Catártica: November '21 by Catártica Revista

November 2021

Vol. 10

No. 2

Want to contribute? Want to contribute? Want to contribute? Want to contribute? to Want Want to contribute? ¿Quieres apoyar? Want to contribute? Want ¿Quieres to contribute? apoyar? Want to contribute? Want to contribute? Want to contribute? Want to contribute? Want to contribute? Want to contribute?

Buymeacoffee.com/catartica

From Woman to Venus

A.G.C

Catártica´s cover presents the fusion of two pieces, Test 8, by the Egyptian artist Ghada Amer (1963) and The Birth of Venus, by the Florentine painter Alessandro Botticelli (1444 - 1510), to highlight the discursive clash between both artistic representations regarding women in their work and the use of femininity as a conceptual barrier/mask. First, Ghada Amer, by repeating the phrase "One is not born but rather becomes a woman", "Una no nace, sino se hace mujer", directly confronts the viewer to reflect on the feminine and masculine roles stipulated by society. Amer's work focuses on gender discourse and sexuality within a feminist perception. Her artwork includes a series of mixed media and feminist slogans and combines what is considered provocative of the female body with language to subvert the idea that women and their bodies are merely a one-dimensional medium, in other words, that they can only represent the sexual, rather than highlighting other attributes and qualities. Aiming to open discourse around the relationship of women with their bodies she rejects one of the feminist theories of the first wave where it’s stated that the body should be denied to avoid victimization In second place, the central character of The Birth of Venus, the Roman goddess associated with love and beauty, is used to visually highlight the stereotypes that have been used throughout art history to represent women. Furthermore, this figure represents the established feminine role, which, sometimes, overshadows or takes precedence over the true character of a woman. Inspired by classical antiquity mythology, Botticelli uses a modest Venus (a figure that uses her hand to hide her nudity) as the main character of this painting, which contributes to the reintroduction of the female nude of their time, and even following artistic movements. Therefore, her representation functions as a symbol to argue the message and production of feminist artists such as Ghada Amer. Finally, we must not forget that each artistic representation belongs to its time and cannot be judged with the eyes of another. Therefore, we can use their differences to compare and understand the evolution of both the representation of women in art and the artists themselves over the years.

Amer, G., (2013), Test 8, acrílico, bordado y gel medio sobre lienzo, Arthur Digital Museum Botticelli, S., (c. 1485), El nacimiento de Venus, temple sobre lienzo, Galleria degli Uffizi Referencia (2019), Grandes mujeres artistas, Phaidon Press Limited

Catártica is a space to talk about art outside the official discourse, the one that escapes from definitions, and at the same time a place for fiction, essays and poetry to wander around naked, putting the writer and the public in confrontation

Town Photographer Arturo González Lara Sacred Masquerade M.I. Flores Nachón

5 12

Living the lie NatCisa

The Mischief Victor Rivera

We are more than skin Vanessa Salas

Manufactured authenticity Ernesto Ocaña

Not everything is... Rossanna Huerta

Entophotographer Héctor Adolfo Quintanar

Varita's Halo Bruno Sánchez

TOWN PHOTOGRAPHER

Arturo González Lara 5

I have a thousand reasons to watch and want to capture the feelings that others transmit to me. Listening to them and seeing them walk, I am curious to know where they are going, what they are thinking, what is the story of their life. It is what I try to capture through photography, to build an image in which the captured feelings can be observed and new questions are generated instead of answers. As human beings we are creators and authors of our own moments, by telling our stories we produce anecdotes that present teachings to other people and they take them to form their path with all the knowledge that we collect in our lives. When we speak of experiences we transmit emotions, a part of us lives in the anecdote, we are creators of experiences and transmitters of feelings.

Through photography I try to give those who observe my work two things, feelings and doubts, such as who is he? What was he doing when the photo was taken? Why is he alone in a tent with posters around it? why do you look sad? These questions lead the observer to pause for a moment to interpret the image in his or her own way, wonder what he is seeing and thus generate creative thinking by answering all the questions that the photograph produces. By not having more information regarding the photo that is observed, the subject creates a story around what he sees, interpreting the work in his own way, this allows to observe himself within himself, causing him to find feelings that he keeps in silence and that combination of Emotions that surprise when inquiring, generating doubt, generating controversy over the context of the image, is what is captured in a photograph.

The interpretation that occurs in the viewer when seeing a photo, listening to music, reading novels or interpreting a canvas, what we imagine the author felt when making the work, is actually a hidden feeling in ourselves, that is the way we we see ourselves through art. For me, photography is the essence of who I am as a human expressed in an image. Through my eyes, what surprises me and how I perceive the world, the way I want to frame the camera and edit the photo so that whoever observes is filled with doubts and wants to look for an answer outside the home and while they find it, enjoy this world. La fotografía es la posibilidad dePhotography is the possibility of relating to the world, with our times and finding ourselves, capturing life in a profound moment, each person can share through it, what they are seeing and thereby connect with thousands of eyes. Taking a photo is a path that you can take wherever you are and become a small town photographer.

