For most people, and that includes historians as well, the Holocaust ended with the termination of World War II. This has been accepted as dogma, even Holocaust institutions believe so. It is easy to see why one would agree with this contention. After all, all the official killings of Jews directed by the German government ceased with the liberation of the camps and the termination of the Third Reich regime.
It is my contention that the Holocaust did not end with the termination of WWII. In fact, I am proposing that the Holocaust continues to this very day. It would be an error to think that the Holocaust can be defined by the number of kills. Murdering Jews was only a part of the Holocaust. There is another component of it that did not involve killing: I am talking about suffering, about altering on a permanent basis the mentality of those that were not killed, of affecting the thought process and behavior of the living.
Some time ago I was asked to write an essay on contemporary Jewish Art. As can be gathered by even a superficial review of the topic, Jewish Art is not homogeneous, does not have a signature, and would not stand as such under scrutiny. Nonetheless, I began to think about Jewish Art, what or how could I come to some conclusion on the subject, and it was not until I came to the conclusion that Jewish Art could not be defined by a Jewish measurement that I was able to dig further. Jewish Art does not result from the fact that one is Jewish, it can not be related to Bar-Mitzvah ceremonies, it does not depend upon the observance of dietary laws, it does not come from observing the Sabbath, it is not genetically determined.
As I was defoliating, methodically, what constituted Jewish Art, I was afraid that at the end there would be nothing left. Simply to say that a painting is "Jewish Art" because it depicts a menorah or the star of David is so simplistic and reductionistic that it aches to idiocy. It was then, when I was at the trough of my analysis, that I found what defines Jewishness in Art. Any artistic creation based on experiences, intellectual or emotional, derived from the Holocaust as a result of being Jewish, constituted Jewish Art. Superficially this would leave out any art produced by a Jew who has not been affected by the Holocaust. But my contention is that if there is such a Jew walking around, he is for all practical purposes a very insensitive individual, which makes for a very poor artist, one I would not want to include in "Jewish Art". As to pre-Holocaust Jewish Art, I am afraid to say that pogroms and persecutions influenced artists then.
In a similar manner, I am inclined to accept that there are very few Jews that have not been affected by the Holocaust perpetrated during the classic period of 1933-1945. What can we say of those that survived but where left dispossessed of the belongings they had prior to 1933? And what of those whose education was cut prematurely by the policies of that horrible period. Or what can we say of those who survived after watching their families taken to the slaughter. Even if these Jews did not spend a day in a concentration camp, their lives were altered forever. Similarly, there are millions of Jews that grew up under the gloom of the Holocaust, whose outlook on life was affected by the darkened skies that persisted even after the ovens and the burning trenches filled with the carrion of hundreds of thousands of Jews were finally extinguished. Even those that appeared to have been spared all the gloom were affected. My parents saw to leave Europe in the early 1930's. They were not threatened by the Germans and their French and Polish and Hungarian and Latvian allies, rather, they were permitted to flourish in Colombia. I was born in that environment. At best, it could be said that my being raised in Colombia amidst relative luxury and peace, spared me of much of what my cousins were experiencing in Europe, was in itself a byproduct of the Holocaust. At worst, even I, surrounded by almost infinite love, by comfort, and by skies that never lacked blue or butterflies, was continually touched by the Holocaust when I saw newly emigrated faces, when I saw in my parents‚ faces the angst derived from memories of the old country, or the disappearance of their old friends and when eventually as I grew up and began to read about what had happened in Europe began to incorporate the universal pain that floated in the air around the globe.
I can say without fear of being wrong, even under the protest of some purists that the Holocaust continues. It continues inside those that survived it, in their solitude and the utmost despair of having lost their childhood. It continues in the children of survivors that were denied a fully open relationship with their parents, separated by an invisible wall of terrible memories. It continues in a single tear shed when someone, confronted for a moment with a photograph or a story about a person that suffered or perished at the hands of the Nazis and their accomplices, experiences if only for an instant, pain. It survives even if only a single artist allows himself or herself to become a vessel and channels this emotional history into his or her work. And it survives if there are museums that allow people to view either the relics of that time or the artistic creations inspired by those horrible days.
