Horacio Lobos Luna

“Pasaje Bavestrello”.Valparaíso. Chile, 1952 – Sergio Larraín He walked behind his mother like a little bodyguard, keep an eye on her back, watching her with zeal and dedication, without taking his eyes off not a single moment from that tall and determined figure. He can see her moving on confidently a few steps ahead, focused in reaching her place of destination, completely oblivious to the tiny…

M. C. Escher – “Liberación”. Curioso. El día en que me resigné a quedarme fue el día en que anhelé más que nunca partir. Deshice las maletas y guardé los pergaminos secretos que mi alma tenía secando al viento para cuando me llamará en la distancia el remoto vaivén de sus efluvios hacia una vida cargada de promesas. Observé las raíces de la espera marchitarse en el instante justo en que las alas…

Tomazs Alen Kopera – “Water Pond” Me acostaré aquí y reposaré hasta que el amanecer termine por diluir los últimos vestigios de oscuridad que aún persisten enquistados entre los hondos cañaverales y el denso follaje. Inhalaré el aroma de la hierba y la tierra húmedas, tamizadas durante la noche por los densos mantos de niebla que se deslizaron furtivos entre sus sombras, y que ahora se desgarran…

AntonyMicallef – “Smiler”. Me he dado cuenta. Ni yo me conozco lo suficiente para regalarme el libro preciso, saber qué pregunta hacerme, alcanzarme en el momento justo o adivinar mis silencios. Aparcado en un rincón de mí mismo trituro segundos como hojuelas secas que se van consumiendo hasta las cenizas en la oquedad de un tiempo donde ningún sonido las remueve ni las esparce ningún viento. Así…

Andy Warhol – “Mona Lisa Four Times” (1978) Nunca deja de sonreír. Ni siquiera en los momentos más cargados de desasosiego y asediados por largos silencios incómodos. De hecho, es como si justo en esos momentos la sonrisa (si así se le puede llamar a esa mueca constante que parece temblar al borde del colapso) se le acentuara con mayor avidez sobre la epidermis famélica, cuarteada por erupciones…

Paweł Kuczyński – “Haters” Un verso devastado por la desidia en rastrojos supurando el óxido de un tiempo irredimible. Una palabra desacralizada sin papel que la sustente, hundida en la sorda inmanencia de circuitos que urden la fría vastedad de un porvenir agotado hasta la náusea. Nos quedan algunos ecos, estrías sonoras en vidas rumiadas a dentellazos de nostalgias disecándose sobre la…

“Pasaje Bavestrello, Valparaíso. Chile, 1952” – Sergio Larraín Iba detrás de su madre como un pequeño escolta, cuidándole la retaguardia, vigilándola con celo y dedicación, sin apartar la vista en ningún momento de aquella figura alta y segura. La veía moverse confiadamente unos pasos adelante, avanzando rítmicamente sin perder suntuosidad ni prestancia y sin apenas volver la vista, concentrada…

Molly Sole – The keyboard imprint in Norwich. Img. Ian Fullbrook. The spring of words has dried out. The weariness has covered it with its heath that scorches, simmering, with its embrace festooned by thistles and beggar-ticks of so much timeless waiting. As a lover thirsting for some freshness and greenery brimming over fulgent springs, it drank away even the tenderest dew nested in the…

Kazuhiko Nakamura (Almacan) – “Portrait of Franz Kafka”. He stopped reading books years ago.He replaced them by screens and pixels where unfulfilled longings are flickering within the reach of a click every time he scrolled tapping here and there, giving likes or commenting the wonders popping up relentlessly from networks and platforms. As he watches creative processes, looks upon…

Remedios Varo – “Alegoría de Invierno”. We will be filled with doubts and we will put them in our pockets for the days when certainties smash our fingers with the raging grandiloquence of a flickering clickbait between the announce of the world’s end and the horrors lurking behind the daily bread and a future at the edge of imminency. We keep them warm from the dream of triumph and the victorious…

“Spring Motif” – Mikalojus Konstantinas Čiurlionis. The dogs’ barking has awakened me again in the middle of the night, or at dawn, I’m never pretty sure. I can hear them bawling in the distance through the curtains, shuttered as dropping eyelids on the big large windows, in a nocturnal torpor that I ceased to share in full since long time yet. They start to entangle one upon another, in a…

Marnie Pitts – “No Time Left”. Time is not what hurts to me. What hurts me is the clock dripping minutes and hours as dick lumps upon the rift of a silence. What hurts me is the calendar husking apart on my childhood wall and between my mother’s fingers that knead the bread and open the green texture where the kernel nests. Her steps receding before the gales of nostalgia as her voice is fading…

Edward Collier – «Vanitas Still Life». “I’m going to write a short story about ideas that overspread themselves and are difficult to summon in order to put them in the same space”, she told me. When I came back to pay a visit, she was laying on the small carpet of the short living room that her tight apartment allowed, watching the ceiling highly concentrated, as if she tried to find something…

Vincent van Gogh – “De grote pauw mot”. You who aren’t here dismiss every memory that it’s not my memory. Thereby you will go through the world without hurry, without a sign to abide by or a throb to cling to. Because I’ve been dead alive is why I still linger in existing despite everything or nothing. Because this is how you live beyond the line before an infinite horizon in the finiteness of a…

Molly Sole – The keyboard imprint in Norwich. (Img. Ian Fullbrook). La fuente de palabras se ha secado. La cubrió el hastío con su brezal que abrasa a fuego lento en su abrazo engalanado de cardos y amores secos de tanta espera sin tiempo. Como un amante sediento de frescura y verdores rebosantes de fulgentes primaveras, se bebió hasta el rocío más tierno anidado en el verbo que trenzaba la…

Eugen Bracht – “Das Gestade der Vergessenheit”. Allá lejos, allá lejos; donde habite el olvido. Luis Cernuda. “I’m not going to stay here the rest of my life.” Those were his first words upon stepping off the crowded spacecraft in which they had gone through the silent depth of space from the Martian plains to old Earth. This time perhaps forever, some said. Forever. Something that seemed as…

Pawel Kuczynski – “Odloty”. We get used to everything, even the horror. After a while we won’t even remember how everything was before this bitter taste muzzling our mouth. And words will lose consistency, diluted in the daily stream of a cyclic redundancy undermining even the highest cutting edge of its fires. The power is in the repetition. The power is in the repetition. Exorcized beyond the…