Valentino - The Dalian Panoptic (English)

8/14/2019 Valentino - The Dalian Panoptic (English)

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The Dalian Panoptic

Valentino

Translated by Santiago Franco, MA, from Jyvaskyla, Finland

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[Editors note: Some names of the protagonists have been changed into the English

typology by request of the author].

[Authors words: Thanks to my friend Santiago Franco, whose noble efforts madepossible the existence of this work in English language].



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I left on her eyelids

my lightness

my prairie o f memorizing fish

I

quasi bird

Sarav ia, great poet.



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_____________

I do not understand it yet.

At the house of John Damario, we all agreed with the surrealistic concep-tion that his wife Lucrecia, an exquisite painter, gave to his painting. Ever since avery long time ago, she had decanted by the anarchic Dad, and she was nowfeeling, as she expressed it herself, an infinite adoration for Dal. Even JohnDamario, dominated by his characterized reverence, had bought a dalian paint-ing, which I always considered, even though my knowledge about the canvas islimited, as a bad copy, which he disposed to be hang in the room, together withother of his wifes productions. For John Damario, who was not a painter but aclerk converted into bourgeois, and lately into art critic, the exhibition of thepainting appeared magnificent, and he even revealed, presumptuous, that the

piece had cost him endless mishaps and gastric tribulations, despite that due tohis singular sagacity, he had been able to obtain at a bargain price. With thatwork on exhibition, the endless evenings were not to be belated. And preciselyduring those tedious reunions, John Damarios incipient genius who boasted ofpossessing a severely critical narrow viewpoint, within which Warhol and Bor-ges, those anarchists of the plastic art, occupied the top of the pyramid exhibitedhis startling magic for vanishing people. As expected, my moods also succumbedto such enchantment; since then, I began, progressively, to postpone my visits tothe house. In the last reunions, in clear deference, but really a pretext for my de-

finitive distancing, I extolled that virtuous paint:

Only the extravagance of Dal and of his oniric cosmogony are capable ofachieving such spiritual frenzy!, I burst out with a pretended applause, temper-ing my impatience on the paintings plasticity. I cleverly suggested a prompt ap-petizer.

Half an hour later, after some drinks, I departed with a see you later.

Without estimating it, my absence lasted seven long months, prolonged

by the evenhanded attentions of other camaraderies; in an act of unconscious vil-lainy, I hardly phoned a couple of times and never visited him.

Yet, a wintry October night, after attending mesmerized the triumphalrepresentation of the The Assassination of Jesus , by La Fragua Theatre , I bumpedinto John Damario. I spotted him in the distance, somber amongst the populace.Mortified by the reconsideration of my deliberate distancing, I decided to greet



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him, timidly. By an impulse of manliness, I dragged my feet to his encounter. Ifabricated then a pile of extraordinary excuses. However, the populace continueddenying me his presence, frustrating me, and John Damario drifted away, he de-parted. Thus far, a something, perhaps taciturn, changed his permanently cir-cumspect disposition. Furthermore, he seemed a querulous being, bewildered,gone, but at the same time he maintained in that continuance a kind of suspicion,between doubt and sorrow. This unexpected situation led me to the conjectureshall. I deduced, certainly, that my absence had not been the cause of that condi-tion, no. Same impression that induced me to ascertain what had happened tothe friend.

Two days later, I decided to visit Fidelia, a mutual friend, so that she in-terceded for me at Damarios house. I pleaded her that she made it casually,within some opportune commentary. We agreed that I would visit her later to

know details about her embassy.

You should go to see him, Fidelia said nebulously. Hes ill, very ill. Itappears that Lucrecia abandoned him.

That put me on guard. The following weekend, I visited him.

The culprit is Esteban that petty painter, John Damario groaned bitterly.She, my Lucrecia, she abandoned me for that ruffian!.

What! What do you say!, I exclaimed, perplexed. Lucrecia abandonedyou!.

He assented nodding; still, I could not believe it. Bursting with rage, andto save the honor of the friend, I decided to seek the painter in question, Esteban,to settle the scores.

You will soon have news of that wretched Esteban, I comforted him.

My surprise was superlative when I met him. I found myself with an oldman not younger than eighty years old. My animal instinct was appeased by theold mans serenity.

