Breathe
By Renata Roa Moreno
In the last few weeks, I've had a barrage of complex and opposing emotions, triggered by events that, if I'm already a stickler, have put me in a reflective and very observant mode.
My cousin's daughter, almost brother, 6 years old, died. She had a bone marrow transplant due to a prognosis of a rare disease she was born with. For 4 months she was in intensive care and just when she was discharged, after 5 days her fragile but super warrior body collapsed. Her tests were perfect. The light at the end of the tunnel had arrived after many donated platelets, sleepless nights and an unbridled wave of love.
It clearly marked the ultimate misfortune that my family system has experienced in good conscience. Yes, we've had a little bit of everything, from sudden deaths from accidents in young people (thus the passing of this same cousin's grandfather), to long and terminal illnesses. But a 6-year-old girl. Not only do I have a hard time processing it, I am still paralyzed to see how to accompany this terrible bereavement. The colors are clouding, darkening. I am in front of these masterpieces that their palette are muted colors and that make you feel a tremendous hollowness of pain and nostalgia, even though there is light and color. There is hardness and rigidity. There is so much detail that you manage to see any imperfection that was captured by that critical, but at the same time raw and real look of the artist.
In contrast, and at the same time, life shows me another side full of lots of light and bright color. I see it and it reminds me of these impressionist works that manage to capture everyday life in a subtle, light and very spontaneous way. It seems that even the shadows that are painted, as the movement itself suggests, are not black. They are only more saturated tones to give depth, without dulling the work or becoming focal points. Who would have thought that this would happen just when my third book is about to come out, a book that connects me with great illusion? When my nephew, with whom I became an aunt for the first time, is flying off to connect with the life of his dreams. When my other niece materializes one more of her dreams and so I can list the cascade of blessings. Trivia, probably, and even possible defense mechanisms to hold on to the beautiful in life. But in this moment that I live, I realize that I had struggled to integrate this lesson and that by the way, art had always reminded me: life is a multicolored expression where all colors are necessary and you decide which current you embrace.
I guess everything is projection. My favorite currents have always been impressionism and expressionism, followed by fauvism and surrealism. I would like to think that my intensity and need to express, are identified there. If we look at the development of the great artists, they all started their way with the art academy to learn technique and then evolved to find their own style. It seems to me that life, or at least my journey, is like that. I started cataloging the seasons as good or bad, black or white, bright or dark, duality always and in everything. But if we understand this concept in depth, we would see that this duality actually invites integration, never separation. Like a work of art. The two cohabit at the same time and in the same space. I can feel happy in a very sad moment. And yes, I have understood that the most screaming way to confront and reflect on life is death. This duality is always present. In everything, and in nothing.
The opinions expressed are the responsibility of the authors and are absolutely independent of the position and editorial line of the company. Opinion 51.
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