SACRED SACRED

MASQUERADE MASQUERADE I met Rafael Coronel. I don't mean actually meeting him, but I came across his work head-on. Perfectly well-delineated eyes that followed my gaze until I walked away completely. Who were you, Rafael Coronel? He was born in Zacatecas in 1932. His story goes from wanting to be a soccer player, thinking about being an accountant, to making a cardboard and wax crayons art work that took him to his first exhibition in El Palacio de Bellas Artes. The first of four. I studied Rafael Coronel during my career, and I got to know his work in the gallery. Faces tired by the years, sorcerers with hats, dragonflies, butterflies, maracas and masks.

M.I. Flores Nachón

Masks in Mexico have played an important role in the development of culture. As part of the production of ritual objects that come to life, they were part of this transformation by metamorphosis, not meant to be art, they were. With the mask the door of what will remain hidden is highlighted. Look at it, but don't cross it. Rafael Coronel stands out for his career, internationally known for breaking stereotypes in Mexican painting. The Mexican 20th century was determined by a series of revolutionary events that were crowned with the search for identity. It is there when we meet and resonate names of the great artists such as Diego Rivera, José Clemente Orozco, David Alfaro Siqueiros, proclaimed as the three great muralists, in addition to meeting some such as Rufino Tamayo, Doctor Atl and even José Guadalupe Posada. Who is the Mexican? What is it? How does it perceive itself? Answers that fell into the stereotyping of a figure. The Mexican is the one who carries gannets on his back, the miner who comes out of the fire, the peasant and the worker, the Mexican is the catrín in a suit and the Mexican is the catrina with a veil.

I don't carry gannets. The answer to the question was not given by the muralist movement.

On the contrary, it was a movement that generated new doubts. How many types of Mexicans are there and why do we all have to look like the lottery board? Rafael Coronel did not carry gannets either. His paintings approaching a hyperrealism confronts us with faces that were not seen before. Features and colors that were not going to determine the identity of a nation. Rafael Coronel explored the background as a stamp; flat, smooth, with an excellent handling of shadows that give dimension and volume to the scenes, without having to work in a landscape that falls in the tradition of José María Velasco and the Real Academia de San Carlos. The Mexican, with Rafael Coronel, is a human. His works, as I mentioned, are an undeniable memory of other very famous paintings, my mind inevitably travels 9,000 km to El Pífano (1866) by Édouard Manet, in which the background is nothing more than to provide a space in which our main character is going to position itself. The faces, unlike the background, will be the focus for our eyes. I will take as an example the work of Rafael Coronel in order to unravel the analysis, La Ofrenda is part of the iconic production of magicians with pointed hats and flat bottoms. The fabrics that fall from the neck towards the torso of our bearded character are detailed to perfection, with shadows that tell us about a weight in the material of the sorceress tunic. The face betrays us a universal passage of time, the Mexican grows old, as does the Russian or the Irish.

A confrontation between the skin of the first face and the second that the sorcerer keeps in his hands, Rafael Coronel unmasks what Rivera, Orozco and Siqueiros kept hidden behind their hats and ponchos for a long time. In La Ofrenda, he offers a redemption from the Mexican without hiding, we cross the door of the Mexican who keeps his tradition intact without the need to capitalize on a stereotype. I offer you my essence so that you understand it, look at me and walk through the door. I think Rafael Coronel made a tradition of a Mexico of mixtures persist; aesthetic, visual, iconographic and traditional mixes. Who were you, Rafael Coronel? And why did you like masks so much?

Having said all of the above, it is a good time to mention the fact that Rafael Coronel, despite his death, maintains the largest collection of masks in history; 11 thousand traditional Mexican masks, which we can visit in his museum, La Sala de los Rostros.

living the lie i wonder if i actually look like the mirror shows. but maybe that’s not the most important thing; what makes me uncomfortable is how i look, me —if there’s just one me and not many of them. there are days when i run into someone utterly different from me. i have no idea if they are real, because if it were, it would mean that i have zero knowledge of myself and that every one of my variants is an unstable me. however, if i’m able to recognize that i’m not that me, is there always a me but that hides and let another me to introduce itself to other people? does everyone else realize i’m trapped inside a me that it’s not me but looks like me? i think that, even when i’m alone, the pure me isn’t there.

