IMPRESIONISM: attempt to capture the light (the “visual impression”) and the instant, without taking into account the identity of which is creating it.
Looking for a place to shelter from the cold in a lost French cafe.
Asking for a table for two people. Ordering two capuccinos. Rubbing your fingers. Holding the cup with the two hands. Feeling its aroma over your lips. The wind is heard on the street. The piano is heard on the air. The murmur of the couple sitting next to us, while talking and laughing through whispers. The love that they share that caresses you on the distance. The wind in the street. The piano in the air.
Making a gesture to the waitress and making him to lend you a pen. Starting to tear with words a piece of napkin.
Closing your eyes for an eternal second. Feeling everything one more time.
The sound of the rain hitting the leaves that are lying over the floor, impregnated by ochre and autumn. The trees that rumble, hit by the wind. A sunset half purple, half orange, that has the Eiffel Tower between some branches. The gothic that some almost-winter-tree encloses between their branches and the Death, delicately, set over its top. The moss hugging the highest part of a roof. The gothic letters of a chapel and some flowers set on the foreground. The vague trace of a kiss on a grave. Some nameless carnations over a corpse by duel. And the ochre. And the brown. And the red. And a cigar over a ashtray.
Behind the trees, as an iron subtle silhouette, in a second place, almost invisible and not well perceived, an colorless Eiffel Tower.
An stranger that reads and writes while traveling by metro. Music played by a French accordion and a Spanish guitar. Self-portrait over a glass with face covered during winter. The autumn impregnating a stair. Children laughs over a school fence. A wall in which people love in one hundred different languages. The top of a tree in an orange transition. The echo of an organ during mass lengthened through the walls and the shades. The blue color of a stained glass and the orange color of the candles. The calm shadows of the interior of a dome. A church experienced through the needles of time. The red and white traffic in contrast with the ochre of an opera, and the sky, painted with an intense blue. The gray and subtle reflection of a tower unnoticed/inverted *pan untranslatable*. Its top unfocused, blended by the fog. The moon reflection on a puddle of a street. The golden bright of progressive electricity with which the day in Paris becomes a night. The two silent-years-by-letter, during which two brothers shared a ceiling.
Christmas felt on a market. The orange and the red. Different tones of white. The dark blue and the clear blue. The golden, the fuchsia, the green color. The red and the gray, over different tones of white.
A carousel. The blue and the yellow light. The smell of a freshly-made crepe. A Christmas carol on the air and the warm inside your chest.
The / Peace / That / Is experienced / At Pere Lachaise cemetery, /Ten minutes away from the centre.
Calm. Everything is calm. *This is a verse of a Jorge Drexler’s song*
Taking a picture of a Van Gogh over the river.
Finding out God inside the Beauty.
Discovering in a polish girl, a small sister.
Opening the eyes. Coming back to the present.
Writing these lines in a cafe, in Montmartre. The cup is already warm and empty.
The wind is in the street.
The piano is in the air.
“(…) even if the adjective “impressionist” has been used to label the products of other types of Art (…), due to its particular defining characteristics (light, color, strokes, movement) it is not possible to make such an extension. Because of this, it is said that we can only talk about Impressionism in paintings (and, maybe, in photography)”.