RESTART - RESET

Every time I sat down to draw this week, I found myself swept away by deep and profound reflections—epiphanies that offered a new clarity about the mental prisons I've built for myself. I always think I should write these thoughts down so I don’t forget, but the problem is, I always do. It's like being on psychedelics, where everything suddenly makes perfect sense and I can articulate my thoughts with great eloquence. But once the effects wear off, I'm left unable to explain anything. Drawing has the same effect on me.

So here I am on my couch, having finally carved out some time to sit down with my computer and write out those key thoughts and reflections—only to find I can't remember a single one of them.

Instead, I’m going to write about what I do remember... all in a stream-of-consciousness style:

"Thank You, Stars" by Katie Melua was playing in my ears as I walked down the avenue on an unusually sunny day in the Richmond District. I had just left my desk, frustrated by computer issues that were causing delays to my work. I decided to leave it all behind and take a walk—to enjoy the sun and redirect my thoughts to my art plans which are: cleaning the studio, reducing the clutter significantly, and focusing solely on painting. 

For the first time in a while, I felt like I was releasing myself from what had been weighing me down. The song seeped into my soul, and suddenly, I felt a deep connection between the lyrics and my surroundings. As I crossed the street, I noticed a woman pulling a large easel out of her apartment. Feeling a sudden urge to connect with a fellow artist, I asked, "Going painting?" She replied, "No, I'm getting rid of it." 

She saw my eyes widening and my mouth open in disbelief...she quickly asked: "Do you want it?" Without a second thought, I responded with an enthusiastic, "Yes! Yes, I do!" She mentioned she was planning to donate it to Goodwill, but I told her I'd take it. And just like that, I found myself standing on the corner with a nearly new easel that she no longer needed, but I certainly did.

I needed it because I've made a commitment to return to painting—painting freely and fluidly, without any thoughts of the outside world. I want to paint like I did before I was recognized and invited to shows, before I knew anything. I want to return to that place of not knowing, to that sense of newness.

Meanwhile, back at work, my computer continued to have problems. No matter what the IT guy tried, nothing seemed to work. Finally, he said, "The only solution is to reset it to the original profile. You'll be starting the computer as brand new—that's the only way to fix all these issues." 

And maybe that's the message I need—to reset, start fresh, and find my way back to the essence of it all.

Same love, new lover

 I had hit a creative halt that has been bothering me for a while now. 

Although I've been artistically active and producing a lot of different kinds of art, I haven't been painting as much. Both of my art studios are filled with half-painted canvases that I can't bring myself to complete.

This has been bothering me, because, is by painting that I seem to achieve the highest form of expression. I feel a deep spiritual connection with the process, an intimacy that is both vulgar and sacred.  But, the process started to feel mechanical, safe and predictable. I wasn’t getting motivated to paint. I needed a break. 

Taking a break allowed me to see that I was trapped in a mental prison of my own making. I was stuck repeating the same colors and geometric patterns I’ve been creating for the last decade. I wasn’t finding or exploring anything new. I wasn’t taking any risks. 

Since giving up is never an option, I have decided to take a very different route than what I’ve been doing. 

no idea where I am going but  that’s the point…

traducir o recrear

"Es extraño que las palabras sean tan inadecuadas", dijo un poeta. 

Se me vinieron a la mente las tantas veces de desvelo que pasé inclinada sobre el lienzo, invocando la maestría de Rembrandt y el expresionismo de Miró.  Al final, en el lienzo, lo que queda es una caricatura, un boceto, una traducción imperfecta... aprende uno a vivir con eso, pero no a conformarse.  

Para doblar una película del inglés al español, el traductor debe adaptar el contenido más allá de las palabras. No es suficiente con traducir cada palabra de manera literal; el objetivo es capturar la esencia, el tono, y las referencias culturales de la versión original. El reto consiste en crear un diálogo en español que provoque en el espectador una experiencia emocional similar a la que tuvo el espectador de habla inglesa, manteniendo el humor, el drama, y las sutilezas del guion original. Es un proceso que implica creatividad y un profundo entendimiento de ambas culturas.  

Así mismo, cuando el artista —ya sea músico, pintor, poeta, etc.— traduce su percepción al "lenguaje humano", crea una representación de lo que escucha, vive o percibe. No puede traducir su experiencia de manera literal, pero se esfuerza por transmitir la sensación y emoción lo más fielmente posible al "lenguaje original" de su percepción interior. 

El espectador, a su vez, completa ese mensaje con sus propias alegorías y experiencias personales, encontrando en la obra un reflejo de sus propias emociones y perspectivas. Es un diálogo sutil entre la intención del artista y la interpretación del espectador, donde ambos co-crean el significado final de la obra.

El lenguaje, en sí mismo, no es algo permanente o fijo; es un proceso en constante evolución que se crea y recrea en el momento. Nada es literal, nada es inmutable; todo está sujeto a reinterpretación. 

Las definiciones son solo intentos temporales de capturar y fijar algo en movimiento, de marcar un punto en el vasto universo del entendimiento. Son como instantáneas que tratamos de congelar, sabiendo que el significado sigue fluyendo más allá de cualquier definición establecida. 

En este sentido, el lenguaje es tanto creación como percepción, un puente vivo que conecta nuestras experiencias con las de los demás, siempre cambiando y nunca finalizado.

 La única forma de traducir el arte es a través de la transformación, no de la réplica. Una película basada en un libro no es simplemente una versión visual del texto; es una interpretación cinematográfica que debe hablar su propio lenguaje, con sus propias imágenes, ritmos y emociones.

De igual manera, la traducción de un poema no puede limitarse a trasladar palabras de un idioma a otro. Para mantener la profundidad, el ritmo, la sonoridad y la intención del original, el traductor debe crear otro poema, uno que resuene con la misma intensidad en el nuevo idioma. 

De esta forma, la nueva obra no es solo un reflejo de la obra original, sino una extensión de la misma.