Uno de los pintores principales del siglo XX, cimentador del arte moderno, es el francés Paul Gauguin, fallecido el 8 de mayo de 1903. De su vida y obra al modo convencional no voy a hablar, pues no es el propósito de este post (si están interesados, pueden ir a la referencia dada arriba o al final). Gaugin escribió varios libros donde recogió parte de su vida, obra y visión de estas, como No Noa, Escritos de un salvaje, ente otros. Compartiré con ustedes una microficción al modo de diario, por supuesto, ficcional.
Fuente | Source - Dominio público | Public Domain
Ha vuelto el terrible dolor en mi sufrido cuerpo, que no me deja casi trabajar en mi pintura. Ya no tengo morfina. Por suerte, todavía me queda láudano para aminorarlo un poco, y quizás dormir. Vernier me ha visitado, y me ha dado algo de paz con sus palabras piadosas.
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Hoy recordé mis años de juventud y aquella desaforada actividad como corredor de la Bolsa de París. Aunque sus cuantiosos ingresos me permitieron tener una vida muy confortable, casi agradezco que se haya producido aquella caída en 1882, y me haya obligado a concentrarme en mi trabajo en la pintura, algo solo complementario de mi vida entonces. ¡Cómo cambiaron las cosas a partir de entonces!
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Quienes me han conocido, aunque sea un poco, saben que he sido un rebelde incorregible. Herencia familiar que corre en mi sangre, por mi padre y mi madre y sus ascendientes. ¡Cómo me hubiese gustado conocer a mi abuela, Flora Tristán! Diferente, inconforme, a veces hasta la hostilidad... (A cuántos hoy presentaría mis disculpas). Pero fue lo que me llevó a no quedarme con lo que los respetados maestros del impresionismo me habían dado: Pisarro, Degas y tantos otros.
Pensaba en mis semejantes, mis hermanos, como diría otro de mis "santos" —Baudelaire—, y allí estaba la imborrable imagen de Vincent, quizás nunca reconocido por mi orgulloso yo. Fue para mí un anillo entre la realidad y la locura, y ambas nunca las abandoné. Su iluminada y delirante visión de la naturaleza y de la gente era algo casi místico para mí. Mientras yo estaba en la búsqueda de la imaginación, donde no existiera la justificación de la "contraparte de la realidad", aunque partiera de esta. Mi único propósito era estimular la imaginación; espero haberlo logrado.
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Me fui a Martinica, en el Caribe, en 1887, a Tahití y las Islas Marquesas, en la Polinesia, entre 1890 y 1895. París era una fiesta, como diría Hemingway, pero ya no llenaba. Mi rebeldía, casi desmesurada, me impulsaba a viajar a lugares desconocidos, que actuaban como un paraíso perdido, para un europeo dedicado a la pintura y desilusionado de la vida. En esos lugares, que eran siempre la sorpresa y el misterio, viví y conviví. Encontré en ellos gran parte de lo que buscaba en mi visión del mundo. Me entregué a la vida y cultura de esos pueblos, teniendo amantes y esposas adolescentes (¡el futuro me juzgará!). Fui un poco "diablo", en lo occidental, es cierto, con toda mi vida matrimonial y paternal anterior. También en esta práctica (tomar una "vahine"), que era propia de esas culturas.
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Espero morir pronto. Deseo que pongan sobre mi tumba la Oviri, imagen que seguramente no gustará, que representa para mí la muerte y la vida que nos conjugan.
Fuente | Source - Dominio público | Public Domain
Click here to read in english
Lost in the search for paradise (fragments from an apocryphal diary by Paul Gaugin)
One of the main painters of the 20th century, the foundation of modern art, is the Frenchman Paul Gauguin, who died on May 8, 1903. I am not going to talk about his life and work in the conventional way, as it is not the purpose of this post (if you are interested, you can go to the reference given above or at the end). Gaugin wrote several books where he collected part of his life, work and vision, such as No Noa , Writings of a Savage , among others. I will share with you a microfiction in the form of a diary, of course, fictional.
The terrible pain in my suffering body has returned, which almost does not allow me to work on my painting. I don't have morphine anymore. Luckily, I still have laudanum left to slow it down a bit, and maybe sleep. Vernier has visited me, and he has given me some peace with his pious words.
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Today I remembered my years of youth and that wild activity as a broker on the Paris Stock Exchange. Although his large income allowed me to have a very comfortable life, I am almost grateful that that fall occurred in 1882, and forced me to concentrate on my work in painting, something only complementary to my life then. How things changed from then on!
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Those who have known me, even a little, know that I have been an incorrigible rebel. Family heritage that runs in my blood, through my father and mother and their ancestors. How I would have liked to meet my grandmother, Flora Tristán! Different, non-conforming, sometimes even hostility... (To how many today would I present my apologies). But it was what led me not to stay with what the respected masters of impressionism had given me: [Pisarro](https://es.wikipedia. org/wiki/Camille_Pissarro), Degas and many others.
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I thought about my peers, my brothers, as another of my "saints"—Baudelaire—would say, and there was the indelible image of Vincent, perhaps never recognized by my proud self. It was for me a ring between reality and madness, and I never abandoned both. His enlightened, delirious vision of nature and people was almost mystical to me. While I was in search of imagination, where the justification of the "counterpart of reality" did not exist, even if I started from it. My sole purpose was to stimulate the imagination; I hope I have achieved it.
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I went to Martinique, in the Caribbean, in 1887, to Tahiti and the Marquesas Islands, in Polynesia, between 1890 and 1895. Paris was a party, as Hemingway would say, but it was no longer full. My rebellion, almost excessive, drove me to travel to unknown places, which acted as a lost paradise for a European dedicated to painting and disillusioned with life. In those places, which were always surprise and mystery, I lived and coexisted. I found in them much of what I was looking for in my vision of the world. I devoted myself to the life and culture of those people, having teenage lovers and wives (the future will judge me!). I was a bit of a "devil", in the Western sense, it is true, with all my previous married and parental life. Also in this practice (taking a "vahine"), which was typical of those cultures.
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I hope to die soon. I wish that Oviri be placed on my grave, an image that will surely not be liked, which represents for me the death and life that bring us together.
Referencias | References:
https://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paul_Gauguin
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paul_Gauguin