Digital Collage natcisa @natcisa / @tablerodeolas 15

Victor Rivera

That afternoon I ran with my cousins in the courtyard and through the rooms of my aunt Carmina's house, we played at recreating past wars by throwing the fruits that the orange tree gave. I remember that I crossed almost the entire corridor on all fours, hiding behind the flowerpots, passing through the kitchen door until I reached the dining room, where the Day of the Dead offering was. My intention was to go up the stairs to the roof and from there to control the perimeter, but I thought I heard the footsteps of one of my cousins entering through the kitchen and I had no choice but to hide in a hole that was in the middle of the huacales that supported the tributes for the dead. With a sudden jump I settled into that opening and I was lucky not to throw anything that was on the plates. I heard her laugh and saw her legs go up and down the stairs, over and over again, I remained hidden in fear of being discovered. The smoke from the copal covered the entire room and my body was enveloped in the mist, while the smell of oranges, guavas and fresh apples, as well as the mole and the incense itself, disguised any olfactory trace. I knew the moment I stopped hearing external noises to those of my thoughts that I would probably not continue looking for me in that room, and feeling the same adrenaline that every child has felt when hiding from danger, I tried to get out with great caution. I rested both hands on the huacal that held the sacred heart and little by little I got up to the center of the dining room.

I turned to the offering, which was now behind me, with the intention of capturing a postcard in my head of that fort that should become the key to my victory, I would leave the kitchen and hunt them from afar, and when I finished I would have said, "This is the place where they lost the battle, this is where the story was written." However, what I found was something much more despicable, something that was already within me: I think I discovered the natural desire to do evil. And the thing is that my grandmother Cleo, whenever she saw me approach the offering, perhaps because she already knew of my intentions even before I knew them, she would slap me and tell me that it was not right to steal anything from the dead. "Go with your mother, rascal kid! If the dead see you and find out that you are stealing, they will pull your legs when you sleep." With the fear that the words that escaped from her tongue provoked in me, I had preferred to avoid approaching the offerings of the following years, but now she occupied one more place among the coffins, although I knew that it was not she who was really looking at me. It was just one more black and white photo nestled next to the sacred heart. Just in case, I remember that I did lay the photo down, because I thought, "better not to have the eyes of the dead looking." When I found myself in front of the altar, I forgot that I had to go back to the game.

In God's name I swear, I had the choice to retract and I did not, no one forced me to stay and it was not because of the need to take revenge on my grandmother, it was only because of the mere impulse to disobey. The truth is I thought I was not doing anything so serious when I tasted the first chocolate, on the contrary, it tasted like no other in my life. I didn't touch the pumpkins, but I did eat some fresh oranges, because the ones we played with were the ones that were no longer useful, the kind that even the dog doesn't stop to smell. I did not think it was wrong to eat the pan de muerto or try my first beer, although I did not like that at all. I didn't get the flavor of the cigar, because I never remembered which side the adults smoked, so I just threw it on the ground and stepped on it. Anyway, my grandmother's words had been clear and I believed her, but even so I was not scared nor did my conscience bother me. Now yes, that had been my true victory. After my mischief, I decided it would be fun to replace everything I had eaten with whatever I could think of, so I locked the kitchen door so that no one could see me. The oranges, for example, I exchanged with the ones I had already been carrying, while for the mole and the chocolates I used the soil and the pebbles that were in the pots, keeping the latter in the wrappers of the chocolates, and dipping the handful of earth that had been put in the plate of the mole. I can't tell you what I did with the beer because you must have already imagined it,

but I can tell you that in the place of cigarettes it seemed funny to put some pencils that I found on the table, perhaps because my uncle Ramón, who he died of lung cancer, he died without having learned to write. Finally, knowing that there was no going back, I put a hard roll next to the lying photo of my grandmother, there where the bread of the dead that she liked so much was found. But no, the answer now and then is still no, I have never hated my family and had no reason to. For this reason, I attributed this and many other of my future actions to an instinct that I already carried from before, and for many years it consoled me to think that I was not the only one who ever felt the same way. I was calm and didn't get upset even when I heard the noise from the hall echoing through the windows. I knew that I had plenty of time to go out to the patio and meet my cousins, that no one would suspect anything until the next day, which is when, by tradition, the offerings are taken away, then they would think that one of my cousins and me would have done it. I would punish myself. I greeted my mom and my aunt with a cynical smile, like someone who has done a mischief and gotten away with it. Then I helped them carry the pot of mixiotes to the kitchen table and we all sat down to eat. When it struck five, my mother told me that it was time to go back because the road was dangerous at night, however, no one could have imagined what would happen seconds later: the bell rang and my aunt went out to open the door.

