Carlos Suarez

To the art of Li Huayi


I climbed slowly toward the high places where words were forgotten, where only a madman could stand so far from the fires in the hour of maledictions and presentments where history left the scars, the medals, the caresses and promises of despots and stranded lovers.
...

There is no order in those scarce memories of the sea and the land of long shadows.

The traveler’s heart used long ago the few faded colors of winter, the order and concert, names and voices of those who had deals with the roaring forties and the stories of lost crews, of beached vessels dry and gnawed by years of ice and wind, and of men –if you wish—men with large hands; men who sometimes arrived from the pampa or survived once again the mother-like voracity of the sea to tell about it as if music was a place in the eye of the storm and time itself were another deckhand holding a line in the gale while everything around whistles the tune of those who went over in a bad blow on sight of Puerto Deseado.
...

It never occurred to me that it is at night when most others fear this thing, this empty space around.

At night I swim alone. Dark water and the sound of arm strokes isolate me, and the beat, the way breathing gets to be like chanting…
...

Everywhere I go I find in the eyes of men the same confused hope: Fitting a piece of the Great Habit into their deepest dreams and sneak out of the party to go change channels in some quiet room where the golden cup won at the Silent Desperation Pigeon Shooting Games has runneth over.

I meet my fellow men in airports, hotel bars and jazz joints of every city I visit, after I leave the camera bag at the register, after I shave, after I look at the place through the windows for a while, after the restaurants are closed...
...

Once the first rocket attack was over and you realized you were still there.
Once you managed to get back your hands that had clawed the dirt, and straightened your body that had been curled python-like around the camera bag.
Once you made eye contact again with your respected colleagues and the platoon’s survivors.
Once the buzzing in your head stopped and you could hear again the voices and the rain.
...

You arrive from a land devastated by repeated storms half hidden in your voice of always, of casual chatter, of memorable anecdotes of dubious or perhaps imaginary old friends...

You arrive with the always present explanations and the customary gracious gestures; the half distracted motions of your arms hiding the broken branches and the fruits fell by the hailstorm behind your eyes.
...