Our society has arbitrarily decided that a crime ends at the moment that it ends. This is nothing but a decision of convenience. When someone kills a person, the crime ends at that very moment. Then, the courts convene to judge and punish the perpetrator and all go home satisfied: judge, jury, reporters — all, but the victim and those that loved him. The victim is deprived for ever and ever of experiencing life, a true measure of infinity. Those that are left behind, who loved the victim, are not only missing him, but are deprived forever of sharing with their loved one anything at all. Thus, to say that the crime ended and the case is closed appears somewhat insensitive under this particular light. And so it is with the Holocaust. The perpetrators may be long gone, the countries involved might have signed peace treaties, but the ground where so many victims were buried or burned lost its chemical similarity with the adjacent, virginal ground. The world has been deprived for eternity any and all events and creations that the murdered would have produced otherwise. Not one but an infinite number of generations will not happen, ever. And those that survived, in proximity or distanced from the victims, will never be the same.
I can even venture to say that it is this perpetuity of the Holocaust, this lingering effect, the very factor that may prevent another Holocaust. Fire does not destroy the forest that already is on fire. Time must be allowed for grasses to grow, for trees and forest to develop, before a new fire can burn them down. It is this simple principle the one that should encourage us to keep the sacred flames, for it is as if the brazes of the Holocaust, its emotional memories, are the very fire that keeps it alive and at the same time keeps it from re-occurring.
WHAT I AM NOT
Not long ago, carried by some crazy emotion, I suddenly became aware that I
was not whole, that I was missing something. During some sleepless nights
that followed, sensing every bed sheet wrinkle under my body while awaiting
for the morning sun to insinuate itself over the distant mountains, I began
to introspect about what I was missing.
Of course, I am missing my parents. The death of parents is not to be
underestimated as to the impact it has over children. I am not talking
about becoming parentless at age ten. I am talking about losing for ever
the capacity to turn around with pride and show your parents what you have
accomplished, or simply turn around knowing that they will be right there,
with those reassuring smiles, telling you that no matter what, you are a
winner, and that they trust you will overcome any obstacles, as it was when
I was ten. But I am not talking about missing parents. It is something
more complex than that.
I remember that when I
was a kid, I already was missing something. I became aware of it when
the MacDonald brothers called me that first time "perro Judío"
(loosely translated as dirty Jew). And there were many other occasions
during my childhood and adolescence when I was reminded that I was a
dirty Jew. In any other respect I was a Colombian, or so I thought.
Except that my skin was somewhat lighter than many of my friends and
classmates and that I was Jewish and they were Catholic. So I guess,
that at that time, somewhere deep in me, it was established that I was
not a Colombian. Oh sure, I was a Colombian by definition. I had been
born there and that is that. But it had not been me the one to draw
boundaries on the sand, it was them that were telling me what I was
not. Of course, one adapts to this kind of things. The mind of a young
lad is plastic enough.
As I grew older and became a teenager
I entered Medical School. I felt good about it. I remember to being
scared. It was because of the awesome responsibility that rested upon
my shoulders. I was the youngest in the class and for that matter, the
university. My sister had already walked those same corridors and she
had been the best student. Everybody expected me to do well. I did well,
although not as well as my sister had and yet, I still was reminded
once in a while that I was not one with the nature that surrounded me.
Those occasions were few, but meaningful. Whenever I was arguing with
someone any sociopolitical topic, at some point during the argument
I would be reminded that I could not possible be argued with because
I was a Jew. This was an interesting intellectual experience. I am a
very good argumentalist (and I am making this word up if it does not
exist already). So, when I entered a conversation on politics, or religion,
or something as pedestrian as arguing about potholes and why the municipality
did not fix them, somewhere along the argument, after failing to convince
me and fearing I would convince them, they would say that I thought
differently because I was Jewish. Mind you that Jewish here was not
meant as an insult or even as a religion, but as a culture and way of
thinking - A bigoted assumption in addition of being wrong. Again, I
was reminded that I was not one of them, I was not a Colombian.
But if I was not a Colombian, what was I? I was Jewish. But being Jewish
was not equivalent to being a Colombian and should have not been
incompatible with it. I was missing something. What?
When I finished medical school, I immigrated to the United States to pursue
graduate studies at Princeton. I already knew that I was not returning to
Colombia. My sister had attempted to return to Colombia to teach and do
research at the university. She had encountered every imaginable
opposition. Not that the university did not want her, or that her
colleagues did not like her, on the contrary. Rather, the government placed
obstacles to importing the scientific equipment she needed. They even tried
to prevent the acquisition of air conditioning for her laboratory. After
three years she quit and immigrated to America to teach at Cornell, her alma
matter. So I was basing my decision on learned experience, I also knew
that I would always be looked upon as "different". So I self-imposed my own
exile from the land of mañana.