As we finished eating, we heard the indescribable echo of a sinister polyphony whose origin was difficult to pinpoint, and I, who was sitting in the place facing the patio door, could see the silhouettes behind the curtain sliding down the corridor . We remained in an eerie silence and when we heard the knock of the kitchen door the atmosphere became frozen. A meatless hand sought to lean on the wooden door of the dining room and for a few seconds the light disappeared. When it came back we discovered a lot of familiar faces, "What happened, fucking Chatito?" How is my nephew the most handsome? And where are my three spoiled ones? - said my uncle Ramón, referring to me and my cousins. "Oh, mija!" It's very cold on the other side, I told them they had to bury me with the woolen vest that your aunt Cerafina gave me. May she rest in peace there in León. Imagine that I have been covering myself with corn husks, but boy is it not difficult to get them! - said Grandma Cleo to my mother. No one ever understood how the distance between the world of the living and the world of the dead narrowed in such a way that we found ourselves dining with corpses fresh from the grave, speaking to us as if they had never been dead and, in Instead, they would have gone to live in another state or another country. They talked about what was in the other world without much enthusiasm, and we listened without touching our food again. "Everything is the same," said Uncle Panchito, "just more bored," interrupted Uncle Ramón, "because you can't eat, nor is there money, shit! There is no need to work either, and you said that well, give everything, but then you cannot bet on anything, there are no cards, there are no roosters, or horses, and as nothing happens to anyone anymore, because you no longer want to talk is left to one. As Uncle Ramón talked, the grandmother, who became more and more desperate, said to Aunt Carmina: "Well, what time are they going to bring us our food?" What when you were kids, did I make you wait? For this reason, just after Dona Eduviges died, I told her how they are with me, because it seems that the only thing that is necessary is for one of them to die for them to listen to her. "No, Mom, sorry." It was the impression of seeing you. You know that… we weren't expecting you so soon. Aunt Carmina and my mother got up to serve the mixiotes for the guests, but a lady, or man, whose voice I couldn't recognize, began to complain: "No, Carmina!" No, Queta! But how do they come up with it? Isn't that what the offering is for? What do you think, that we still have teeth to tear so much meat? Don't be unconscious, really. My mom and my aunt apologized and walked straight down the aisle, while I, who was initially proud of my evil nature, found myself shivering and breathing the cold air, with nothing in my head other than the fear caused by having my grandmother sitting next to me. "Give me a kiss," he said when he heard me moan, not realizing the horror I felt to see the insects still devouring his eyes.

My mother and my aunt Carmina picked up the dishes that were on the crates and, I suppose that because of the impression of not believing what was happening, they put them on the tablecloth of each of the guests without realizing that the tributes were no longer the same. that they had left before going out into the street. The first or the first to test the earth with water was the lady I never recognized —This mole is kind of strange to me. Maybe it's because I've died a long time ago. The next was my uncle Panchito, who broke his tooth while biting the stone chocolates —These chocolates are very hard. They have almost no flavor anymore. My uncle Ramón, as he was not able to light his cigarette with the matches that he already carried in his suit, threw it annoyingly on the ground and finished his beer in one gulp. beer, my father said, like donkey piss. Grandma Cleo, on the other hand, was the only one who realized the deception long before she tasted her bobbin. He got up from the table as best he could and took out his anger on the family. "And what's wrong with you?" My mother already said it, hope in the children? Ha! Hard bobbin? My God, these sad daughters can't keep their mother a loaf of bread! Who did it?-. That said, I remember that the dead began to rise up burning with rage at having received such offenses. As the air began to feel hot and the family of the living apologized without understanding what had happened, I became more fearful. I found myself praying honestly, I thought of my sacred heart and that the promise of punishment scared me more than the punishment itself. Being pulled by my legs, without prior notice, without knowing where, or who, or when, was a certainty that kept me in relentless fear. One of my cousins, who had hidden under the table out of fear, found the pencil that my uncle had thrown. "Look!" This isn't a cigar, it's a pencil and it's marked with my teeth. Living and dead, they returned to see the offering carefully and found the remains of tobacco scattered on the ground. Julio, the cousin who realized this, was automatically out of suspicion, since it was well known that he did not like mole. My mom and my aunt had gone to the pantheon before picking up the mixiotes, so it was a fact that they weren't either. The only ones left were my cousin Beto and I, because Luisito never did mischief and therefore no one accused him. When this happened, my cousins, as if they had agreed, told everyone that I had disappeared for almost half an hour while we were playing, and when I mentioned that I had returned to the patio through the corridor, pointing to me was the most sensible thing for them. Even though my eyes were pointing to the ground, I could feel everyone's gazes digging into my back like stakes and the moment my mom raised her hand to slap me, my grandmother spoke: —Queta! Don't you dare hit that child! I was stunned, anguished to see how my grandmother's rotten mouth uttered the words that saved my life without a tongue. "This kid didn't do anything. I myself taught him in life that it is not okay to steal from the dead. Tell them, mijito! Tell them that you are a good boy!”

That time I did not have a chance to reflect on whether what I did was correct or not, however, I nodded anyway. I blamed Beto, who was the one who confessed, in a nervous breakdown, that he had entered the room with the intention of attacking me, and since no one could prove that I had been there, he could not escape a fate that many would have believed belonged to me. When they took him away, I felt calm, after all wars are won with intelligence. However, today that I remember, I start to think that maybe I will know when and how it will happen, that I will know the name of my executioner.

