Hace un mes me compré estas gafas:
One month ago I bought these glasses:
Estoy leyendo en las piscinas de Barruera, un bonito pueblo del pirineo.
La radio del bar desgrana, como cada día,la típica musica comercial.
De repente, escucho los acordes inconfundibles de un bandoneón argentino acompañado por un expresivo violín y…oh ….milagro…¡es “Adiós Nonino” el precioso tango del inmortal Astor Piazzolla.
La grabación es antigua, es posible que incluso esté tocando él mismo.
Saboreo este breve milagro.
Miro a las montañas, los chopos imitan el sonido del mar mecidos por el viento.
No puedo imaginar escenario mejor.
Es lo inesperado del momento, la belleza, muchas veces, penetra más cuando nos ataca con la guardia baja, cuando no contamos toparnos con ella.
Es curioso, muchas veces sentado en una cómoda butaca, de un magnifico auditorio de inmaculada acústica, no he disfrutado de la música como lo estoy haciendo ahora.
La música no puede abrirse paso por mil motivos, ambientales o personales.
Hay que encontrar el momento.
Yo lo encontré a la sombra de un árbol y gracias a un viejo equipo de radio y, seguramente, a algún caprichoso error de un locutor despistado.
I am reading in the swimming pools of Barruera, a pretty town of the Pyrenean.
The radio of the bar shells, like every day, the typical commercial music.
I suddenly listen to agreed the unmistakable chords of an Argentinian bandoneon accompanied by an expressive violin and… oh….it’s a miracle… is «Adiós Nonino» the precious tango of the immortal Astor Piazzolla.
The recording is old, is possible that it is even played by himself.
I savor this brief miracle.
I watch mountains, the bots imitate the sound of the sea rocked by the wind.
I cannot imagine a better scene.
It is unexpected of the moment, the beauty, often, penetrates more when it attacks to us with the low guard, when we we did not hope to hit with her.
It is peculiar, often seated in a comfortable armchair, in a magnify music hall of immaculate acoustics, I have not enjoyed music as I am doing it now.
Music cannot break through by thousand reasons, environmental or personal.
It is necessary to find the moment.
I found in the shade of a tree and thanks to an old radio equipment and, surely, to some capricious error of a confused speaker.
Desde la ventana de mi clase, en el Conservatorio de Monzón, puedo ver el castillo templario (S.IX)
From the window of my classroom in the Music School of Monzón (Spain) I can see the templar castle (IXth century)
Albert y yo hemos dado la bienvenida a la primavera con nuestra primera salida en bicicleta del año.
Siempre es un día muy especial y quiero compartirlo con vosotros.
Para ver las fotos click aquí.
Once again, the cycle is closed.
Everything has sense.
The cold returns us introverts, reserved.
It locks up us in our warm refuges of cotton, far from its gray hug.
Darkens our glances and remembers us our inevitable end …
The spring is another thing.
It is a color song, the hope.
It wakes up perfumed passions, ignites our cheeks.
Illuminates our eyes with its new light.
The black ice of our problems melts.
The sadness flees by the window, open to the afternoon sun.
And there is something,
deep and secret,
that whispers us to the ear that,
the sharpened thorn that tortures us can,
someday,
become it a beautiful flower.
Albert and I have given the welcome to the spring with our first exit in bicycle of the year.
It is always a very special day and I want to share it with you.
To see our pictures click here.
Me encanta la idea de Frank Warren.
Ha ideado un método para dar salida a los secretos mejor guardados; se trata de escribirlos en una postal anónima y enviárselos.
Warren empezó su proyecto en noviembre de 2004 para una exposición de arte en Washington. Imprimió 3.000 postales con su dirección invitando a extraños a que escribieran secretos, algo que fuera verdad y que no hubieran contado nunca a nadie, las dio a la gente en el metro, las dejó en restaurantes, entre los libros de bibliotecas públicas, en exposiciones.
El artista ha recibido unos 20.000 secretos desde que empezó su proyecto. Tras seleccionar los más interesantes, los muestra en su bitácora que ha recibido más de 20 millones de visitas desde su creación.
Algunos de los secretos:
«Estoy celoso de su bebé»
«Corto mechones de pelo a los niños que cuido cuando se duermen»
«Le di ternera para cenar a mi hermana vegetariana»
«Me mostré desnuda en la ventana cuando pasaba un tren»
«Hace 10 años que no hablo con mi padre y esto me está matando»
«Les robo cosas pequeñas a mis amigos para tener un recuerdo de ellos»
Todos necesitamos ser escuchados.
Vaciar el peso de nuestros secretos más oscuros.
Si no tienes la fortuna de podérselos contar a la persona amada, conviértelos en arte y mándaselos a Warren, él te escucha.
I like the idea of Frank Warren.