Ah! John Damario, answered the old man. Yes, now I recall the one ofthe panoptic. He is the owner of an extremely beautifulabsorbing painting.Never anyone, believe me, friend, no one, would resist that fantastic power. The



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first time that I saw it, I felt that I could never leave it, he said, while expound-ing himself with abstract appraisals about the painting, but interrupted by myinsistence, he reckoned: Yes, I visited the house often during some time. Lucre-cia is a beautiful person. By the way, its been a long time since I last saw her, doyou know anything about her?, he concluded asking me.

I replied some crap to him and left troubled by the sudden encounter.John Damario had lied to me, and dishonestly I suspected him. Something washappening. The doubts overwhelmed me.

Trapped by my businesses pressure, I let time solve the issue. I continuedtrying to communicate with Damario, but he was not even answering the phone.I will go to visit him, I resolved a December day. After some inquiries, I went

to Damarios house with the hope that Lucrecia was back or even that JohnDamario would tell me, happily, that everything was fine as before. However,John Damario was not home. I deliberated. Finally, I considered that this condi-tion was propitious for me. And to be sure, I knocked on the door several timesbut did not obtain reply. Then I decided to enter the house by a false door in thecellar. Nothing had changed, and the house was the same as so many times I hadseen it before. I toured it room by room, to investigate. In the hall, the Dalianpainting was still hanging. How strange, I thought, if Damario was so annoyedwith Lucrecia, he might have already taken down that painting; it was so inti-

mate for both. And this painting, so loyally complaint with crazy surrealisticdoctrines, is really extraordinary. They say that Dal painted it during thosetimes in which he assured that he painted only in full moon so that his soulwould not be robbed. It contains all the oniric force of the genius. Even though itrather like a collage, a technique too advanced for its time. In its lower part, onthe background, an army salutes the Capitol; and it has, superposed, somestrokes of orange paint that go around the whole painting creating a beautifulmosaic of cold and blazing colors; some worlds oscillate in the painting; horrificfigures float freely on a wide horizon; a virgin carries a child in her hands; in thecenter there is a great eye and this is a especial detail an eye that has a mirror

as pupil. This last detail has, according to Lucrecia, the power of abstraction.

A noise that sounded in the corridor brought me back to reality. JohnDamario!, I thought, and escaped swiftly by the same place where I had come.

That night I sank in expectation. I reflected. Lucrecia had disappearedwithout a trace and John Damario had lied to me. What to infer? They were the



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perfect couple: the intellectuality and the effort in structure. Infidelities? Jeal-ousy the evenings? Thats it, the evenings; Damario then would be right.

Maybe some verbose intellectual might have seduced her, but, why wouldhe mention Esteban, the painter, an old man that cannot even hold up himselfany longer? I continued without falling asleep. I slept at daybreak.

In the morning, after an all-nighter, I decided to confront the matter: itwould be John Damario himself who would clarify it.

It is the painting, he said, with a glimpse of confusion. It is the paint-ing! In it the angels and the demons

It did not take much time to notice a neurotic influx in John Damario, alltremulous. My fears ten folded.

What do you say, Damario?, I queried, perplexed. Painting, whatpainting? And Lucrecia?, I grumbled, out of control.

That one!, and he pointed directly at it. The eye, the eye!

Come on, Damario, wake up!, I said, restraining him by the shoulders.

The situation was distressing, alarming. His unintelligible words weremisleading my reasoning. With my senses back, I opted for calmness. I calmedhim, and carried him to the bed anyway I could.

Rest, I advised him and left towards the hall.

I leant upon the divan; I was exhausted. My thoughts, as lunatics in amadhouse, revolved over stupefied. Maybe he becomes himself again later, Iconsidered. I rested my eyelids. I speculated. The last words that Damario ut-

tered were about the painting. What to think, finally insane! And thus, he wouldhave been capable of any thingincluding, crime! No, that I recall Damarionever was a violent type, never. And Lucrecia?

Maybe she might have escaped from him, since in that hallucinated state seeing fantastic things even in the paintings he would have become unbearable.But why? Jelousy? These bourgeois, the simplest things suffice to complicate



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their life. However, something escapes from me, yes; this cannot be so simple,here is implicit something else. The Painting, what does that piece have? Yes, aninfinite value, an utmost estimate. The sale arrangement, a dispute the separa-tion. Let us see what it has.