-Boxed, from the series "We are more than skin" -Sculpture of plaster, acrylic paint, and resin -7.87 x 11.02 x 8.93 inches -2020

WE'RE

ORE THAN SKIN Vanessa Salas We are more than a product

that are frequently linked to

boxed

and encased are pieces that

the corporeal as if the utopia

explicit feeling of what I feel

belong to the work "We are

and solution were to become

like a woman and having to

more than skin", which,

a being without a foundation,

constantly

through the linear use of

in that our value as people

scrutiny,

grays and objects, proposes

goes beyond our corporeality.

formulate it in this society.

an alternative aesthetic to the human body, within which, the

mainly

Boxed in, it arises from the

female

constant social cornering that

representation is an idea that

exists when you are a

becomes an image without a

woman, in which your body

face, because it does not

works as a double-edged

represent only a woman, but

sword, This is how, through

a community united by the

run-over stories,

same social difficulties

represents

face to

macho able

-Somos más que un producto, de la serie "Somos más que piel" -Instalación -Esculturas de yeso, pintura acrílica, resina y cajas de cartón -Medidas variables -2021

On the other hand, the piece "we are more than a product", is a reference to the current experience within a liquid society, consuming everything in its path without realizing it, such as the case of people and the way in which it enters We individuals have come to devour the essence of others in order to feel satisfied, abandoned the importance of connecting with each other and pretending that a mere sexual connection will suffice to satisfy our needs; Of course, sex is part of our instinct, but at what point did sex and desire become normalized as consumption to such a degree that it became normalized as a mere transaction? That is why we are more than a product refers to the products that we buy, come to us and we use until we are tired, and then discard them ... only that in this case it is not a product, but ourselves. Have you ever felt that you have been used as a product? Contacto @vanessa.sals https://vanessalas.myportfolio.com lavanessalas@gmail.com

Ernesto Ocaña MANUFACTURED AUTHENTICITY AND OTHER CONVENIENT CONTRADICTIONS FOR A CONTEMPORARY DYSTOPIA I don’t know on which authority we deem ourselves able to judge the authenticity of others in our everyday life. We all struggle to balance that exaggeration of ourselves we present to the world with the perceived legitimacy of an existence that stands out effortlessly. Before others we must be the most attractive, interesting, active and fulfilled version of ourselves, and we pretend that we don’t also see this fragile pantomime in others. But we do, even though our tolerance threshold as a society is terrifyingly specific when it comes to this deception. There is no greater and supposedly justified social violence than the one we commit against the marginalized who do not act as the deviants they ought to be. Fight Club (1999) is a film that I find fascinating, partly because of the complex symbology behind all the themes it deals with, because of the excellent script that comes from one of my favorite novels, because it is visually unique or at least it was when it appeared in theaters for the first time. But more than being a good movie, I think it’s fascinating to me because of how it is perceived by most people. It should be noted how bad people are when it comes to interpretation, how much we are trained to read appearances as truth even when understanding that they are usually just deceit.

We do not tolerate misfits who pretend they are not, because in truth we are all failures and laughing at the misfortune of others supposedly allows us to better hide our imperfections. And that is why those misfits, those deviants who stand out, who fail to understand this farce-like code that governs society, are punished with objectifying rejection. We hate fat people, especially those who play video games or watch anime, the disabled who dare to smile, we hate the poor who buy expensive phones on monthly payments, we hate ugly drug addicts, we hate thirteen-year-olds who dare to record TikToks inside their slummy, run-down homes while enjoying themselves, we hate people who ignore their place in the imaginary hierarchy that someone invented both in our stead and for us. For these marginalized people, especially men in a society incapable of interpreting, superficial readings of products like Fight Club signify reincarnation. The violent, seductive, fervently vague, and manly, misogynistically homoerotic insurrection of Tyler Durden is irresistible. The movie clearly disapproves of Tyler Durden and his philosophy, but people don't usually delve into things that require even the slightest analysis. I think that, during the last two decades, Fight Club has acquired greater relevance, each time we develop more within the materialistic delusion of a disinterested reality, we are the blind fury, the imprecise rage of Jack. I have always felt transparently deviant and misfit, I don't know if I really am, I work hard so that no one sees my reality even when it seems obvious to me. I nonetheless dishonestly enjoy observing, the crude, intimate reality of others, but I never make it evident if it is faked well, that is the worst of taboos, that is an unforgivable sin. Nobody breaks those social protocols, nobody takes the mask off those we consider equal, because nobody would stop them from stealing ours. That is why I fight to deny my failures and try to be normal, why I fight to maintain the protection of the pack.