He has devised a method to give exit to the secrets better kept; it is to write them in an anonymous postcard and send him.
Warren began his project in November of 2004 for a exhibition of art in Washington. Printed 3,000 cards with his adress inviting of strangers to write a secret, something that was truth and that had counted never to anybody, it gave them to people in the meter, left them in restaurants, between books of public libraries, in exhibitions.
The artist has received about 20,000 secrets since the project began. After selecting most interesting, he shows in his blog that has received more than 20 million visits from its creation.
Some of the secrets:
«I am jealous of her baby»
» I short the hair of the children who care when they fall asleep»
«I gave meet to my vegetarian sister»
«I showed undresses in the window when it passed a train»
» I do not speak with my father from 10 years ago and this is killing me»
«I rob small things to my friends to have a memory of them»
We need to be listened.
Drain the weight of our darker secrets. If you do not have the fortune to can to tell them to the loved person, transform them in art and send them to Warren, he listens to you.
Es la más bella definición de «profesor», en el sentido más amplio y profundo de la palabra que he leído nunca:
«Es el que ayuda a los demás a descubrir para que sirven»
Michael Quoist
It is the most beautiful definition of «professor», in the amplest and deep sense of the word that I have never read:
«He is the one that helps the others to discover so that they serve»
Michael Quoist
The autumn is penetrating little by little in us.
There is less light, sometimes, without knowing why, I feel sad and melancholic, and I observe that the people to whom I do not want either can escape to the gray hug of the cold, I notice it in your faces, in your eyes.
In Lleida (Spain), where I live, soon the fog I will cover the tile roofs, like to watch it from my room sheltered after the crystal.
It prevents us to see what there is it go and it forces to us to watch within we ourself.
It returns to us reflective and creative.
Meanwhile, the leaves of the trees, like tears, continue falling and they remember to us, as it will be irremediably also our destiny.
For you: fragment of Song of Autumn in MIDI, one of my last arrangements.
A hug for you.
Después de algunas noches sin dormir por el ruido olvidado del tráfico y el calor, finalmente, mis ojos han dejado de buscar las montañas.
El cemento gris vuelve a apoderarse de nosotros.
Afortunadamente, hemos almacenado horas de sol en dulces tardes de verano y nuestros ojos, sin remedio, olvidarán el verde de los árboles y reconocerán de nuevo los tejados anaranjados como su hogar.
Muy pronto la niebla los cubrirá y la mirada los buscará desorientada en un manto gris.
Ha sido un buen verano, quizás el mejor.
Fuego y hielo, y la música siempre presente.
Hemos pisado las cenizas del Teide, en la isla volcánica de Tenerife y la nieve, sorprendente y altiva, del mes de agosto en el pirineo.
Ganas de regresar, de empezar de nuevo, de tejer otra vez los hilos que dan sentido a nuestra vida.
Me gustaría que fuesen de colores brillantes y dorados.
Y de enlazarlos con nuevas formas, de hacerlos más resistentes a los afilados dientes del aburrimiento y la monotonía.
Con la esperanza que, entre las notas de mi música y en mi mirada, pueda intuirse, al menos, una mínima parte de toda la belleza que he contemplado.
After some nights without sleeping by the noise forgotten the traffic and the heat, finally, my eyes have let look for mountains.
The gray cement returns to seize of us.
Luckyly, we have stored hours of sun in sweet afternoons of summer and our eyes, without remedy, will forget the green one the trees and will again recognize the orange tile roofs like their home.
In a moment the fog will cover them and the glance will look for them disoriented in a gray mantle.
It has been a good summer, perhaps the best one.
Fire and ice, and always present music.
We have stepped on ashes of the Teide, in the volcanic island of Tenerife (Canary Islands) and the snow, surprising and arrogant, of the month of August in the Pyrenean one.
Desire to return, to begin again, to again weave the threads of which they give sense to our life.
I would like that they were of shining and golden colors.
And to connect them with new forms, to make them to the sharpened teeth of the boredom and monotony more resistant.
With the hope that, between notes of my music and in my glance, can be intuited, at least, a mini part of all the beauty that I have contemplated.
80 shipwrecks were rescued near an island uninhabited in Costa Rica.
They were illegal that they wanted to arrive at the United States.
A desperate woman except for its lives, a dreamer.
She threw to the sea a message of aid in a bottle.
I imagine her writing it, under the glance surprised of its companions and surrounded by the terrible immensity of the sea.
Surely some had to think that she was crazy, that she was a dreamer poor woman.
The probabilities that somebody gathered its message were so small and the so great sea… but nevertheless, happened, a Chilean fisherman read its message and the coastguard vessels could even rescue them, ill, dying but with life.
A dreamer saved to them.
An enamored crazy person, perhaps, of old novels of shipwrecks.
When the pain approaches, a dream can save to us, and illuminate the dark night of our destiny.