http://jorge.cortell.net

- Talk to me like a friend

- But I don’t have friends

- Then…

Por la autopista he esquivado un radar móvil, pero cuando, todo satisfecho he mirado al cielo como gesto reflejo de libertad, me he encontrado a un helicóptero de tráfico justo enfrente de mí. En la radio mensajes electorales, muy pocos partidos u opciones. En la televisión sólo se habla de “el debate”. Sólo 2 candidatos. Llego al médico, me pide mi tarjeta SIP. La bánda magnética no funciona, con lo que tiene que introducir a mano los dígitos. Se equivoca, y le da error. Me mira como si no existiese, como si al no concordar mi número con la referencia en la base de datos, yo no tuviese derecho a estar allí. Oigo cómo una madre busca a su hijo Mohammed, mientras un guineano corre por el pasillo con sangre en una ceja. Me extraña que no me llame la atención. Al salir voy a una tienda tipo “colmado” (llamadas “de chinos” o “todo a 100″). Me encuentro extraña y curiosamente a gusto entre el aparente caos de mercancía diversa. Los amables empleados del establecimiento me sonríen, pero sé que si no fuese un potencial cliente, no me tratarían así. Ya no sé si es 1984, Blade Runner, o Minnority Report.

En el coche escucho la banda sonora de Blade Runner. Pero la sensación de opresión es definitivamente de 1984. En cualquier caso la propia identidad y los recuerdos intentan configurar un ente capaz de luchar por su libertad. Pero a cada instante ha de redefinirse. El entorno cambia. Yo cambio. Yo ¿soy?. ¿Qué o quién soy?

Las drogas o la alienación mediante fórmulas facilonas de showbusiness no me atraparán. Pero sí, deseo que me lleves. Lejos de aquí. A un sitio nuevo para mí: a mi interior. Aunque me temo que ya sé lo que encontraré cuando me lleves allí: NADA. Ya no queda nada, si es que alguna vez hubo algo. Y el hecho de que me lo pregunte me llena de tristeza.

Quizá sí haya algo, pero no recuerdo cómo reconocerlo o qué hacer con ello.

SIGH

El atelier de Giancarlo Fitti es uno de esos lugares que te hace sentir especial. El hecho de que sea un artista que huye de la masificación y de la popularidad hace que mucha gente no lo conozca, aunque esté en pleno Manhattan (tiene otro en Paris). De hecho, a muchos de sus clientes (entre los que se encuentran desde famosos de Hollywood hasta marchantes londinenses) les place enormemente que no se emplee su nombre como referencia, o que no haya siempre una legión de paparazzi apostados en su puerta.

Por dentro sus altísimas paredes y enormes ventanales enmarcan y casi empequeñecen sus creaciones. La luz lo inunda todo y le confiere un aura dorada, casi mágica. El tiempo parece haberse detenido. Pese a que todo está perfectamente impoluto, parece que flote polvo en el aire, como en un viejo desván.

Giancarlo no es un divo, ni su ego lo inunda todo, como en el caso de muchos creadores. Pero su pasión y su hiperactividad son contagiosas. Va de una sala a otra mostrándote sus últimas creaciones, sin desmerecer las anteriores, pero naturalmente enamorado de su último “bebé”. Nada más entrar está la gran sala de alta costura. Tratada sin pompa ni ceremonia, como si fuese prêt-à-porter. Inacabables percheros muestran el perfil de miles de graciosas creaciones, todas con elegancia y estilo, todas distintas. En el centro grandes mesas que hacen las veces de tableros de diseño y de mesas de trabajo y costura. Y en las esquinas probadores con cortinas de terciopelo que los clientes rara vez emplean. Esa es la naturalidad y familiaridad que sienten cuando están en “casa de Giancarlo”.

Muchos creen que eso es todo. Y él no hace nada por mostrarles que hay más. Como me dice en perfecto inglés, con un poco de acento italiano, mientras vamos por el pasillo: “Hay a quién le gustan mis trapos. Me parece perfecto. Hay quien lo que quiere es uno de mis cuadros. ¡Bien!. Incluso te sorprendería saber la de chefs reconocidos que vienen a inspirarse en mi cocina. ¡Es un honor!. Lo de los guiones de cine o los experimentos científicos ya es algo que sólo mis amigos han visto. Pero muy pocos, poquísimos, tienen la sensibilidad, el gusto, la clase, y la cultura, para entenderlo todo junto. Por eso te lo enseño a tí”.

Me siento tan halagado que casi me tiemblan las piernas. No es que le tenga en un pedestal (y quizá debería, visto lo increíblemente versátil y creativo que es este hombre). Pero que se te considere “uno de los pocos, uno de los elegidos” siempre ha sido motivo de enorme orgullo. Y he de reconocer que soy una persona orgullosa.