In this tasteless masquerade that is reality, there are two primal anxieties governing our behavior, that of lying to survive and all the mental burden it encompasses, and that of being discovered for what we truly are. Fight Club deals with the former, with the loss of identity, with depersonalization, with the terrible routine of lethargic dystopia. The protagonist, the narrator of the story, needs someone to free him from everything he was, from the compliance that imprisons him, and in the lack of a savior, the narrator himself brings about a new identity that possesses each of his most terrible desires. Tyler Durden is the being who conceives the frustrated aspirations of the narrator mixed with a homoeroticism of such delicious irony that is lost on people who mistake assertive queerness for vigorous masculinity. It is through this communion of abject failure that the violence of the supposedly frustrated masculinity finds its audience. Tyler Durden exists in real life, we now know farright leaders recognize how to exploit the frustration of certain groups such as otakus, gamers, MRAs or incels to generate loyal soldiers ready to fight against any enemy vaguely responsible for their rejection, the impotent anarchism of yesterday has swiftly become today's reactionary ruthlessness. I do not justify the hatred and prejudice that dwells so deeply in these ideological groups, but I recognize that their first crime was simply not understanding the social masquerade, being judged as misfits and deviants without being able to defend themselves, that was their first crime, unfortunately it is never the last. They lack the character to reinvent themselves, and for this they have to reinterpret reality as a uniquely hostile one, where they are the only victims in a society of victimizers, where reason or compassion does not exist, and only overwhelming force dictates reality.

That is the contemporary relevance of Fight Club, the consumerism of the nineties was terrible, but it is miniscule compared to what it’s become today. Currently, through social media and the internet, each and everyone of us have redefined ourselves as products, pretending is a necessity of our personal marketing, and uninviting, failed products are the most dangerous individuals in this latest form of society. This is a consequence of the irreparable intrusion of corporations in our lives and individuality, hence the amplified exaggeration of our identity and its unavoidable loss. We are the inconsolable anxiety of a bought individuality; we are the expensive Louis Vuitton boot that steps on the ostracized.

NOT EVERYTHING IS...

MAGRITTE Y DUCHAMP Rossana Huerta Masks, masks, and more masks… My God, hiding under a mask. The first thing that came to mind as soon as they said that word was René Magritte and Marcel Duchamp. You are most likely wondering why? What about them, what do they have to do with the masks?

Saint-Tropez / Saint-Tropez 1909 óleo sobre tela / oil on canvas

Starting with Magritte. He is characterized by having paintings where the faces of his characters are covered by some object —but that is another story for another day—. And from Duchamp? I was considering his alter ego Rrose Sélavy as a form of mask that Duchamp used as a form of artistic experimentation

Techos de París / Roofs of Paris 1900 óleo sobre tela /oil on canvas 28 x 41 cm / 11.02 x 16.14 inches

— and a way to make fun of the art scene—. But neither is enough for me, both artists are, to a certain extent, known and what I seek is that with each reading you go with an artist that you have not heard before. This is why I struggled and I found the right artist… I present to you Francis Picabia (1879-1953), an artist quite dynamic, experimental, and a nightmare for any traditional art historian. That great title is for a simple reason: he was part of many artistic movements of the early twentieth century. There are artists who are defined by some technical ideals throughout their artistic production that makes it easy for you to identify them; this is not the case with Picabia. They try to categorize him mainly as a Dada but I think it is illogical to try to pigeonhole something un-pigeonholed. His artistic production encompasses the impressionist —Roofs of Pairs—, the divisionist —Saint-Tropez—, the cubist —Edtaonisl— and a little more of the rest, but what catches my attention about Picabia is his series of masks, especially his piece Open Mask. Made in the early ‘30s, Picabia dedicated himself to the work of "transparencies". The first of these are from 1927-1928, and are characterized by the superposition of multiple artistic references, by means of which he establishes a peculiar dialogue with the artistic tradition and the new techniques that had been created during the artistic movements of the XXth century; In this way, a complex visual reading of the palimpsest type was formed through various levels of images (Esteban, n.d.). However, Is the open mask transparency? Not at first glance but I think we can see it this way by reading the image. Picabia shows us how a woman's skull opens to us with another person who is hidden but as in the darkness of her own thoughts (Calvo, 2020). It is a reflection of any human being, we are a bit of everything, we are hidden behind layers and layers of ourselves, we only decide to show certain facets of our being with the right person. Every changing day, every day more mixed, every day more confusing; That does not mean that it is bad and that we must be constant, only that it is a natural process of our person and that Picabia tastes good. The texture that it gives to the piece I think is even on purpose, it clearly proposes to generate that visual game that we already mentioned above but it also coincides with the same discourse that we are giving to the piece: each of the cracks allows it to break layer by layer of our infinity of masks to show us something that we do not want to see, that we refuse to accept. That is why I specifically loved this work by Picabia, it shows us the nature of anyone we meet, hidden under masks that we don't even know we have. I think we can take it as an invitation to get to know ourselves and chop each of our cracks until we break the masks that we have with ourselves. I hope you enjoyed it

Edtaonisl (Ecclesiastic) 1913 óleo sobre tela / oil on canvas

Calvo, M. (2020) Máscara Abierta. Historia del Arte. https://historia-arte.com/obras/mascara-abierta Esteban, P. (s.f.) Francis Picabia: Amsel ou Sagesse. Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofía. https://www.museoreinasofia.es/coleccion/obra/amsel-ou-

