Getting colors from moods

/ 29 July, 2015

Hahaha, Elvia R. Castro is arrogant, egocentric and impolitic. Her books attest to this. Those of us lucky enough to carry her courage can attest to that. But these peculiarities, abominable for many, have come to become into a kind of literary nature and all that around the projection of her knowledge. We know, those who can touch her, that sometimes she is so fragile that causes compasion. Once digested this by any means, I will focus without specifying -because it is not the purpose-in her last literary production: a book of ultra modern structure; divided into three cha pters and an album: tumult of wisdom cultivated to avid brains and cold hearts. Worked with and from Los colores del ánimo to shake the universal nonsense and stranded languages. Here is a truly courageous book without the slightest intention of stimulating depressions, an incentive of the soul; bombshell shown as a declaration of principles and that strives to artists who, I think, at this time kindly remove their hats; even those who did not participate when they could be part of this feast. (Unfortunately they lost the dance). This radiograph contains and nourishes theories supported not only by talent (which is obvious), but by that endeavor of living revolutionizing concepts which due to intellectual laziness or paternalism are taken for granted. That is, Elvia has preferred to live in a caste of third bank, as Eugenio Barba would say, and from there promoting her role as the rightful thinking person she is. She penetrates, in most of the arguments grouped in this book, aesthetic, social and ideological inclination of artists she has chosen, making them scapegoats; she exhibits, provokes them, absorbs the essence by using for this purpose a transvestite philosophy that leaves room for any judgment, thus opting for the relative, and therefore modernity. Her maxims and reflections progress usually on her intuition, are nothing while living in that state; (Elvia does not take the risk of saying or writing what she thinks should remain virgin in the brain) then operating as meditations that reveal and take for granted the importance of what is preferred. Thus she logically sublimates her chosen ones: guard and trampoline for initiated whom she uses, with decency, to show with the course of the days and nights that she and only she was right. And as it is expected she notoriously boasts of her success by posting on her Facebook wall: And who, if not me, could make such a discovery. It is not my fault, lol. (Note this as a fable to soften an even more insolent reality).

The reading of this beautiful volume will be ductile; she has achieved mastery on it (I refer it for all the stuff): verbal constructions that are based on a modest and secret complexity, sometimes in a very street colloquialism, almost marginal. Naturally she already groups, as a privilege, years of experience and mastery of a profession that baptized her as voice empowered to these matters of the arts. Relaxed as water in the water, with unquestionable judgment she argues what flows below the work that the artist leaves means suspended to give polysemic nature to her creation, and that she dismantles suggesting that growers to flee from weak winds. She does it knowing her choice and hopefully reiterates: if I put the eye on you is because I know you can. Then she burns the most perceptible idea and we only read in her writing the other notion, the enriched one, to our joy, for her arrogance, egocentrism and impolitic attitude. Then she passes through the kitchen to turn off the light, but remembers what her aunt says and leaves it on up to see if the damn light bulb finally burns out.

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