Mediterraneo
Francisco Aragón
After Teresita Fernández’s Nocturnal (Horizon Line), 2010, solid graphite on panel
Close your eyes. Forget the color you think I am, the color you thought I was. Do you remember the balcony—the one in Sitges those evenings in July? How I cleansed you with the sounds I made: breathing through my skin on moonless nights. Or Friday afternoons up the coast. You’d stroll to the port—not sidewalks along the street, but one wide walk, traffic streaming up and down, both sides of it: La Rambla, ambling past pavilions on your right and left: newsagents, florists, pet merchants and their chirping cages— that year you lived beside me. Open your eyes. Are you surprised at the long horizontal lines that are my face? Look closely, here I am: my uneven rocky shoreline—along the bottom. Scan slowly up and see how calm my waters can become, and above these: un cielo manso, un cielo gris. But I grew weary of my liquid voice, as you grew weary of Sundays, haunting the avenues with nowhere to go. Until, one night, you discovered the possibilities of steam. And I, the next day, the wonders of graphite—pounded and shaped, pounded and shaped: she renewed me, became my maker. What are you thinking, standing there? When was the last time you thought of me—the last time I was inside you?