Máscara abierta / Open Mask 1931 óleo sobre tela /Oil on canvas 75.2 x 52.1 cm / 29.60 x 20.51 inches

sagesse Calvo, M. (2020) Open Mask. In Historia del Arte. https://historia-arte.com/obras/mascara-abierta Esteban, P. (n.d.) Francis Picabia: Amsel ou Sagesse. Reina Sofía National Art Center Museum. https://www.museoreinasofia.es/coleccion/obra/amsel-ousagesse

www.hectoradolfoquintanarperez.com @etnofotografia

ETNOPHOTOGRAPH

Héctor AD Quintanar

Born in the Federal District in 1990 Dedicated to creating images of cultural expressions, seeking that photography is a tool in academic and anthropological language.

Awards Selected work in the International Festival of Quetzaltenango, Guatemala 2018 Work selected for publication in the book: Ser mujer en Lationoamérica UAM 2018 Winner of the Photography for Peace Festival of the University of Guanajuato 2018 Work selected in the contest "The works and the days" Colombia 2017 Winner of the Biennial of artistic and contemporary photography of Quito, Ecuador 2019 Selected work at the FINI 2019 International Image Festival Work selected in the international contest Solidarity Photography 2019 By the International Red Cross. Work selected for publication at the "Luz del Sur" 2020 Encounter Selection of Work by The Guardian as the most important photograph of February 26, 2020 Winner of the Silver Chamber for the 35 Awards International Contest. Honorable mention at the FFIEL 2020 Work selected in the contest The works and the days 2020 Will Riera Inspiration Award at Eddie Adam`s Workshop 2020

- So how long does my Veritas have left? - It won't take longer than this year, sorry. Sixteen years translated into the experience of a dog would already be a fulfilled life, however, for its human owner such time is not enough to develop as a full person, much less to let go, in the case of AB, a key piece of its complement. -There is nothing more to do - explains the vet. -No, please no. I'll do whatever it takes, just tell me what. - AB implores with cell phone in hand. For the fortune of one and misfortune of the other, "I’ll do whatever..." would be synonymous with "I will spend" in this context. Amazing would recommend coffins and picture frames to AB, each with "must-see" promotions, until he finds out what is none of his business: AB does not want to let his pet go and would do (spend) whatever it takes to keep it with him. They begin to aggressively and subliminally recommend this new Cyanide product called Halive. Halive is a synchronized halo with special pupil lenses that covers an area or object where it is placed, based on visual records that the owner is uploading to his cloud, the halo shows the expectation (or reality) that you want to see. It was created mainly for construction, for example: the halo is placed in the work area and the builders will know what to achieve at the moment in order to build “your ideal home” using personal projections as a guide. Also for more vivid renders that adapt to the perspective of where you look, and to be able to see the idea at 1: 1 scale, a more personal way of seeing reality. Or at least that is what the ad 5 seconds before the video explains that AB wants to distract himself from his helplessness to help his dog, but he can't, as time goes by, that ad won't stop tickling him despite himself. That every time it hurts more. Sensing what he does not think, she closes the video and enters her Amazing account in search of Halive with the crazy idea of "getting" her dog ... and at 12 months without interest with free shipping in 24 hours.

It is pouring rain the next day, suitable for a funeral: cold, monochrome, and cozy. AB waits expectantly at the door of his building following the shipping route on his cell phone, so much is his excitement that he leaves the building, running in flip-flops in the rain to reach his shipment at the last traffic light. Soaked and ecstatic, he waves his arms at the courier car that is almost pulling away. With the water up to his ankles and the rain raining down, AB takes the package from him and runs back home, hoping that the excitement of the moment will reinvigorate the idea of his eternal friend. He doesn't even dry out and already destroys the wet and dented package and then opens the box with the seed logo with extreme care. The Halive is, as he understood in the 5 second ad, a halo that can be placed and adapted depending on the place or object to work, AB kneels slowly to where Veritas is lying and attaches it to his collar so that the halo is above his head. AB grabs and twists Veritas trying to make him cooperate, but he can't take it anymore, he is invaded by that disruptive feeling that causes his mortality when he sees him with the halo on, since he resembles a halo. AB suddenly gets up and despite witnessing the metaphorized reality right there, he puts on his pupils, activates the Halive and begins to upload all the Veritas photos of him as a visual record. He doubts a little, but in order to stop suffering, he has to be happy; or so they taught him. The emotion, happiness, bliss and all of that semantics applied with what AB sat when he saw Veritas awake, on all fours and salivating. That was an explosion of emotions that was repeated in less voluminous versions, but more convincing that AB lives with his "rejuvenated" dog. - Oh my Veritas, you are not as smooth as before, but you are still just as beautiful!- He kisses him on the false head of him. When AB approaches, the Halive automatically selects a series of photos of his dog so that he appears to be excited with the same vibrancy as ever. When AB strokes it, the Halive selects the Veritas reel lying in different positions, on its side, belly up, with its tongue sticking out. AB loves to pet him more than before because as the series progresses, the photos change and it seems that Veritas' foliage glows every time he moves. - How silky my love - When AB throws food, he reproduces Verita's reel catching it, either food or balls, although the Halive adapts it to what is thrown at the moment.

