A BEACH FOR YOU ( Silent opera for a theatre under construction ) -Zebra crossing-
Searching among the blurred copies of Federico García Lorca’s photographs, those left over after creating the illustrations for the book “Lorca, the Unknown Visitor,” and hoping to find a final impetus for the Tarragona Theatre lobby project. Unbeknownst to me, I tore the paper and fragmented the poet’s image. Instantly, another hand, imperceptible, drew back an old curtain at the back of a colonnade, like peeling an onion, revealing a panorama where the four elements displayed their powers, and great and small things found, not without effort, their space and geometry. And a violent curve crossed the space above the exact line of the marine horizon.
A sea of blue and white stripes, like the sailor’s shirt Anna María Dalí gave the poet in Cadaqués. At the same time, a beach grew beneath my feet like a carpet of passionate sand that receded, driven by the breeze, revealing the boards of an ancient theatre, and the unequivocal signs of life and death, in the phosphorescent profile of child Lorca, gleaming in the shadow of a conch-skull. A blind, phallic, greenish, and translucent serpent, a symbol of the feminine in man, emerges like a distant memory from the deepest earth. It raises its head and opens its mouth, yearning for a drop of blood, motionless, suspended in the air. The quintessence of life that flows from a gush of blood from a torn bull’s horn.
The ultimate consequence of the shots fired at the curved canvas-skin of the Camp de Mart marquee, which shed the rainwater from the night before its definitive installation. Shots that reminded me of other shots, real, not fabricated. Water, blood, which inevitably recalls other blood.
With the poet’s image fragmented, his weightless bronze profile presided over the scene against a diaphanous yellow atmosphere, irreverent for the theatre. And on the humid, endless line of the horizon, the photocopy of one of the poet’s extraordinary eyes was held in perfect balance, observing from the other side of the mirror, where the duende dwells.
In an extremely star-studded night, a gigantic carnivorous agave, seized by an overflowing desire, attempts to devour a white moon like a clove of garlic. Nature openly displaying its unleashed desire in search of the unattainable. And Tarragona, blurred in the gloom, illuminated by a rain of fireflies, a reflection of the stars on the asphalt, dreams stone and cypress dreams. Meanwhile, in the distance, the gypsies’ fire murmurs omens and songs, the poet’s ear transforms into a bird, and the sketch of a fabulous animal vomits the words it kept silent for a long time.
A beach for you. The poet reveals to the journalist that he wished to build a house in the Mediterranean. A beach for everyone. A theatre beneath the sand and a well of secrets that will whiten in the sun.
Josep Maria Rosselló
A BEACH FOR YOU ( Silent opera for a theatre under construction ) -Zebra crossing-
Searching among the blurred copies of Federico García Lorca’s photographs, those left over after creating the illustrations for the book “Lorca, the Unknown Visitor,” and hoping to find a final impetus for the Tarragona Theatre lobby project. Unbeknownst to me, I tore the paper and fragmented the poet’s image. Instantly, another hand, imperceptible, drew back an old curtain at the back of a colonnade, like peeling an onion, revealing a panorama where the four elements displayed their powers, and great and small things found, not without effort, their space and geometry. And a violent curve crossed the space above the exact line of the marine horizon.
A sea of blue and white stripes, like the sailor’s shirt Anna María Dalí gave the poet in Cadaqués. At the same time, a beach grew beneath my feet like a carpet of passionate sand that receded, driven by the breeze, revealing the boards of an ancient theatre, and the unequivocal signs of life and death, in the phosphorescent profile of child Lorca, gleaming in the shadow of a conch-skull. A blind, phallic, greenish, and translucent serpent, a symbol of the feminine in man, emerges like a distant memory from the deepest earth. It raises its head and opens its mouth, yearning for a drop of blood, motionless, suspended in the air. The quintessence of life that flows from a gush of blood from a torn bull’s horn.
The ultimate consequence of the shots fired at the curved canvas-skin of the Camp de Mart marquee, which shed the rainwater from the night before its definitive installation. Shots that reminded me of other shots, real, not fabricated. Water, blood, which inevitably recalls other blood.
With the poet’s image fragmented, his weightless bronze profile presided over the scene against a diaphanous yellow atmosphere, irreverent for the theatre. And on the humid, endless line of the horizon, the photocopy of one of the poet’s extraordinary eyes was held in perfect balance, observing from the other side of the mirror, where the duende dwells.
In an extremely star-studded night, a gigantic carnivorous agave, seized by an overflowing desire, attempts to devour a white moon like a clove of garlic. Nature openly displaying its unleashed desire in search of the unattainable. And Tarragona, blurred in the gloom, illuminated by a rain of fireflies, a reflection of the stars on the asphalt, dreams stone and cypress dreams. Meanwhile, in the distance, the gypsies’ fire murmurs omens and songs, the poet’s ear transforms into a bird, and the sketch of a fabulous animal vomits the words it kept silent for a long time.
A beach for you. The poet reveals to the journalist that he wished to build a house in the Mediterranean. A beach for everyone. A theatre beneath the sand and a well of secrets that will whiten in the sun.
