Francesca Llopis

Barcelona

March 15, 2020. 

I am sitting on the balcony of my house, in front of which is the Arc de Triomf, a marvel rediscovered in the last twenty years by the people of Barcelona. It has been difficult for us to understand its value, to accept its modernist reminiscence of Mozarabic art, especially to know that it is a welcome Arch / Gate, as in general the things of my city. 

This balcony will be a recurring and inevitable place these days, this place is at home, you can’t go out on the street, you can’t go anywhere. 

Day 16, the Arc is revealed as something special. 

An architecture that contains, an architecture with a message and a landscape, an intense red color wet by the rain that does not leave us for many days, comes and goes, always present. 

Day 17, in the frieze of the Arc de Triomf I look with delight at the female warriors, artists, poets, etc., are in motion, dancing, moving in a space of the past time ... This resonates with me and mute me, like everything that is dumb now. 

Dia 15 de març 2020.

Estic asseguda al balcó de casa, davant està l'Arc de Triomf, una meravella redescoberta en els últims vint anys pels barcelonins. Ens ha costat entendre el seu valor, acceptar la seva reminiscència modernista d'art mossàrab, sobretot saber que és un Arc/Porta de benvinguda, com en general les coses de la meva ciutat.
Aquest balcó serà un lloc recorrent i inevitable aquests dies, aquest lloc es a casa, no es pot sortir al carrer, no es pot anar enlloc.
Dia 16, l'Arc es revela com alguna cosa especial.

Una arquitectura continent, una arquitectura amb un missatge i un paisatge, un color vermell intens mullat per la pluja que no ens deixa durant molts dies, va i torna, sempre present.
Dia 17, en el fris de l’Arc de Triomf miro amb delit les figures guerreres, artistes, poetes, etc., estan en moviment, ballen, es traslladen en un espai del temps passat... Això em ressona i m'emmudeix, com tot que és mut ara.

Ahir per la nit va ploure dins l'estudi

31.5.20

Last night it rained inside the studio


Dia 18, munto un bastidor de 200 cm x 200 cm per tornar a pintar una pintura gran, pot ser que ha arribat el moment.
Dia 19, clavo la tela al bastidor. Tela blanca que es torna a imposar...És un gran forat, és el buit (res).
Dia 20, preparo la tela amb guesso...blanc(a)... Torna el buit, cel blanc, blanc sobre blanc.

Dia 21, tela blanca a l’estudi que pretén ser nou, de nou. No passa res, buit al cap, tot ple de punts suspensius, punts i a part de cap escriptura.

Nit del 22, miro la tela, l’ombra es projecta sobre la tela blanca, un mapa del meu cos, un tros del meu, seu, vostre món...que hem ferit de mort.

Nit 23, busco ombres que es projecten sobre la tela blanca, dibuixen una natura que està amb mi també.

Dia 24, comencen els morts sols.

Dia 25, ajunto plantes, vull ser un jardí ple de microbis.

Dia 26, la tela blanca és més blanca que mai, es mou d’un lloc a l’altre. No troba el seu lloc. Fem el mateix, ens movem per aquest espai interior com si fos de cop una presó.

Dia 27, Primera imatge: un virus

         Segona imatge: bomba Orssini de nou

Dia 28, somio amb nenes teteres que ballen circularment sobre un terra blanquíssim

Dia 29, 30, 31... forado tot el que puc, pensar em fa massa mal, m’enyoro

Dia ... Quarta imatge: una cúpula de gelatina on totes les ciutats del món estan buides.

Ja no sabem els dies, es confonen les hores, silenci... silenci desitjat

Quietud, silenci, llum, silenci, foscor.

         Tercera imatge: un rellotge.

BLANC SOBRE BLANC

WHITE ON WHITE

Day 18, I assemble a 200cm x 200cm frame to repaint a large painting, maybe the time has come. 