- Oh! Veritas - she exclaims slightly frustrated- no matter how much I bathe you, you still stinkThe Halive reproduces a reel of Veritas looking towards the camera, which for AB, would be in his eyes. - Yes! But you are still just as beautiful! One afternoon AB receives visitors, DB and his partner RC, whom he has not seen for a long time. AB is about to go down to open it and says goodbye to his sitting Veritas telling him that he will not take long and sends him a kiss. As he leaves the apartment, the neighbor next door to her, Don A, catches his eye before he goes downstairs.

AB falls briefly to reality, in those few seconds a tremendous stab deepens in his belly and that pain is perceptible before the eyes of Don A, who was about to help him in his landing, when they hear DB and RC hit the gate from the entrance and shout AB's name. - Sorry, they are waiting for me, see you Don. -and he becomes absorbed in his reality again. Don A returns to his apartment holding his breath. They greet each other hugging with euphoria, AB more than they; they ask him how he is - Excellent, as always -. When climbing the stairs RC notices that DB's shoulders have traces of short pale fur, DB notices the same in RC while AB ignores them until they ask him

-Yes, what happened, Don? -Excuse me, but there is this smell and it has been going on for several days, we thought it would not last that long, but it is already unbearable. -Aha… - AB doesn't seem to get the hint and do you want me to help you know where that smell is coming from? -No, no. – Don A tries to simplify the obvious even more-I realized that the smell comes from your apartment, we passed by and the stench hit us suddenly, that's why I wanted to tell your ... - How? - AB is genuinely surprised - Smell of what? - Well ... smell of death.

- Why are your hands full of hair? - AB responds with a giggle and forced innocence - Veritas always lets go of a lot of hair, you'll seeBefore reaching the door and after AB avoids all questions about the weirdness of the situation, DB grabs his hand and observes fur, grime and dried secretions all the way inside his nails, AB snatches it back from him - Veritas is very dirty. He likes to scrub herself on the floor followed by a smile that even she doesn't believe anymore. Questions of concern are minimized as AB reactivates the Halive and opens the door.

- Helloooo, my love! - AB's reaction is the same as the first time she saw him, DB and RC are astonished to see his dog as they had never seen him before. - Oh God! - exclaims DB in horror - I know, it's still just as beautiful! exclaims horribly AB The couple cannot believe what AB believes. They try to digest the scene, but it is beyond their comprehension, they only grasp the reality that AB created for himself. Everything they express remains for themselves, AB’s denial is more resistant than reality itself. AB doesn't understand why they don't come over to pet him -He never allowed himself to be caressed so much, come on!- As Veritas melts in his hands. Such is the rawness that emanates in every aspect that both are about to intervene until RC notices that smooth box with the seed logo that he thought he had forgotten. At that point he asked DB to leave without saying more. Don A and his wife, Doña C, are waiting at the door of his apartment, but without intervening. They decide to stay oblivious to the situation and go back inside. AB continues immersed in his reality with his Veritas, although he no longer believes it, he lies on the floor on his side, just like his dog, face to face, the Halive shows Veritas raising his head suddenly as if alert of a sound that does not exist, AB does not believe it.

RC and DB leave the building, without saying anything, RC says he wants to talk to DB alone. AB manually selects a reel of his lying dog and pauses it to watch it “sleeping”. Smell is the only bridge between reality and your expectation that calls into question your fearful denial. He finds it ironic that denial is what kept his positive attitude for so long. Both are sitting in a park, after a while in which RC opened up with DB, they decide to end the relationship for peace. DB takes off the "necklace" he had given him and it is unrecognizable to RC. Each one goes their own way. RC throws his halo in the trash. It is getting dark, Don A and Doña C are having dinner, suddenly the power goes out. In the dim light they only perceive muffled sobs echoing off the neighboring wall. AB's door remained open. The married couple enters cautiously and they observe AB, collapsed and inert, staring straight at reality. Don A covers what was Veritas with a sheet while Doña C cuddles AB on the floor. They stay like this for a long time. They say nothing. They invite AB to dinner in his apartment, although they do not say it. AB accompanies them like an inert mobile.

They both spoke to AB and, finally, he took off his pupilents and released everything he always wanted to talk about, beyond Veritas, but he didn't know what he could do, he spoke of pain, of condolences ... and all that he was talking about disappeared , he felt his presence, but not his dominance. The fear, sadness and shame had been generated by and for himself, so the most human thing he could do was, once and for all, accept it.

Bruno Sánchez 45

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