the ruin in the city
The ruin in the city
The earth in the city
The ancient in the city
The craft in the city
Pottery in the city of today
What does it mean
To be, to dwell within these concrete cubicles
How does this shape our lives
Progress and modernity
have led us to this moment
Inhuman transgression
disconnected from nature
Living together
stress and decay
Technology and hierarchy
To bring the clay into the city
as an outsider element
To go up to the hill
as a distant observation
To relate
inside
and outside.
What is far?
And what is close?
What is urban?
and what isnt?
And what should be protected?
How many wetlands
How many hills and territories
should be taken care of?
How many places will be destroyed
by building companies?
How many parks and hills will decrease their nature
because of human greed?
How do we rethink craft
and in which way
shall we protect
rescue
transform
The soil breathes
It makes the earth and the trees breathe
Soil is never waste
It nourishes the muddy forests filled with flowers.
How do we save our hills from drying and dying?
How do we discover matter? Without grabbing all of it?
We shall be cautious.
We shall investigate different territories.
By gathering different clays
we would be investigating difference.
Where will this reflection and discovery lead us?
And to create, in which sense?
To ramble is to feel diversity. Meticulous diversity.
The colors that we find, how do they speak?
What do they say?
Sounds of mud,
voices of clay.
Each clay will have a different sound
when is becomes ceramics.
Maybe we could feel the sound of ceramics
in different territories, like little paths
coming together.
What does it mean to find our own material?
To grab one must first give thanks. To ask permission.
To be transformed in the process.
To turn the soil into something that will join us, somehow.
How do we colectivize processes?
Now I know
clay may exist everywhere,
in each path I walk.
In each crack I see through the concrete.
There it is.
Cities could be made out of clay.
We have to go up the hills.
To walk a little bit more.
To get out of the plain.
To become an outsider.
To bring the mud into the city.
Or to inhabit the mud in its own place.
How does mud gets burnt? And why?
What is ceramics? And what is it for?
How do we build?
How do we ritualize?
How do we dwell?
How do we coexist with nature?
How do I take roots with the craft?
How do I separate, expand, or link?
What has Architecture to do with all of this?
Spaciality, body.
Bioconstruction.
Organic, sustainable methodologies.
Permaculture.
Ecopolitics.
Sustainable design methodologies.
Research and archive methodologies.
A record of territories and nature.
Cartographies of cities and nature.
The significance of the hills.
Cycles.
To go out to the field means to go down on nature.
To submerge into distances and times of yore.
To get out of the city.
It means to submerge into the deep silence.
Outside of mechanical noise.
To live in the trees.
To listen to the clouds moving.
But you can still hear the city from afar.
I went to Quilpué with Paz, we went down to the route of El Retiro.
We walked through the estuary of Quilpué.
Then we started walking up to the hill.
A mound between houses, dissapearing behind the cliffs.
bycicle routes. Rocks filled with graffitis. Machines.
Abandoned trucks. A crack on the hill was the first thing I saw.
And a sign that read: Private property. Do not cross.
To the side, an upward path.
We walked 10 minutes and arrived to a cave of hawthorns.
We hid from the sun and ate oranges.
We sat and I noticed right there was the cracked mud.
I was standing on the very clay. And many dry leaves.
The autumn was ending. Almost no rain. Everything was dry.
My friend started singing to the waters. Giving thanks the Pacha.
There she was, on the dry mud. We kept going up. I saw orange curves.
I started recording her, walking barefoot. She did come here a few times before,
now she wanted to express herself through her body. We found a vein and my friend
submerged herself through the crack on the land, sliding across. Inside the land.
There it was, the clay. Tactile matter. So dry, so rough, but sensitive.
After this profound greeting, inside and outside, I submerged and greeted too.
I asked for permission to the land, and grabbed what I could.
Maybe I will come back, to touch the soil once again.
My friend and I walked until midnight and glanced at the city from up the hill.
We saw the light, we felt a calm darkness. The songs walked with us. The rattle of the hoof.
We gave thanks to the dusk and the being.
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ENTRESUEÑO
Mi ensueño más allá de tu forma pasiva
mi revuelto soñar que verberan los vientos
te alcanza en el umbral secreto del recuerdo
de inveterado amor dorado como saga.
Con la mía tu infancia en mi sueño acollaro
si bien nos conocimos pasados los veinte
y como labio y labio paseamos juntos
por un prado apacible entre balar de ovejas.
En tu mirar reluce un viso de cascadas
tu voz plañe el rumor inmenso de los pinos
tu tierra me arrebata en cada abrazo nuestro
tu carne tiene un gusto de viento y alborada.
Por repentina brecha alumbrada entre ensueños
me escabullo y arribo al dormir de los vivos
te siento junto a mí tu aliento carnal oigo
tus sedantes contornos con la mano evoco,
contigo en soledad me reúno dos veces
entre densa tiniebla de perdón sabrosa
de espíritu brincón y estrella aventurera
y de carne feliz y lacia que se rinde.
Parto luego feliz a mis lueñes demandas
cautivo refirmado tras pestañas reja
con el vago sentir de tu clara presencia
como lámpara sorda y cálida en la noche.
*
DEMI-SOMMEIL
Mon sommeil au delà de ta forme passive
Mon sommeil turbulent cinglé de tous les vents
T'atteint au seuil secret des souvenirs anciens
De nos amours dorés longs comme des légendes.
Je rêve que j'unis mon enfance à la tienne
Bien que je t'aie connue par-delà nos vingt ans
Et nous nous promenons unis comme deux lèvres
Dans de paisibles prés semés d'agneuax bêlants.
Ton regard luit dans le reflet dur de cascades
Ta voix plaint la rumeur immense des sapins
Ton pays me ravit dans toutes nos étreintes
Ta chair a la saveur des vents et des matins.
Puis soudain par la brèche éclatante des rêves
Je m'échappe et j'aborde au sommeil des vivants
Je te sens près de moi j'ouïs ton souffle charnel
J'évoque de la main tes contours apaisants,
Je te rejoins deux fois dans cette solitude
Où l'épaisse ténèbre a le goût du pardon
De l'esprit bondissant d'étoile en aventure
Et de la chair heureuse et lasse à l'abandon.
Puis je repars heureux vers mes quêtes lointaines
Prisonnier rassuré sous la grille des cils
Du sentiment confus de ta claire présence
Comme une lampe sourde et chaude dans la nuit.
Maurice Fombeure
di-versión©ochoislas
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