Duane Michals y lo que pudo ser

Esas secuencias patafísicas que hacen que mientras trabajo en una traducción para una próxima exposición de Duane Michals en ...y mientras tanto, un blog que siempre da maravillosas sorpresas fotogrógraficas, publican un par de fotorelatos del fotógrafo americano que me dejan pensando en todo eso que pudo haber sido y ya nunca será, en los pequeños consuelos (autoengaños?) de la edad adulta.

“He lay there in a pose reminiscent of Marat. At first they thought that he was asleep, but when they touched his forehead, they realized that he had died. How wretched! How selfish of death! It knew that on the very next day he was to have met her. Now she will never know the sound of her name on his lips or his touch or that he had ever existed. She will pass the shop where they were to have met and never guess. One of the consolations of old age is that it is too late to die young.”

My father could walk in the sky.

He promised to teach me how.
But he left without saying goodbye.
I don’t cry.
I am a grown up now.