Princeton was a great experience. It not only was my first point of contact
with my new nation, but it also offered me a great postgraduate education.
Nonetheless, I also had a minor rub with my Jewishness. One of the most
famous professors in the Psychology Department, the man that autographed for
me his book, The Human Senses: "To Saul who makes good sense of his senses",
could not bring himself to refer to Israel as Israel, he called it
Palestine, and this during the 1967 war! So I realized that my new country,
at least in this respect, was probably not different to my old country.
The following years offered to me possibilities that were unimaginable.
After all, this indeed was the country of opportunities. But once in a
while I got a whiff at the old anti-Semitism. In fact, I lost my job as a
Neurosurgeon at a famous clinic because I was a Jew. They had hired me
probably as a token Latino or Hispanic, making the mistake to assume that
people from South America were Catholic, and not realizing that a small
fraction, less than half a per cent, were Jewish.
Looking back at things and events, it is not even the cloaked anti-Semitism
that has bothered me through all these years. It was something deeper.
Standing in the present I would look at the past. But not at my past, but
my parents past. The landscapes I saw were not the landscapes of my youth
but of their youth. It was not me in my city that I saw, but them in their
village. I was not even looking, but rather sensing. It was not a sensory
memory but rather, a sensual memory, an emotional memory. My Jewish feet
were walking on the mud of the stetl streets in Besarabia. I was smelling
the garlic and onions as their mother and then my mother used to cook with.
What touched me, was not the present in my new country but my past in a
country I never lived in, a country that my parents despised. Kletzmer
music rings in my ears and yet I never heard the groups my parents told me
about. Yiddish theater was deep in my veins and I don't speak Yiddish. And
that, if you can imagine, is really an experience.
During my youth I went to Temple, often on Friday nights, but definitely on
High Holidays. Then, for years my wife and I did not go to Temple. When we
finally decided to go, we did not feel comfortable. The service was mostly
in English with some Hebrew interspersed. We do not know Hebrew and yet we
felt somewhat betrayed that the service was in English. The melodies that I
listened to in my childhood resonated in my head and were dissonant with the
melodies sung in my adoptive country. Gone was that minor key and ancient
cry to God. The translations of the Hebrew text were so politically correct
that they lost part of the original message. So I, who hardly understand
Hebrew, am missing a more conservative approach to religion. Not to say
that I would be satisfied with an all Hebrew religious service -an apparent
Well, here I am, a Jew, living amidst the second largest Jewish population
in the world. And yet, my fears are not the same than the fears of most
American born Jews. My longings are different. Israel is not the same,
does not mean the same for me and for them. American Jews tend to be
pragmatic and incapable to comprehend the real geographical size of Israel.
To add salt to the wound, American Jews tend to think that peoples in other
parts of the world and of other cultures, think and can be reasoned with
like if they were Americans. This creates a deep gap between me and those
that surround me. Americans see Israel as another country. I see Israel
like a magical kingdom. In general American Jews see Israeli earth as the
substrate to grow fruit trees or build tenements, I see that same earth as a
silent witness to all my history.
America has been a great country to live in these last few decades of my
life and I anticipate that it will remain my home for the last years of my
life as well. But I am not perceived by others as an equal. There is
always a distinction between me and them, be it Jew or not. Unlike any kid
growing up in this magnificent country of almost infinite opportunities, I
can not even aspire to be President.
So, in the final analysis, I can
say that I am not a religious Jew, I am not fully accepted by Colombians
as a Colombian, I am not perceived fully as an American, I am not a
Holocaust survivor so I can not be a witness to the horrors of anti-Semitism.
When I feel deeply the pain of Holocaust victims I am perceived as some
kind of weirdo. Because I see the differences between me and others
so well defined, I feel like a plant grown in water. And like a tomato
grown in water I have extensive roots, but no ground to grow them into.
I am not an Israeli. In the eyes of some orthodox Jew I am probably
not even a Jew, given all the sins and transgressions I have committed
against the commandments of our Torah. I am also not discontent with
my position. I would not know how to live otherwise. I just feel a little
bit sad. Now, for what I am, that is an altogether other matter.
THE HOLOCAUST: INSIGHTS OR MADNESS
This morning I asked myself what
possible qualifications do I have to dare write about the Holocaust. I was born
thousands of miles away from the European Theater in a land that some may
describe as paradisiacal. My early memories involve feeling lukewarm gentle
breezes upon my face. I had parents that loved me until the very moment of their
deaths when I was already an adult and years after they had molded me. Neither
them nor I had ever been political prisoners.
