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La artista interior


Recientemente mire un grupo en facebook que cree hace años llamado "Jugando con colores", el cual tiene varios de mis trabajos pictóricos. Visitar la colección pictórica del grupo me ha dejado, tristemente, un sabor amargo en la boca. Todos y cada uno de esos dibujos y cuadros los hice yo, pero a hoy no me siento capaz de hacer algo remotamente parecido a muchas de las piezas que están allí.

Ya en un post anterior (Véase: "Mi musa e inmigración" Abril 2011), comentaba como sentía que había mutado mi musa, de ser una musa pictórica a una escritora. De alguna forma hoy mas que nunca siento que necesito volver a pintar, a pintar como lo hacia antes, sin pensar, sin planear, sin parar. Tengo ahora, mas que antes, libertad y tiempo para dedicale horas, días y meses a creaciones, adicionalmente he transformado una parte de mi casa en un casi estudio artístico, pero tristemente aun no siento la fluidez de antes cuando me enfrento una hoja en blanco.

Temo aveces que mi artista interior esta tan golpeado por la fuerte autocrítica que se dejo apabullar por mi misma y esta agonizando. Siento que finalmente me a convecido consistente o inconscientemente de que el talento es efímero y el mío ya se esfumo. Irónicamente en esos momentos es que algo grita en mi interior y me lleba a mirar esos dibujos que tengo archivados, en un caja o en la Internet, mientras mi artista interior me susurra a el oído "recuerdas lo bien que se sentía hacer esto?, dale, hazlo otra vez", al unisono de las inseguridades que dicen:"fue un golpe se suerte, nada mas."

No se si mis años productivos artisticamente han pasado. Si esta etapa de gris (no blanco, no negro, no nada) en la que se encuentra mi "talento" es definitiva y me gusta pensar en que tengo que ejercitar la mano y el ojo, hacer cuadros, rayas, caritas felices, personas con palitos, pero algo, para que lo que vive dentro de mi no se muera de tristeza, quizas aferrandome a una ilusion, o tal vez a una verdad.


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