I faced the painting. I stared at it. There was the great eye and I concen-trated on it. The eye, the great eye, the eye of the abstraction, the enigma, whatnonsense!. And then, to my amazement, it happened: the great eye abstractedme, and the universe that we know now, seemed finite to me. The ethereal at thedisposition of one unique imperative will, mine. From my hands emerged, at mywhim, entire worlds, forms, beings, things, space, time and destinations, that mywill governed, and all in only one point. I was almighty! Time laid dead in a lan-guid clock over an infinite horizon, populated with floating mountains. Therewas Lucrecia, radiant, waiting my resolution. But then the monster appeared, a

gigantic eighteen thousand head beast that would contend with me. I don notfear you, I shouted, You are not even stronger than I am. It opened its count-less mouths and, below the twinkling in its thousands faces, came a horriblescream, so terrifying, that frightened me; it plunged upon me, stuck its sharpteeth into me, and I released a horrendous scream in pain; I was defeated; thebeast devoured me gradually, in an eternal agony. My last vision was of the eye,the mirror in the pupil of the great eye.

Raymond!, I listened; then a question: Are you all right?

It was John Damario that had recovered. We both still trembled. I raved.

It is the eye!, I shouted, horrified.

John Damario hushed. Lucrecia was forever gone.

And chaos clouded my sense. I left that room running, astray, takenaback. There were several days in which the recollection of that power souredmy thought. Now, through Fidelias remarks, during her visits to the sanatorium,

I found out that John Damario no longer lives in that house and that the paintinghas disappeared. In truth, it has been all a pity.

And I still do not understand it.

The end.

Valentino, 26 of May of 2003



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_____________

Todava no lo entiendo.

En casa de Juan Damario, todos estbamos de acuerdo con la concepcinsurrealista que su mujer Lucrecia, una exquisita pintora, daba a su cuadro. Desdehaca mucho tiempo que ella se haba decantado por el anrquico Dad, y ahorasenta, segn ella misma expresaba, una infinita adoracin por Dal. Incluso JuanDamario, regido por esa caracterizada reverencia, haba comprado una pinturadaliana que yo consider siempre, aunque mis conocimientos sobre el lienzoson limitados, como una mala copia, que hizo colgar en la sala, juntamente conotras producciones de su mujer. A Juan Damario, que no era pintor sino un ofici-nista convertido en burgus, y ltimamente en crtico de arte, la exposicin delcuadro le pareca magnfica, y hasta relataba, presuntuoso, que aquella pieza le

haba costado un sin fin de contratiempos y gstricas tribulaciones, pero que,gracias a su singular sagacidad, haba logrado conseguirla a precio de baratija.Con aquella obra en exposicin, no se hicieron esperar las interminables veladas.Y precisamente durante esas tediosas reuniones, el incipiente genio de Juan Da-mario que alardeaba de poseer una mirilla critica severa, en la que Warhol yBorges, esos anarquistas de lo plstico , ocupaban la punta de la pirmide exhibasu sorprendente magia desvanecedora de gente. Y como era de esperar, tambinmis nimos sucumbieron a ese encantamiento; desde entonces, comenc, progre-sivamente, a posponer mis visitas a la casa. En la ltima reunin, en clara defe-

rencia, pero en realidad un pretexto para mi distanciamiento definitivo, elogiesa pintura virtuosa:

Solamente la extravagancia de Dal y su onrica cosmogona son capacesde lograr tales arrebatos de espritu! prorrump con un aplauso disimulado,atemperando mi impaciencia en la plasticidad del cuadro. Suger, hbilmente,enseguida un entrems.

Media hora despus, luego de unos tragos, me march con un hasta luego.

Sin estimarlo, mi ausencia dur siete largos meses, prolongada por la bo-nancible atencin de otras camaraderas; en un acto de villana inconsciencia,apenas lo telefone un par de veces y nunca lo visit.

Pero una invernal noche de octubre, luego de presenciar extasiado latriunfal representacin del Asesinato de Jess, por el teatro La Fragua, me top conJuan Damario. Lo divis a lo lejos, sombro entre el gento. Mortificado por el re-



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paso de mi deliberado distanciamiento, decid saludarlo, tmidamente. En unimpulso de hombra, arrastr mis pies a su encuentro: maquin entonces un tro-pel de extraordinarias excusas. Pero el gento segua negndome su presencia,frustrndome, y Juan Damario se alej, se march. Sin embargo, haba un no squ quiz taciturno cambio en su apostura, siempre circunspecta. Ms bien pa-reca un ser quejumbroso, desencajado, ido, pero que al mismo tiempo guardabaen ese semblante una especie de sospecha, entre duda y pena. Esta inesperadasituacin me llev al saln de las conjeturas. Deduje, ciertamente, que no habasido mi ausencia la causa de esa condicin, no. Misma impresin que me indujo aaveriguar sobre lo que ocurra con el amigo.

