Through the Looking-Glass

Jesús Vilches


The large studio metal door listless complains when opening. It’s possible to glimpse the long, dark hallway studded with ghosts. We look each other; there is a soft reminiscent smile on our lips. The steps echoes resound as we walk and the lights flash while we wake up them one by one. The huge studio lights, yawning, with the fluorescent glare of neons. In the canvas, our angels and demons slowly stretches. Tired bodies shed their coats and the arctic breath of a sleepless Madrid slips through the door that gives access to the roof terrace. The first cigarette tastes like glory.

I look to the south in my daily ritual, and smile while I let White-Haired and Stains continue saying goodbye to the Moon of Dawn. Something magical has happened. Our glances know. Our eyes reflect it, in our pupils has been recorded.
It’ve been some dizzying days away from our usual routine. Exhausting, full agenda, waiting for calls, talks, acts and protocols; necessary price to pay in this our strange craft of making demons. However, it was also the first time we have been aware, in flesh, on skin, of the impact of what we do. We do it because we do it, because we can’t not do it. It is the best therapy for our madness… but many are following what we do, expecting what we do, encourage us to pursue, rekindle the embers of this fire, usually full of vanity, and in our case only fuels the fire of purification.
We look eachother again. There’re barely words. There are still smiles… There is a serene calm throbbing in caress around us. It’s like a bridal gown in a closet open to the public. It’s like the echo of a woman’s fragrance that sticks in the brain. White-Haired knows now, with absolute certainty while lighting the second cigarette, that the world awaits his painted apocalypse of Luz. Yet we wonder if they are ready for the end is coming, but no doubt they want us to tell them. Stains is conscious while the accumulated fatigue makes him to rub his eyes, that his texture and viscera recipe is the secret ingredient that makes the difference. That there are insomniacs like us hooked (like us) to the culinary lab of dreams and nightmares where angels who are not angels and demons who were angels play a game started eons ago. And this Mad Hatter has seen Alice through the looking-glass. Maybe she wants me to stay… perhaps White-Haired was always right and I’m here (and no other) because she always wanted. Because I cannot escape my destiny and my destiny is to write her, throbbing her, dream her and do not dream her; thet she dreams of me and not only dream of me. My reasonable doubts vanish in a blink. I’m part of this miracle because I can’t not be. I have been chosen. My number has been said.
Stolen the names, brought back to life the canvas asleep for years, opened the box of a Pandora of red hair and eager sex hear we listen the heavy thump of the door that locks us back into our factory of monsters. Luz winks at us the last unfinished sketch. A legion of pigments and brushes to stand to attention to our path. The words still unspoken kiss us on the lips with poisonous kisses.
Each one is in his place: there’re dates, destinations (Barcelona, Angouleme, Lucca, Mexico, San Diego…), Swords of Damokles already over our heads. The wheel, from today, is unstoppable, impatient, inexorable.
We took up arms. A final look of ferocity.
We’re back

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  • Alicia

    Despiertos estamos, pero sólo para poder soñar con los ojos abiertos bien pendientes de vosotros. Sabéis hacer que los sueños vengan a nosotros sin necesidad de que caigan los párpados y Morfeo nos secuestre. No dejéis de hacerlo. Esta pequeña Alicia espera ansiosa vuestro País de Maravillas.

  • Hogar, sombrío y siniestro, vuestro transitorio hogar.

    Alicia se ha colado entre las palabras, me pregunto cómo se definirá a ésta fémina de deleitoso nombre.

    Me imagino a esos angeles endemoniados “deslegañándose” indignados por tal resplandor. Es hora de ocupar sus puestos..

    De vuelta a vuestro exilio, sólo puedo desearos en la distancia la mejor y más sana de las entregas a vuestro menester. Contáis con el apoyo de todos nosotros, nuestra inyección de ánimo ondea en el aire de ese vuestro estudio cada día que permanecéis en él.

  • Veldar

    ¿Y esas fechas son….?

  • Iza

    Canas tiene razón, estoy segura.

  • Carlos

    “escuchamos el pesado golpe de la puerta que nos encierra de nuevo en nuestra fábrica de monstruos. Luz nos guiña un ojo desde el último esbozo inacabado. Una legión de pigmentos y pinceles se cuadra a nuestro paso. Las palabras aún no dichas nos besan en los labios con besos venenosos.”

    En mi opinión este fragmento se merece un aplauso ¡plas, plas, plas, plas!!

  • Desde la distancia te vigilo. Ahora se están viendo cumplidas las profecías que se pergeñaron hace mucho tiempo.
    Siempre es eso: cuestión de tiempo.

  • Tan arduos caballeros no deberían sentir temor algunos, los dioses se han apoderado de sus frágiles cuerpos para deambular caprichosamente entre los mortales. Las tres ánimas pasean por el bulevar de los artistas y a través de sus manos los inmortales escupen imágenes y textos robados del mismísimo infierno.

    Si saberlo siquiera, las tres figuras navegan con la suerte de cara, cruzando un océano mortífero para cualquier otro donde desembocan las más horripilantes criaturas venidas de las cloacas del abismo.

    Son los elegidos y su destino ya está trazado, sus cuerpos inertes, marionetas del destino dejarán el mensaje que todos estábamos esperando.

    Vuestros hermanos esperamos con ansia vuestro mensaje