7.10.09

El Artesanado de la Mano

"Dije silencio para comenzar. Entre nosotras sólo hay aparentemente silencio. Sin embargo, yo me situaré entre el estruendoso colorido de tus imágenes -su pintura es ruidosa, sus colores gritan- y la palabra escrita silenciosa que dice, que emite, que pretende tener más sentido que el sin sentido de las imágenes. ¿Pero podríamos continuar sosteniendo una oposición tal? ¿O será más acertado pensar que estamos en traducción, al pasar de un medio al otro, de un soporte, la escritura, al de la pintura sin prescindir del artesenado de la mano."

-Mara Negrón en torno a María de Mater O'Neill
en "De la Animalidad no hay Salida"

Why I Am Not a Painter
by Frank O'Hara


I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,

for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. "Where's SARDINES?"
All that's left is just
letters, "It was too much," Mike says.

But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.

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