Dos das despus decid visitar a Fidelia, amiga de ambos, para que inter-cediera por m en casa de Damario. Le rogu que lo hiciera someramente, en al-gn comentario oportuno. Acordamos que yo la visitara despus para conocer

detalles de su embajada.

Deberas ir a verlo dijo Fidelia, nebulosamente. Est mal, muy mal. Talparece que Lucrecia lo abandon.

Aquello me puso en aviso. El fin de semana siguiente lo visit.

El culpable es ese pintorcillo Esteban gimi amargamente Juan Dama-rio. Ella, mi Lucrecia, me abandon por ese patn!

Cmo, qu dices! exclam, perplejo. Lucrecia te abandon!

Asinti con un movimiento de cabeza; an no me lo crea. Apoderado porla ira, y para salvar la honra del amigo, decid buscar al tal pintor Esteban en unajuste de cuentas.

Ya tendrs noticias del dichoso Esteban lo consol.

Mi sorpresa fue mayscula cuando lo conoc. Me encontr con un anciano

no menor de ochenta aos. Mi instinto animal fue aplacado por la serenidad delviejo.

Ah, Juan Damario! respondi el viejo. S, ahora me acuerdo, el del pa-nptico. Es dueo de un cuadro bellsimo, absorbente. Jams nadie, crame, ami-go, nadie, podra resistir ese fantstico poder. La primera vez que lo vi, sentque nunca podra dejarlo dijo, explayndose en abstractas apreciaciones sobre el



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cuadro, pero intervenido por mi insistencia, rest: S, por algn tiempo, visit lacasa a menudo. Lucrecia es una bella persona. Por cierto, hace mucho tiempoque no la veo, sabe usted algo de ella? remat, preguntndome.

Le contest con una tontera y me march apenado por ese brusco encuen-tro. Juan Damario me haba mentido, y sospech de l deshonestamente. Algoocurra. La duda se apoder de m.

Atrapado por la urgencia de mis negocios, deje que el tiempo resolviera elasunto. Segu tratando de comunicarme con Damario, pero ste no contestabasiquiera el telfono. Ir a visitarlo, resolv un da de diciembre. Luego de algu-nas pesquisas, fui a casa de Juan Damario, con la esperanza de que Lucrecia es-tuviera de vuelta, o de que Juan Damario me dijera, alegre, que todo segua tanbien como antes. Pero Juan Damario no estaba en casa. Deliber. Consider, al

final, que sta condicin me era propicia. Y para asegurarme, toqu la puerta va-rias veces pero no obtuve respuestas. Entonces decid adentrarme a la casa poruna puerta falsa, en el stano. Nada haba cambiado, y la casa estaba igual a tan-tas veces como la haba visto antes. La recorr cuarto por cuarto, para investigar.En la sala todava estaba colgado el cuadro daliano. Qu raro , pens, si Damarioestuviera tan enojado con Lucrecia ya hubiera bajado ese cuadro; era tan ntimo para am-

bos. Y este cuadro, apegado fielmente a las locas doctrinas surrealistas, realmentees extraordinario. Se dice que fue pintado por Dal en los tiempos en los que ase-guraba que pintaba en plenilunio para que no le fuera robada el alma. Contiene

toda la fuerza onrica del genio. Aunque parece ms bien un collage, tcnica ade-lantada para su tiempo. En su parte inferior y al fondo, un ejercito saluda al Ca-pitolio; se le superponen unas trazadas de pintura naranja que recorren la totali-dad del cuadro en un bello mosaico de fros y chillantes colores; unos mundososcilan en la pintura; flotan libremente figuras espantosas sobre un amplio hori-zonte; una virgen carga un nio en sus manos; en el centro y este detalle si esespecial hay un gran ojo, un ojo que tiene como pupila un espejo. Este ltimodetalle tiene el poder de abstraccin, segn declaraba Lucrecia.

Un ruido son en el pasillo que me volvi a la realidad. Juan Damario!,

pens y escap prestamente por el mismo lugar de donde haba venido.