Day 19, I nail the fabric to the frame. White fabric that is re-imposed ... It's a big hole, it's the void (nothing). 

Day 20, I prepare the fabric with plaster ... white... 

The void returns, white sky, white on white.

Day 21, white cloth in the studio pretending to be new, again. Nothing happens, emptiness in the head, all full of ellipsis, dots and apart from any writing.

On the night of the 22nd, I look at the canvas, the shadow is cast on the white canvas, a map of my body, a piece of mine, his, your world ... that we have mortally wounded.

Night 23, I look for shadows that are projected on the white canvas, they draw a nature that is with me too.

Day 24, the dead begin to be alone.

Day 25, I together plants, I want to be a garden full of microbes.

Day 26, the white canvas is whiter than ever, moving from place to place. It can't find his place. We do the same, we move through this inner space as if it were suddenly a prison.

The canvas falls forward, I put weight on the back of the easel, the weights of Marseille balance it.

Day 27, First image: a virus

            Second image: Orsini bomb again
Day 28, I dream of teapot girls dancing circularly on a very white ground.

Day 29, 30, 31 ... I drilled everything I could, thinking hurts too much, I miss you.

Day ... 

            Fourth image: a jelly dome where all the cities in the world are empty. We no longer know the days, the hours are confused, silence ... desired silence Quiet, silence, light, silence, darkness.

            Third image: a clock.

Virus i Bomba. Avui no puc més 

Virus i Bomba un tot actiu

Virus-iceberg

Virus... Era ahir o abans d'ahir allà?

JO, LLUM!, HAM

2020

Virus and Bomb. I can't take it anymore today

Virus and Bomb an active whole

Virus-iceberg

Virus... Was it there yesterday or the day before yesterday?

I, LIGHT!, HOOK

Tota una folla a l'ull

Every mad at the eye

 

Han vingut els records de joventut, de dies tranquils, de nits sense fi, de llargues estones a l’estudi, dies on no teníem res sinó el que el cap ens donava.

També records d’infància on l’aire era pur, caminant descalces per l’asfalt dels carrers solitaris. A l’estiu, sentint la calor de la terra i l’olor de les fulles verdes, les llums de les lluernes vorejant els camins de la nit. Així ho veia des de el balcó.

 

Dia 14 d'abril... Ja no hi ha silenci, remor incipient que ens porta a allò que ja sabem que no és el que ha de ser... INCONSCIENTS, TERRORISME D'ESTAT!

Seguim confinades, encara hi ha silenci, però ja l'estic enyorant, ja sé que no serà el mateix.
I a poc a poc les lluernes marxen, els ocells callen, i els altres criden...
Fins i tot la remor mediàtica s'ha silenciat, en realitat el que fan és col·laborar amb el sistema que fallarà de nou, el sistema no té intencions de canviar res.
Jo vull escriure als balcons: LA CIUTAT ARA ÉS NOSTRA, mentre ho sigui, mentre no tornin els turistes a envair-la, a envair-nos el nostre espai que sabem ara tan preuat.

PES-so

The memories of youth, of quiet days, of endless nights, of long hours in the studio, days when we had nothing but what our heads gave us have come. 

Also childhood memories where the air was pure, walking barefoot on the asphalt of lonely streets. In summer, feeling the heat of the earth and the smell of green leaves, the lights of the skylights bordering the paths of the night. That's how I saw it from the balcony.

 

April 14th ... There is no more silence, incipient rumor that leads us to what we already know is not what it should be ... UNCONSCIOUS, STATE TERRORISM!

We’re still confined, there’s still silence, but I’m already missing it, I know it won’t be the same.

And little by little the skylights go away, the birds are silent, and the others shout ...

Even the media rumor has been silenced, in reality what they are doing is collaborating with the system that will fail again, the system has no intentions of changing anything.

I want to write on the balconies: THE CITY IS NOW OURS, as long as it is, as long as the tourists do not invade it again, to invade our space that we know now so precious.

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