Me pide que no hable (”mucho”, porque me conoce y sabe que no voy a poder mantenerlo en secreto) de todo lo que allí he visto. Pero la emoción me embarga. Dejo que pasen muchos días para ver si se me pasa, para ver si la necesidad de contárselo a alguien desaparece. Pero no. Sigue ahí.

Soy un verdadero optimista. En el fondo creo en el ser humano. Quizá debería de enfocarlo igual que él (”no te entenderán, se reirán de tí, y frustrado, terminarás odiándolos”) pero si a mí me hace feliz, creo que a alguien más le hará. No a todo el mundo. Ni siquiera a la mayoría. Pero estoy convencido de que debe haber gente, mucha gente, que opine como yo.

Que la tiernísima carne que me preparó, en el centro de un enorme plato como si de una isla se tratase, acompañada a lo lejos de un sabrosísimo puré de patatas, albahaca, y queso, con dos gotas de mosto concentrado es el plato más delicioso que han probado jamás… hasta que llega el siguiente.

Que los cuadros que pinta, en colecciones, todas ellas absolutamente distintas e inspiradas en temáticas bien dispares, sólo son sobrepasados por la explicación de ellos que es capaz de dar (desde su color y textura, hasta su sentimiento o lo que pretende expresar).

Que sus trajes, vestidos, o zapatos no es que sean “bonitos” y “buenos”. Es que son justo como te gustaría que fuesen.

O que sus guiones de cine te transporten a mil mundos distintos, y te embargue la emoción y las ganas de plasmarlos como sea, en comic, corto, largo, teatro, o letra de canción.

Eso sí, en sus experimentos científicos notas la ingenuidad de un aprendiz. Curiosamente saberse uno no le molesta para nada. Como raudo me contesta “todos somos aprendices antes de conseguir dejar de serlo”.

Y ese espíritu de superación, esa humildad no finjida ni mojigata, no exenta de orgullo ni ignorante de su capacidad, es lo que termina de cautivarme e impresionarme. Al despedirme, triste por volver a un mundo superficial y aburrido del que ya no me reconozco parte, me exhorta “cámbialo”. Eso haré. Le prometo que no se arrepentirá de considerarme uno de “los elegidos”. “Estoy seguro” me contesta.

Gracias, Giancarlo.

A psychological trap. We all, at some point, to some extent, fall into it.

In one hand we have the expectations others have of us. Wether real or imagined. Your son, your dad, your coworker, your lover, your friend… They push us, inspire us, but ultimately can crush us. The more responsible you are, the bigger the weight (real or perceived, which is just about the same for that matter) of those expectations.

You can try the “non responsible approach”. Being careless is often a way of avoiding the unbearable weight of expectations. But as you become careless to avoid others’ expectations, you become less and less reliable, ultimately failing yourself.

And that is where the biggest trap of all is found: your own expectations, your need to fit in, your wish to accomplish your goals, your desire to be liked… it is all a big and mean machine putting more and more pressure on you.

Is there a way out? No (the “non responsible approach” should not be an option).

Is there a way through? Yes: being down-to-earth with your goals, sincere with the people surrounding you. That is the “realistic approach”.

Is there any other way? Of course. There is always a way: dream, hope, fly… and forgive yourself if you fall, love others even if they feel deceived by you. Live.

There is no spoon, Neo.

Bed-time story for an unborn girl

Prince Charming was late. He knew it, but he had to do things right: kill the nasty dragons surrounding him, polish his armour, and feed his white horse, before he could ride again and rescue the Princess.

But as he was doing all that, the Princess kept screaming: “Please, please Prince Charming, I can not wait forever, I must be rescued!”

He knew it. But things had to be done in a certain way, in a certain order. Otherwise he would not be Prince Charming, and while the Princess kept telling him that it did not matter, he just knew that when you do things the right way, there is a happy ending, and that is the purpose of all tales, isn’t it?

After fighting the toughest fight of his life with all sorts of dragons, goblins came to complicate matters even more. And then ogres, ghosts, and even giants. But he was Prince Charming. He knew he could defeat them all.

He also knew he was late, and that the Princess was suffering a great deal of pain and sorrow. But he was fighting the greatest fight ever, and it was all, after all, for the Princess. She would understand. She could wait.

Then one day the Princess sent him a message: “A knight came by the other day, and I asked him to rescue me”. “What? How did it happen? Who was that knight? How did he find the castle? How come you did not tell me about him before?” thought Prince Charming, his head spinning and completely puzzled. As he read the message another giant showed up from nowhere, making things even harder.
Prince Charming was at the end of his terrible fight. He knew it was very near the end, but he did not want to tell the Princess anymore, because she was too tired to even hear it.

