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Carlos Saura, Let’s imagine a world



Let’s imagine a world, a different country with geniuses like Carlos Saura, inventors of universes, creators of life that did not exist, music that was abused by them, drama that was obliterated and mldr; Let’s imagine the creators are dedicated to art in all its versions They would have had in life and in full the applause or place this Aragonese without military belts deservedin a country now, where there will be no silence but congratulations, weeping for him, applauding him or missing him…

Let us imagine a different country which is not really Spain but a utopia or a foreigner who would have allowed him to do so, and celebrate him with his genius, left behind the influences of Goya or Picasso, and they would enshrine him in that improbable country. , such as celluloid island, painting and photography, A space for young people to study their work, from nonsense to genius or fantasy. Let us imagine there was a place to understand why he took up all kinds of music, so stubbornly, as if he had a personal commitment to musical feeling as the seventh sense of his soul.

Let’s imagine Carlos Saura and see him in his house inside Medium collara few steps away from the train that took him to Madrid; In his room of relics, cameras are always ready, his portraits and self-portraits, as well as his jokes; In the TV room there is an incomparable treasure of film and photography books, and from here he watches how his dogs and other animals develop.

All is well outside that room where he gives interviews or reads or writes his books and novels, but behind it, by the place of the kitchen and lunch, there is a huge table where he displays for himself or for those who come the paintings he prepares for successive exhibitions, for painting, pictures, as if he had torn up the almanac and was His age is a mirage on the calendar.

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Sometimes, you don’t have to imagine it, he’ll go out to eat with his daughter Iwhose guardian angel was, or with his son Anthony, or at least I enjoyed some of those picnics, once in the midst of a mist I caught a cold colado in winter, and, moreover, I was comforted by the wine he drank to add color to the soup. One of those times we talked about this country and the war, the one that happened, the one that brought fear into the body of his entire family. This country has not recovered from those perverted ideas that brought death, as well as the death of Lorca, which was one of his most important projects. He told me about that war and this time he was watching it from the corners of the world: “I have lived through the war and it scares me that there is another war in Spain..

He lived it in Madrid, Valencia and Barcelona”, because my father was secretary to the Minister of Finance of the Republic & rdquor; he traveled with the Republican Army, “I have seen bombings and demolished houses, and people hanging”. I have seen death in war, except in Valencia, where there was a haven of peace “. at that time Manuela MinaSaura, the former mayor of Madrid, has expressed similar concerns to hers, which is why Saura told me: “I’ve lived through the war and it scares me and the possibility of another. I know it’s brewing, and I agree with Manuela Mena on that. It’s fading a little bit. You have to be very careful, You have to stop it. Once the right and the left start moving, or the church and the army move, I’m terrified of what can happen.”

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He trusted “that the smart people of this country & rdquor; agreed” so that this wouldn’t happen & rdquo;. It was over, he told me,” and the Spanish War was a brutal battle between brothers ”. The specter of a treacherous past is present in many of his films, in his documentaries, in his photography, in the miscellaneous art he kept going, to the very end, as if it had always been A confrontation with a world unlike the one he was waiting for, which represented blood, murder and hatred.

“When you stop, you’re dead,” he said to me too, speaking of health, and thus of the uncertain future. Around the house, he was living his life, he was working with singing, looking at the clouds, imitating the frequency of dogs, always waiting for the change of seasons to give him a song to be a farmer and an actor, a man. He laughs and is also characterized by a tenacious battle against banality.

He viewed death (he had pneumonia shortly before the age of 89) “in a certain natural way, though I didn’t want to die.”. At the time, we had to talk about that last space he looked at from the side, and he was preparing his work in Lorca, another reason for history to escape the specter of war. “I really like his childlike spirit, fascinated by the things that happen. The same-sex relationship he has with the many people who contribute so much to him is very interesting. I don’t care if he falls in love with a woman or a man. But that feeling of a constant connection with love and affection… I like it.” In Lorca. And then, his commitment to the left and Spanish life, being also a cleric & mldr; but they shot him, and that’s it, they killed him & mldr; at 38 years old. The Spanish war is very cruel. On both sides, although from Obviously more fascist side.

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It seemed to him that the murder of Lorca was unforgivable. He said it this way, like someone extracting from his memory another drama that seemed to him, his hand holding the chair, life spinning in his memory, about to get up to look for a painting, or a book, or a piece of music. Something that brings him back to today’s world. Unfortunately, he said to me again, ‘I don’t believe in immortality; I would like to, but we are animals and we have limits in life, we disappear and that’s it. Perhaps we are some kind of essay about a human being invented by someone, as Dostoevsky said & rdquor ;.

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A shadowy hand highlighted in extreme black what he told me of Death, and now that I have reread it, I see him indeed traveling across the sky, and saying those words or other, when he reached in the air his true nature of strangeness or drama, were the true essence of his work and hope, For the joyful and at the same time elusive nature, the manner of being a genius he should have had, from his childhood, since the accursed war, a more generous room where he deposited his immense ability as an artist.

but he was born in this country, and gave to this country all he could, though the elusive reason never took notice that now it would be a great revelry, of applause and glory, no longer reach him where time took him–the air of time so much energy, so much Out of love for what he did. A biography in which wit and doom alternate, the endless voice, the eerie image of a frenzied contemporary artist.

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