To Josep Moncada

The soft and delicate veil which covers all metaphors has been slowly and deviously torn: through the gap we can discern, half curious and half moved, a fragment of skin that has just been caressed, kissed, stroked… an instant of flesh from which our eyes can not be pulled away.

Or perhaps it is the white canvas of the invisible time of lovers which, wisely and involuntarily, slips away exposing a female torso or bottom, with an impossible extension and contortion that can only be realized by a dedicated and expert act of love.

The pertinent look, which kisses before speaking and whispers without touching, is joyful and innocent, equally indecent and seductive… he cherishes women. He paints and lives on his white and blue island, he writes and reflects sitting, among friends, in a café not far from the harbour, surrounded by racket, distant and bright, wisely and voluntarily withdrawn from the hell of mankind, from its miserable humans.

He knows that he has come to this world more to bless than to condemn. He knows his gift does not belong to him, but has been lent to him by the protective goddess of warm, gentle awakenings of those in love, and is of her merit only. So he devotes himself, and valiantly offers us the gift, with serenity and intense passion, of his everyday universe, a distant and cynical echo of a higher one, although undoubtedly one not as warm.

G. G.

Ciutadella, febrary de 2005