All of a sudden, when Prince Charming had killed all but the last giant and was planning the final blow, a royal page came with a message: the Princess was being rescued by a knight.

Sweaty, bleeding, exhausted, Prince Charming held the sword up in the air, the giant on the floor shaking knowing he was about to be killed.

Prince Charming did not know what to do. He did not even know if doing anything even mattered any more. He was confused. He felt a mix of anger, fear, sadness… What had he been fighting for all this time? What would he do, once the last giant was killed, if he went to the castle and the Princess was gone? What good is a Prince Charming if he does not rescue the Princess? He did not enjoy killing dragons and riding day and night. All he wanted was to rescue the Princess and “Live Happily Ever After”. That was what was expected. That was what Prince Charming was supposed to do.

He could have died in the battle. He could have died from exhaustion. That would have been ok. That is part of being a Princess-Rescuing Prince Charming. But doing everything he was supposed to do, even if it took much longer than expected, should lead to rescuing the Princess. Anything else seemed so empty, so pointless, so unworthy.

He had to do something. Obviously, since this was a “bed-time story”, he could just finish off the poor giant (none of that was the giant’s fault anyway, he just happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time), hop on his white horse, and ride through the night to rescue the Princess at the last second, making it a somehow Hollywoodesque ending, but a good one anyway. But the royal page told him: “Oh, I almost forgot, the Princess asked me to tell you not to bother rescuing her. She already told the knight he could rescue her, so everything is already planned. Besides, she does not want to break poor knight’s heart by going away with you, and she does not even think she prefers to ride into the sunset with you rather than with him”.

Prince Charming fell on his knees. Tears running down his face, he screamed at the storyteller, damning him. “Damn you!!!!!!!!! I hate you!!!!!!!!!!!!! You put me in the story, you asked me to rescue the Princess, you sent the dragons, goblins, ghosts and giants, I killed them all, I did my part, and now you take her away??? What the hell are you fucking doing??? What kind of sick joke is this???”

His voice stormed so strongly from his throat, that he would not have needed to fight any fight had he screamed like that before. Everyone would have run away from him upon hearing him utter that way. But it was too late. The fight took place and was almost done. Too late. Too late for everything and anything.

“Now what?” As soon as he asked himself that question he rejected it. He knew there was nothing else. He was a Prince Charming in a bed-time story. And rescuing his Princess is what he had to do. Rescuing another Princess or doing anything else did not make any sense. Books were full of Princesses, but none of them was “the” Princess. And any other option, killing the knight, living happily ever after with the giants, or any other crazy idea was just that: a crazy idea. Out of the question. Doing anything else would turn him into something else. And he was Prince Charming. He wanted to be Prince Charming. As a matter of fact, he did not even know if he wanted to be that or not. He just was.

Was that a bed-time story or not? Was he in the story or not? Then there was no “now what”. But at the same time, with one giant to kill, and the Princess being happily rescued by the knight, there was nothing he could do.

Prince Charming always wins! He always rescues the Princess! What was going on??

Then he realized.

That was no bed-time story. The Princess was real. And so were the dragons he had been negotiating contracts with, the goblins he had the oncologist remove from his body, and the ghosts hunting him at nighttime. Even the giants he was trying to divorce from were real. So real. He could now hear the giants cry, read how the dragons refuse his offers, have nightmares with the ghosts again, and see in the tests how the goblins were coming back.

But he was Prince Charming. He had to be. He had been and he was.

The page was being turned and he could not hear the storyteller say anything.

Why Princess, why?

– Toma bombón, tu merienda – le decía su padre mientras él hacía equilibrios en los columpios del colegio

– ¿Te llamas “bombón”? – le preguntó, atónito, un niño un poco más pequeño que estaba detrás de él

– No, me llamo H, pero mi padre me quiere mucho

– Mi madre también me quiere mucho, pero no me llama “bombón”

Con el nombre de Literature-Bits inauguro sección. Servirá principalmente para incluir entradas que recojan pequeños fragmentos de obras que aleatoriamente aparecen en mi cabeza.

No me las daré de “autor” (mira que está manida y desgastada la palabrita) pero es cierto que a veces una obra quiere salir, te pide a gritos que la escribas, y si no lo haces ocurren dos cosas horribles:

a) Te martiriza, te persigue, te obsesiona y te consume.

b) Se te olvida, desaparece, ¿muere? ¿mueres?

Así que para evitarlo, aparecerán aquí. Puede que te interesen. Puede que no. Puede que te sirvan como base para tu propia obra, que te inspiren. Puede que te den náuseas y te confirmen lo que siempre has pensado: que este Cortell está mal de la olla. Ese es tu problema. El mío es darle salida a esas obras, fragmentos de obras, potenciales. Y para eso esta sección.