you remember, I said, one of the first pictures we saw up there? That of August Sander, three farmers on the banks of a muddy road? She remembered, of course. I do not know, "I continued, so I explained that there is an American writer whose first book was born out of fascination on his mind by this picture. Without waiting for an answer, I related the anecdote. Legend has it that in the early '80s, Richard Powers, then computer scientist, visited the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston and saw this picture. The shock was such that the following Monday, he resigned his job and began to floor on a novel that would tell both the story of three men and that of an American bewitched by the photo. I saw her look she had already heard it and was awaiting the result with a strange mixture of indifference and interest caused by the possibility of a surprise lost somewhere in the middle of my soliloquy . So I continued. When I found myself in front of Sander's work, I told myself " it was this! "And even if I did not feel that Powers had felt, I somehow knew what had hit him and then motivated. Then I started thinking about this idea of creative shock that gives you the impetus to leave everything and dedicate yourself to the construction of a building individual artistic. Realizing the pomposity of the sentence I just said, I broke off, just to see if I could read any reaction on his face. Mistaking this abrupt stop, she was kind enough to revive me by asking me for clarification. Do not really have to give, I tried to correct the situation: no, I do not mean that I have something to say about what motivates such a sudden change of direction in a personal journey, I was thinking that Perhaps I was, too, feel a similar sentiment from another photo of the show and I would put my resignation on Monday to dedicate myself to a great novel for the next two years. In fact, I stated, and it will not surprise you, secretly hoping that my lack of imagination is offset by the strength of the image of any photographer, it opens me dimension hitherto unknown by me and put me on the trail of the story which I sorely needed. I'm not sure that watching a series of works are also aware of the purpose of this contemplation is the ideal to reach my goal and shameful secret, but you know me: I went right into the game and does I managed to watch over it all for the aesthetic qualities but rather looks like a virgin girls: wondering if he could that one of them ... I made a second break here, waiting for the question that would follow especially for me and revive me prove it had followed me and I do not bullshit. Of course, it came, although I saw that she already suspected the answer would of course not. In fact, I replied, I was impressed by the picture of an elegant man, absolutely gruesome mine, alone in an empty street. For some moments I thought about the possibilities it opened my mind but unfortunately I hit a wall far too strong for me and now my total proverbial lack of imagination. I would have had at least a few more details of this guy and this street to find a trail that other than on a train umpteenth repetition of "I Am Legend," a variation on the theme of the last man. Once again, I paused, this time longer. It was time to serve tea. It was an Earl Grey's English of a company whose name I do not want to remember, but like, without being at Whittard of Chelsea. The mixture was mediocre but ultimately quite satisfactory, provided that one keeps in mind the real difficulty in finding good tea in Spain. While I drank my first sip, she informed me that two tables away, was a relatively well known TV presenter, with a strange name. After I twisted my neck to see what he looked like and had swallowed another mouthful, I decided, without asking her opinion, to pick up where I left my explanations. In addition, I say so, this picture of the last man in the city was, too, signed August Sander. Can you imagine how little originality there would be the second to leave his job and started writing because one of his works? No, this is not possible, so I had to my great regret, believe me, abandon the idea. A little later, I stumbled on something more exciting. It was, I think the cover of a French book of the '30s on women. A naked body, the upper chest at the beginning of the pubic hair. I tried to give a clinical description does not see the trouble experienced with the vision of these few hairs as we would like to try to wrap around her little finger, these breasts, of course, rather small but the perfect form, which we wish to approach both hands to ensure their good health and, finally, above all, the most moving, with the center of the belly of a whole navel which becomes the focal point of our desire, passenger receptacle of beauty in the world. I was not speaking of it and clutch very quickly on the opportunity to leave everything and go inside a world purely for two years just because of this photo. Myriad avenues were open to me. The young woman, daughter of a White Russian who lost his fortune in exile, pays its courses in painting and posing naked in common, much to the anger of his father, Vallejo and Aragon. The story would end in June 1940, on a steamer to the United States where, sixty years later, an elderly woman recalls her wild youth. We could also take a more gloomy, perversion and decay, that of a barely pubescent teenager and already in the hands of depraved men, or a new version of a Long Engagement or a love story simple and so beautiful all or why not, a meditation on the body, a novel that is not one - the best! - Including the atlas narrative is confined to the epidermis reproduced on the cover of this book, it talks thrill, sense, sensation, moisture, heat, and creepy, it tu the universe, no less, from so little. But now, I realized right away, I sighed, it was not possible, it would lead nowhere, it was all the cliché that it had nothing to do with imagination, it There was nothing in there that seemed to put me on the way to change life on the path of a priesthood whose only luxury is a keyboard and on the white surface of the screen, a dark line blinks we scare because we have learned to see. Already there as a story that we do not yet know but will become essential. Oh, no!, I almost cried, vertigo was not there. Perhaps, I continued, head down, maybe I should admit that I have nothing that allows me hope to keep Powers ... I raised my head slightly to look over my glasses. His look said "no, do not think that, my love" but she was careful not to open his mouth, what I was grateful I needed to be comforted, but I did hear the words of comfort. To not finish this pathetic note, I decided to find a rapid conclusion. I came suddenly convinced that everything I had said was false, pathetic comedy whose purpose was to receive any evidence of tenderness and that the real reason to abandon this picture was different, was the nature of the photograph of this woman naked. Almost in a state of excitement but while trying to control my voice and rhythm, I spoke one last time. Most importantly, I began a photo like that, what's it about? It's about sex. And sex, everyone is already talking. Not only most of the writers, whose novels, we often feel, is precisely to go between the kidneys is a sex drive that they control by running the ink of their fountain pen, but in how many billions of people have already changed life for a merry, leaving overnight work and family for a woman to a man? What happened, I concluded, finally, the look in their eyes is that I have no desire to find my revelation somewhere where everyone finds it every day and that, whatever the image quality, the fact that I realize that what I had found was the poor and common in me made me abandon the idea as quickly as it came. And at the same time, the prospect of following Powers took off too. It is followed by a short silence, time to realize that my cup was empty, his, as usual, filled the third and cold. I left my pocket for some coins to pay the bill.
Leaving the Circulo de Bellas Artes, yet we saw that they announced on Monday following a performance of the sonata for piano and violin Janáček . Perhaps we would be doing ourselves. We ascended the Gran Via I watched an hour before. Taxis raced down the still and in the dusk that combined the artificial lights flicker and the speed red stripes adorning them made me think, inexplicably, Peru. It was time to go buy shoes.
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