If I were a survivor from a death
camp in Poland no one would question my qualifications, even if I had been a
toddler at the time. But here I am, writing these first words on a topic as
horrible and sad as can be.
My parents had the foresight or
the good fortune to realize that Romania, in the early nineteen-thirties was not
a country propitious for Jews. From stetls in northeastern Romania they moved
until they arrived to Colombia. When I asked why Colombia? They replied, because
uncle Manuel (Meier) was there. But there never was any good answer as to why
uncle Manuel ended up in Colombia. In any event, the earliest migration of any
member of my family to any South American country had occurred within five years
of that of my parents. So they were spared the Holocaust. In reviewing
historical events, I found that nothing was left of their little villages, only
the names carved in stone at Yad-Vashem in Jerusalem.
My first memories are of me and
my father’s father walking a few blocks to the outskirts of town and standing
under the shade of a tree while my grandfather pulled out an onion wrapped in
newspaper from his coat pocket, carefully salted it and then proceeded to eat it
with delicious crunching bites. He looked identical to all those Jews I later
saw in photographs from the Holocaust period, being trucked away from their
homes to never again be seen alive.
I knew nothing about the
Holocaust. Although I distinctly remember that my parents could not refer to
anything German without following it with some derogatory insult, I did not know
why. Then, perhaps when I was 3 or four years old, I found out. I had a friend
who had a swing and fruit trees in his front yard. There I spent many an
afternoon playing along with one of his cousins. She had a deformed body that
required her to wear a chest-neck brace. I can not associate any negative
memories to those afternoons that I would spend with her. Then, one day, she
died. This time, my questions could not go unanswered. She had survived a
concentration camp and after the war the family had immigrated to Colombia. She
suffered of tuberculosis of the spine or of some developmental-nutritional
deformity of the spine. Her rib cage was so constrictive that she could not
breathe well. She probably died from pneumonia.
In close proximity to her death,
perhaps a year or two later, Menachem Begin visited our home. The British had a
price on his head I was told, proudly, by my father who at the time was the
president of the Jewish community in Cali. He was collecting money for the
defense of Israel. I remember Begin as a small man, with a dark, bushy
moustache, savage black hair partially combed back, and an intense aura. I
became aware of my Jewish identity.
As I grew up, I was permitted to
go out alone on my own. My universe consisted of a two hundred-meter radius
within which all my friends lived. All were Jews like I was, except for two
brothers who were Catholic. I went to a Jewish grammar school were all my eight
classmates were Jewish. I remember being called a "Jew Dog [Perro Judio]"
by my two Catholic friends when we had children’s disagreements. It never went
further than that. Before I was ten years old I was aware that Jews were not
welcomed in certain social clubs. During the first five years of my live I lived
one block away from the "Club Colombia". At that age I was not aware
that my parents were not welcomed into its hallowed halls.
My parents considered my
education above all politically correct social rules, so when it came time to
enter high school they pulled me out of the Hebrew School and they matriculated
me in the best high school in Cali: Colegio Santa Librada. I was now one of five
Jews among a thousand students. I was never discriminated against by my
professors, but I was excused from taking a class on religion; my arguments were
too controversial. During those years I remember that whenever I got involved in
an intellectual discussion of socio-politico-religious nature, I would be cut
short or dismissed by the sentence; "oh, but you are Jewish". This
continued into medical school.
When I was about fourteen years
old, I had established a solid friendship with two Catholic girls who lived on
my way home as I returned from high school, two blocks from the bus stop. They
were beautiful, rich and exotic. We chatted for about an hour every school day
for several years. One day, one of them, Gloria, called me to the side and began
looking at me suspiciously. Finally, she asked me to show her my forehead. That
week, the nuns at her high school, had taught them that Jews have deep seated
eyes (so that they can look out without being seen), and horns, which they shave
and cover, cleverly, with their hair, and tails that they managed to hide under
the pants. I did not need to take my pants off, it surprised her to find no
trace of horns on my forehead.
During my years in medical
school, I served hundreds of pediatric patients suffering from diarrhea and
malnutrition. Their mothers would bring them to the emergency room when the
babies refused to eat anymore. I saw the prominent heads and dried up bodies
with the bones pulling on the dried skin, and the eyes, always large, open and
dried, looking without seeing, crusted with dry mucus and the white dust residue
of tears. I realized then that these children looked identical to the children
and adults that populated concentration camps in Europe during the Holocaust.