Josep Maria Rosselló
A BEACH FOR YOU ( Silent opera for a theatre under construction ) -Zebra crossing-
Searching among the blurred copies of Federico García Lorca’s photographs, those left over after creating the illustrations for the book “Lorca, the Unknown Visitor,” and hoping to find a final impetus for the Tarragona Theatre lobby project. Unbeknownst to me, I tore the paper and fragmented the poet’s image. Instantly, another hand, imperceptible, drew back an old curtain at the back of a colonnade, like peeling an onion, revealing a panorama where the four elements displayed their powers, and great and small things found, not without effort, their space and geometry. And a violent curve crossed the space above the exact line of the marine horizon.
A sea of blue and white stripes, like the sailor’s shirt Anna María Dalí gave the poet in Cadaqués. At the same time, a beach grew beneath my feet like a carpet of passionate sand that receded, driven by the breeze, revealing the boards of an ancient theatre, and the unequivocal signs of life and death, in the phosphorescent profile of child Lorca, gleaming in the shadow of a conch-skull. A blind, phallic, greenish, and translucent serpent, a symbol of the feminine in man, emerges like a distant memory from the deepest earth. It raises its head and opens its mouth, yearning for a drop of blood, motionless, suspended in the air. The quintessence of life that flows from a gush of blood from a torn bull’s horn.
The ultimate consequence of the shots fired at the curved canvas-skin of the Camp de Mart marquee, which shed the rainwater from the night before its definitive installation. Shots that reminded me of other shots, real, not fabricated. Water, blood, which inevitably recalls other blood.
With the poet’s image fragmented, his weightless bronze profile presided over the scene against a diaphanous yellow atmosphere, irreverent for the theatre. And on the humid, endless line of the horizon, the photocopy of one of the poet’s extraordinary eyes was held in perfect balance, observing from the other side of the mirror, where the duende dwells.
In an extremely star-studded night, a gigantic carnivorous agave, seized by an overflowing desire, attempts to devour a white moon like a clove of garlic. Nature openly displaying its unleashed desire in search of the unattainable. And Tarragona, blurred in the gloom, illuminated by a rain of fireflies, a reflection of the stars on the asphalt, dreams stone and cypress dreams. Meanwhile, in the distance, the gypsies’ fire murmurs omens and songs, the poet’s ear transforms into a bird, and the sketch of a fabulous animal vomits the words it kept silent for a long time.
A beach for you. The poet reveals to the journalist that he wished to build a house in the Mediterranean. A beach for everyone. A theatre beneath the sand and a well of secrets that will whiten in the sun.
Josep Maria Rosselló
A BEACH FOR YOU ( Silent opera for a theatre under construction ) -Zebra crossing-
Searching among the blurred copies of Federico García Lorca’s photographs, those left over after creating the illustrations for the book “Lorca, the Unknown Visitor,” and hoping to find a final impetus for the Tarragona Theatre lobby project. Unbeknownst to me, I tore the paper and fragmented the poet’s image. Instantly, another hand, imperceptible, drew back an old curtain at the back of a colonnade, like peeling an onion, revealing a panorama where the four elements displayed their powers, and great and small things found, not without effort, their space and geometry. And a violent curve crossed the space above the exact line of the marine horizon.
A sea of blue and white stripes, like the sailor’s shirt Anna María Dalí gave the poet in Cadaqués. At the same time, a beach grew beneath my feet like a carpet of passionate sand that receded, driven by the breeze, revealing the boards of an ancient theatre, and the unequivocal signs of life and death, in the phosphorescent profile of child Lorca, gleaming in the shadow of a conch-skull. A blind, phallic, greenish, and translucent serpent, a symbol of the feminine in man, emerges like a distant memory from the deepest earth. It raises its head and opens its mouth, yearning for a drop of blood, motionless, suspended in the air. The quintessence of life that flows from a gush of blood from a torn bull’s horn.
The ultimate consequence of the shots fired at the curved canvas-skin of the Camp de Mart marquee, which shed the rainwater from the night before its definitive installation. Shots that reminded me of other shots, real, not fabricated. Water, blood, which inevitably recalls other blood.
With the poet’s image fragmented, his weightless bronze profile presided over the scene against a diaphanous yellow atmosphere, irreverent for the theatre. And on the humid, endless line of the horizon, the photocopy of one of the poet’s extraordinary eyes was held in perfect balance, observing from the other side of the mirror, where the duende dwells.
In an extremely star-studded night, a gigantic carnivorous agave, seized by an overflowing desire, attempts to devour a white moon like a clove of garlic. Nature openly displaying its unleashed desire in search of the unattainable. And Tarragona, blurred in the gloom, illuminated by a rain of fireflies, a reflection of the stars on the asphalt, dreams stone and cypress dreams. Meanwhile, in the distance, the gypsies’ fire murmurs omens and songs, the poet’s ear transforms into a bird, and the sketch of a fabulous animal vomits the words it kept silent for a long time.
A beach for you. The poet reveals to the journalist that he wished to build a house in the Mediterranean. A beach for everyone. A theatre beneath the sand and a well of secrets that will whiten in the sun.
Josep Maria Rosselló