Esa noche me hund en la expectacin. Cavilaba. Lucrecia haba desapare-cido sin rastro alguno y Juan Damario me haba mentido. Qu inferir? Ellos eranla pareja perfecta: la intelectualidad y el esfuerzo en conjunto. Infidelidades, ce-los... las veladas? Eso es, las veladas; Damario estara en lo cierto entonces. Quizalgn verboso intelectual la haya seducido, pero por qu mencionara al pintor



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Esteban, un viejo que ya no puede ni consigo mismo? Segua sin conciliar el sue-o. Dorm en la madrugada.

Por la maana, trasnochado, decid encarar el asunto: sera el mismo Juan Dama-rio quien lo esclarecera.

Es el cuadro dijo, con asomos de turbacin. Es el cuadro! En l... losngeles y los demonios...

No tard mucho en advertir un influjo neurtico en Juan Damario, todo ltrmulo. Mis temores se agigantaban.

Qu dices, Damario? inquir, desconcertado. El cuadro, qu cuadro?Y Lucrecia? arremet, descontrolado.

se! y lo apunt derechamente. ...El ojo, el ojo!

Vamos, Damario, vuelve en s! dije, atajndolo por los hombros.

La situacin era angustiosa, alarmante. Sus palabras ininteligiblesdesorientaban mis razonamientos. Con mis sentidos de vuelta, opt por la calma.Lo tranquilic, y como pude lo llev a la cama.

Descansa le aconsej, y me march a la sala.

Me recost sobre el divn; estaba exhausto. Mis pensamientos, como locosen un manicomio, se revolvan ante la estupefaccin. Quiz vuelva en s mstarde, consider. Descans mis prpados. Especulaba. Las ltimas palabras queprofiri Damario fueron acerca del cuadro. Qu pensar, loco al fin! Y siendo as,habra sido capaz de cualquier cosa..., inclusive el crimen! No, Damario nuncaha sido un tipo violento, que yo recuerde, nunca. Y Lucrecia? Quiz haya esca-pado de l, que en ese estado alucinante ve cosas fantsticas hasta en los cua-dros se habra vuelto insoportable. Pero porqu? Celos? A estos burgueses las

cosas ms simples bastan para complicarles la vida. Algo se me escapa, s, estono puede ser as de sencillo, aqu est implcito algo ms. El cuadro, qu tieneesa pieza? S, de un infinito valor, de una tasacin altsima. El arreglo de venta,una disputa, la separacin. Veamos qu tiene.

Me enfrent al cuadro. Lo mire fijamente. All estaba el gran ojo y me con-centr en l. El ojo, el gran ojo, el ojo de la abstraccin qu tontera!, el enigma.



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Y entonces, para asombro mo, sucedi: el gran ojo me abstrajo, y el universo queahora conocemos me pareci finito. Lo etreo a disposicin de una sola voluntadimperante, la ma. De mis manos surgan, a mi antojo, mundos enteros, formas,seres, cosas, espacio, tiempo y destinos, que mi voluntad rega, y todo en un solopunto. Era todopoderoso! El tiempo yaca muerto en un lnguido reloj sobre unhorizonte infinito, poblado de montaas flotantes. All estaba Lucrecia, radiante,esperando mi resolucin. Pero entonces apareci el monstruo, una gigantescabestia de dieciocho mil cabezas, que contendera conmigo. No te temo, grit, noeres siquiera ms fuerte que yo. Abri sus innumerables bocas y, debajo del pes-taeo en sus miles de caras, sali un alarido horroroso, terrorfico, que me espan-t; se abalanz contra m, clavndome sus afilados dientes, y expuls un gritohorrendo de dolor. Fui vencido; la bestia me devoraba paulatinamente, en unaeterna agona. Mi ltima visin fue la del ojo, la del espejo en la pupila del granojo.

Ramn! escuch; luego una pregunta: Ests bien?

Era Juan Damario que se haba restablecido. Ambos todava temblbamos.Yo deliraba.

Es el ojo! grit, espantado.

Juan Damario enmudeci. Lucrecia se haba marchado para siempre.

Y lleg el caos a mi razn. Sal corriendo de aquella sala, extraviado, so-brecogido. Varios das hubo en que el recuerdo de ese poder agri mis pensa-mientos. Ahora, por referencias de Fidelia, en sus visitas al sanatorio, supe queJuan Damario ya no vive en esa casa y que el cuadro ha desaparecido. En verdad,ha sido todo una pena.

Y yo todava sigo sin entender.

Fin

Valentino, 26 de mayo de 2003

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Valentino - The Dalian Panoptic (English)