Suddenly, what I had seen only in pictures, became a vivid image. Even more, I
could touch them, I could smell them and hear their weak complains and shallow
In later years, as a practicing
neurosurgeon, I had the privilege of helping many people, but I also had the
awesome responsibility of seeing death face to face. I had to tell patients and
their families that they were very ill and that they were going to die. I saw
their eyes reacting to my news, I saw the hope, the desperation, the anger, the
despair and finally the acceptance, all within seconds. I realized that if I had
been there, in Poland and Germany and Lithuania and France and in all those
European countries at the time Jews were confronted with their final destiny, I
would have seen those same eyes.
Yes, I have studied the
Holocaust. I have seen hundreds of photographs of the perpetrators and of their
victims. I have read books and documents and stories. I have heard survivors
recollecting their memories. All these, make me an informed person vis-à vis
the Holocaust. As an artist and a poet I have also dared to go back in time, to
transport myself as an invisible, impotent witness and feel horrible pain and
sadness for hundreds of hours as I explore the Holocaust in search of an
impossible, unfathomable event. There is not a day that I do not think of the
During the opening nights of
exhibitions of my paintings and poems inspired by the Holocaust at Holocaust
Museums throughout the nation, I am asked to speak for about an hour. I read my
poems. At the end of my reading, often people asked me if I believe in God and
how do I explain the Holocaust within that framework. I have always answered
with a side brush, or by admitting that I do believe in a God even if he did
permit the Holocaust to happen. This kind of answer has never left me satisfied.
I decided to sit quietly in my
studio and ask myself that question: is there a God and how did he permit the
It is curious the way God may
confirm his presence to us. No major miracles for me. I was never given the
benefit of watching the sea part for me, nor I can say that my life and any of
its achievements, if one can call them that, came easy. Even though I was given
a Jewish education that should have imparted on me a religious foothold, I was
always a doubter and a thinker. Sure, whenever I was in need I prayed to God for
a favor, but this hardly qualifies for experiencing God’s presence. Sitting
quietly, I am free to introspect. When, if ever, have I experienced God’s
presence? Curious how the mind works. When I asked this question, I am bombarded
by several memories that can be catalogued into distinctive headings: nature,
old people and dogs.
Nature surrounds each and every
one of us. But in a few occasions, its awesome beauty can bring God close to us.
For me, certain landscapes, mostly of rolling hills with a brook and a certain
illumination can be of such intensity, of such soft power, that I feel I am not
alone. I have been only once a witness of something out of the ordinary as it
concerns natural phenomena. One night, in my Tesuque home, my wife and I were
getting ready to retire. As always, we took the dogs out for their last evening
nature call. It was a cloudy autumn night, chilly and without stars. As we
walked up the long driveway, the mountain was half truncated by the clouds. All
was silent. Then, slowly, a finger of cloud descended from the sky. It was
conical in shape, about ten feet across in its narrowest point. It kept reaching
farther and farther down and it finally settled in the inner patio of our home.
There was no wind, no sound, just a long finger of cloud nebula connecting our
home to the sky. It remained there for as long as we stood there contemplating
it. As I was looking at it, it occurred to me that a cloud just like the one I
was watching could have guided Moses and his tribe. I also felt I was not alone.
Some of the most exasperating
moments in my life have been spent as a victim of some old person. I am rushing
somewhere and right in front of me, driving at twenty miles per hour I see a
pair of knuckles holding the wheel of a car. There is nothing I can do but
swallow my own acid and suffer. Jet, there also have been times, when old people
have given me an unexpected present. I am pushing a shopping cart in a
supermarket in the fresh produce section, when out of the corner of my eye
something catches my interest. I turn my head and I see an old couple, with
their oversized clothing and their wrinkled necks jutting out of their collars.
He is holding onto the cart, and at that very moment I see her straitening his
jacket collar while she looks at him with eyes that express pure love and
tenderness. I felt there was a saintly halo surrounding such a simple act. I
felt touched by some pure entity and I felt God’s presence. Our culture has
relegated old people to the category of inconveniences, of Medicare loads. But
ancient cultures, even as far as recent as our parents and their parents,
thought that old people were to be respected. Why?
