Two women

Two women, two solitudes bared, two silent but loquacious testimonies of distress, two elegies of the moment when Being reveals us its naked essence: nudity of Being that found shelter in Nothingness.

Nudity of unconditional surrender, of silence and coldness, nudity of the supreme moment when two women discovered themselves as other. Nudity in their fall. Incompletes nudities leaning their emptiness on the strange chance of furniture.

The stages of the play. Two shorn common rooms, pulled from their own subconsciouses or oblivions, mirrors or witnesses of their defeats. Spaces alien to life and therefore adjacent to eternity.

Impressions. Inaccuracies. One has been caught by her past, the other has been deceived by her present. On the one hand, an illusory way out resulting from the burnt memory: a shadow, black aura, lying on the ground, the athletic victim of flash of the infinite. On the other, a mystical and unreal light, stolen from an absent window, prostrates at the feet of whom wanted to summarize hes life in a last gesture of rage.

White heat, emerald solitude. The gaze that runs away from itself, chained to its own urban abandonment? Or that interrogates us from her tired but defiant nakedness? Is there still a trace of tragic Greek dignity in the insignificance of our alienated existence? Is it possible to find beauty in the midst of desolation? Or is just a measure of our need?

Fake midday, raw loneliness. White and black that is boiling blood, green that squandered its last breath of hope. Eclipsed summer, sated with death, hidden loneliness, twilight of Being draining the last drop from the glass of nonexistence.

And the naked lie that everything was truth, the same day when two solitudes shouted their scars in unison.

(Images: Francesca Woodman, "Self-Portrait"; Edward Hopper, "Summer Interior").

(Versión en castellano)