23:13:00.000-08:00