We adopted two dogs. Our own dog,
the one we had raised since a puppy, had been murdered by a driver with enough
gas but not enough brains. For six months we felt sad and empty. Then, we
decided to adopt two Rottweilers. The male weighing one hundred and sixty five
pounds and the female ninety-five. We flew to Michigan with tickets paid by
friends of the Rottweiler’s Rescue. We brought the dogs home in a one-way
rented car. The two dogs live with us in our mountain retreat and partake of
most of our activities. What they mostly do though, is follow us from room to
room as we go about our daily living. The male sits or lies down by my side, the
female by my wife’s side. Periodically, they call us to caress them.
Periodically they come to us to caress us. Their lives are completely and
totally dedicated to being tender. Their large brown eyes reflect softness and
love. There is not an ounce of evil in them. Being surrounded by them makes me
feel that there is an essence of pure goodness, and I can not help but to think
As I was thinking about the
Holocaust, I was reminded that before I tackle such a big issue, I better look
first into smaller events. The Talmud says that he who saves a live is like if
he had saved a world. There is great wisdom in this dictum. But if it is so,
then the converse must also be so: he who kills a man is like if he had killed a
world. Even though one of the Ten Commandments speaks of not killing our fellow
men, Society by in large, has delegated the act of killing to a minor,
self-limiting crime, often with extenuating circumstances. It has gotten so bad,
we have gotten so desensitized to murder, that we have created a series of
adjectives to better describe a murder so that the criminal may be punished
accordingly. We talk of a heinous crime. For a while this did the trick. But
lately, we have been toiling with the concept of a "hate crime". This
latter category encompasses the really bad crimes, as opposed to those other
murders. But if we stop and think for a moment, a kill, the taking of a human’s
life, constitutes a terminal act. The victim will never be able to express his
or hers passions, emotions, wants. Never will be able to produce or create
anything. And if this was not enough, think that the last moments of the victim’s
life, that should have been the sweetest, are engulfed in pain, anxiety, fear.
Our reaction to a single murder
should be one of a sense of total devastation, of total incredulity that such an
act could have been committed. How could it be possible that it did happen? Isn’t
there a God? But you see, save for the surviving loved ones of the murdered
victim, no one else is questioning God. It is this lack of outrage that contains
the answer to the question that I am asked about the Holocaust. It is us that
permitted the Holocaust. It is us that permit any and every genocide on the face
of this earth. And it is us, and only us that can stop it from ever occurring
Here is a question that I have been asking lately. When is Art dishonest?
Perhaps it was the Zeitgeist that compelled me to ask such a question,
for lately I have been bombarded with many art shows, both in galleries
and museums that share in common an archetypal title such as "From
the far to the near: Blind visions of paregoric pragmatism". My
initial impulse has been to disregard the entire exhibit, but, not wanting
to appear troglodyte, biting my tongue, I have tried to decipher these
titles. I figured that somewhere, hidden in those words, there is an
important message that the artists or the curators of such shows want
me, the viewer, to comprehend. That is why they came up with these kind
of titles in the first place. After many such instances, I have learned
that often, with dictionary at hand, one can derive some meaning from
those artsy titles. But then, with meaning in hand, I have visited the
exhibit and to my surprise, there is nothing hanging on the wall, or
crawling on the ground that relates in any way to the hidden message
that I so diligently searched for in my New Collegiate. In fact, though
feeling betrayed, I often decide to just look at the art contained within
the exhibition space --thinking that given my intellectual flaws I am
not capable of making the connection between exhibition title and it's
contents that an obviously highly intelligent form has created -- and
again find myself at a loss. For very often, there is no connection
that I can gather, among the various pieces hung. So I leave the gallery/museum
with some feeling that somewhere along, when cells were actively dividing
inside my mother's womb, serious divisional errors occurred during the
formation of my telencephalon, resulting in my inability to appreciate
the show I leave behind. The situation is further aggravated when I
meet, later on, some acquaintances that have enjoyed thoroughly the
show. Their faces are swollen with divine grace, no doubt achieved at
the exhibit. This really makes me mad, so I begin questioning them.
At first, unaccustomed to being questioned, they looked at me beatifically,
proceeding to imply that I had not "comprehended" the artists'
or curators' motives. But when I pursue, relentlessly, questioning them
often found that they are people seriously ill. They have been infected
with that, practically fatal, neurotropic virus that makes people see
clothing where there is none, especially the emperor's. Will we see
again during our lifetime exhibitions that promise us that inside those
walls will be oranges, and that indeed we'll find oranges hanging from
the walls? Who knows? Perhaps a topic for another occasion.