Robust trees were line into the first of May avenue, north of Barcelona Centro on any given day, during the aestival season. Laurent crossed the street, looking to the right, where the cars came down unceasingly and without truce to the torrential crowd of accelerated minds and greedy ones for buying new clothes; But Laurent's did not want to think about acquiring lots or purchase for the taste of it, but buying what was useful to him, but he also knew that one could want to be settle or conform with less, with everything or to what he could have “for more”; reasonsfor why he had decided to undertake an atypical course through the majority time of his life. Live, a little, in the air of daily life. Waiting for the earth to tell him how he could walk "without having support" in the day to day. Backrest, of one kind or another. Consonant or assonant, but in a brace of something valuable to his mind. The earth had not wanted to tell what he expected to be answered in the beginning; but his experience gave him a complet story and that wasn´t another to he was realised to fifteen years. A story, but necessary to survive in the continuous complex of the chain of airs, sometime was cold sometimes hot, but for sure it could not be broken completely to be safe.
Laurent's said he would cross the sidewalk in front of him to take the taxi, which in the opposite direction would lead him to the meeting he had that afternoon, in the prestigious art gallery that would present his hyperrealistic ecological works that conceptualized the feat of the human being by become logical within an absurd quadrature.
He called a taxi with his right hand, which he saw empty, and which parked immediately near the sidewalk where Laurent was in full sun, in July, under 35 degrees. He opened the door and entered in it. He asked the driver to take him to Diagonal where he would meet his friend Nerve, who was his sponsor in this conceptual project, and who had already got him several potential clients to develop urban changes in several towns around Barcelona, someone of them connected with the government.
For a moment, the time inside the cab stopped. He could not see more traffic, nor see the smoke, nor the people, nor the dreams. He did not see anything. Just a blank space. A canvas. I couldn´t paint –he thought in his address.
-Lighting-: A light blue, a small house with an internal courtyard. Inside, was her daughter, a teenager. A stage completed long time ago. Laurent's watched his daughter friends from the university. He told them that it was time to leave his house, that tomorrow would be another day, then they would see each other. Tomorrow, probably. The boys did not finish to leave the house and Laurent's entered in the patio using the paternal authority that characterized him to throw them out of the place, with a smile, good genius, not of bad mood, but in a serious and radical way. He approached them and convinced them to go and show them a pamphlet that encouraged them to go in search of another kind of fun, outside the house, typical of this age, normally to boys. There was a stale smell of urine. Laurent's thought that the boys had to do the primary neediness there, again. Something was wrong with the education in these times, there were a lack of respect, and the commitment to follow the rules applicable to coexistence in community and the understanding of each other´s as a vital pinch, or to keep the quality of maintain the diaphanous aspects of a relationship well-mannered and well cared for. He took a hose, to erase his consternation, to dissipate the smell he overturned a product that eliminated the smell of the urine on the gray slate´s slabs. Once done it, he went down to his way till the second inner courtyard of the house; Also painted in sky blue color. On the floor of tiles had drawn eight symbols (ashtamangala) of multiple colors, but with the prevalence of green and red. A huge dorje in the center, on it were drawn subtle lines that marked a square.
On the four points of it were four framed photos which were standing on his own foot (frame). The two rear, one large and one smaller contained two personified images. One red, -extra- the other black. Going ahead, two Dharmapalas, in front of the image of the red was a female protector. A red daikini. In front of the black Figure was a white daikini. Between them a tie of many colors, but never touched between them. Above it, a rectangular table, of rustic wood, which was empty, stood out. There were no chairs around yet. Nor was there any indication of any special celebration. And then, everything was clouded in the mind of Laurent¨s. He could recognize a voice, someone's, with whom he had been recently. He, the man in the other corner of his eye was washing under a stream of running water, his own one dish, a spoon and a cup; They had not previously been used. He washed them only for the mere fact of washing; these pieces were his, but they had not been used to eat or have anything, and he had washed them previously a short time ago.
The man in the blue suit of the heavenly house was the owner of the gallery. He was the passer-by before, the exhibitor, the taxi driver of a specific moment. It was the step, the walk, the vision and the sight. Already; Laurent's did not speak, just looked his painting again. Sold, it said. He did not remember the number, only that it was important.
Laurent's, the man in the blue suit, had sold his own painting.
And someone asked him if he could learn the art of knowing what he had made before, the innate recognition of art, being down in the hand of; Laurent's looked him in the eye, and said: You are my sponsor, you know how to make money. I… I can only express what I see, what I feel. I can buy some things and buy another as yet. These arts immersed in the cellular nucleus, cannot be learned. It is carried in the blood, in the atavistic memory. They only meet again to form the conglomerate.
Laurent's was back, standing, in front of a canvas.
In white. A train in his mind. An old vehicle. Very.The things he saw in his mind most of the time in some levels were in blank because he considered himself incapable of translating them exactly into a canvas or paper. It was a sort of content hiatus
Recalling the first day that had been inaugurated the exhibition of his art in the city of Barcelona. He only remembered how much he earned whenever he got there and how much he wanted to leave from there each time he stepped on that land; and he always remembered the same fire, the same smoke, the smell of anesthesia. Then he knew why he had been making all the roles he had been playing. He knew that the only thing he had not become yet was a powerful bailsman of another. Not yet. And in front of him, the blank canvas; only gave him the chance to someday complete that piece of heaven from other. The ultimate state of blissful for his transit.
Yolanda Marín
Bcn, 22/07/2017
Birth of recource: 20/07/2007
