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Diamante, HugoCatamarca experience : Terraventura
1a ed. - Catamarca : INSPIRELAB, 2009.200 p. ; 35x27 cm.
ISBN 978-987-25228-2-7
1. Fotografías. 2. Turismo. I. TítuloCDD 770
DIRECCIÓNInspireLab
www.inspirelab.net
DISEÑO
estudio klazein
www.klazein.com FOTOGRAFIASMario Quiroga
Nicolás Anguita
Pablo Coria
Ariel Pacheco
© 2009. Queda terminantemente prohibida, sin autorización escrita de los titulares del copyright, bajo las sanciones establecidas en las leyes, la reproducción total o parcial de esta obra, en forma identica, extractada o modificada, en castellano o cualquier otro
idioma, por cualquier medio o procedimiento.
CONTENIDOSPoemas y Escritos a Editorial SARQUISLuciana Cancino
CORRECCIÓN DE TEXTOSPatricia del Mar
TRADUCCIONESConversemos SRLCoordinación Ing. Marcelo Pertino VidalTraducción: Trad. Pública Eugenia Strazzolini y colaboradores
IMPRESIÓN Y PREPRENSAAkián Gráfica Editorawww.akiangrafica.com EDITA y [email protected]
A Lilian Noelia y Azucena del Valle.
A los que están dispuestos a crear su propia realidad.
A los que están dispuestos a habitar el territorio, a
viajarlo, a tomarlo como propio, a habitarlo con amor,
pasión, aventura, exploración, emoción, adrenalina,
magia y placer.
4
6
Si bien este libro tiene mi espíritu personal,
no puedo dejar de expresar que es el resultado
de un equipo de trabajo, fotógrafos, diseñadores,
especialistas en comunicación, periodistas y técnicos
en impresión gráfica. Un grupo humano que pensó y
se comprometió con catamarca eXperience.
Todos lo hicimos desde el una actitud libre
y osada de pararse ante el mundo de una manera
diferente. Son muchas las personas de este equipo,
que en un trabajo de intersecciones disruptivas,
lograron producir este resultado. Nombraré a
algunas de ellas en representación de todos: Mario
Quiroga, Ariel Pacheco, Pablo Coria, Santiago Gómez
Bello, Ariel Brizuela, Alejandra Saravia, Luciana
Cancino, Jorge Lobo, Juan Carlos Andrada, Liliana
Quinteros, Nicolás Anguita, Patricia del Mar, Marcelo
Pertino, y Karina Levy.
Quiero agradecer a todos los que me
permitieron abrir una nueva conversación, sabiendo
que me muevo surfeando las olas al borde del caos.
Manuel Mora y Araujo, Oscar Chanquia,
Miguel Ángel Acosta, Verónica Moya, Cristina
Espinosa, Luis Barrionuevo, Hugo Melo, Pedro Carrizo,
Facundo Prado, Gabriel Kaminszczik, Juan Longo,
Graciela de Longo, José Perea, Daniel Farroni, Nicolás
Reynoso, Horacio Rodríguez, Raúl Kotler, Denisse
Diamante, Franco Diamante, Carolina Rodríguez,
Juan Pablo Negri; a mis nietos Agustín, Bautista,
Lautaro y Pilar; a Cristina Rojas una compañera de
viajes caóticos y fractales.
A mis padres Pepy y Hugo, a Azucena de Bernel.
A mi abuelo José Gil Diamante.
A mis hermanos, Sergio, María Josefa, Daniela
y Analía.
A Lucia Yampa, y su familia quién quienes
fueron los proveedores de la piedra de Rodocrosita
(Rosa del Inca), incrustada en el presente libro. A la
Familia Avar Saracho de Belén, quienes fueron los
que confeccionaron las telas que se pueden apreciar
en este texto.
A mis amigos profesionales, que pusieron
y ponen todo por la verdad, Pablo Lanusse, Pablo
Rosales, Nicolás Ramírez Toledo, Guillermo Rosales,
Carlos Boggio.
Acknowledgements.
Although this book has my personal imprint, I must recognize that it is the
result of a work team, photographers, designers, communications experts,
journalists, and graphic printing technicians. A group of people that
conceived, and committed to, Catamarca eXperience.
We all did it with the same free and daring attitude of facing the world in
a different way. Many people make up this team that, based on innovative
ways of working, helped to produce this result. I shall mention some, on
behalf of the rest: Mario Quiroga, Ariel Pacheco, Pablo Coria, Santiago
Gómez Bello, Ariel Brizuela, Alejandra Saravia, Luciana Cancino, Jorge Lobo,
Juan Carlos Andrada, Liliana Quinteros, Nicolás Anguita, Patricia del Mar,
Marcelo Pertino, and Karina Levy.
I would like to thank all those who allowed me to start a new conversation,
knowing that I surf the waves on the edge of chaos.
Manuel Mora y Araujo, Oscar Chanquia, Miguel Ángel Acosta, Verónica
Moya, Cristina Espinosa, Luis Barrionuevo, Hugo Melo, Pedro Carrizo,
Facundo Prado, Gabriel Kaminszczik, Juan Longo, Graciela de Longo, José
Perea, Daniel Farroni, Nicolás Reynoso, Horacio Rodríguez, Raúl Kotler,
Denisse Diamante, Franco Diamante, Carolina Rodríguez, Juan Pablo
Negri; to my grandchildren Agustín, Bautista, Lautaro and Pilar; to Cristina
Rojas, my partner in chaotic and fragmented trips. To my parents, Pepy
and Hugo; to Azucena de Bernel. To my grandfather, José Gil Diamante. To
my siblings, Sergio, María Josefa, Daniela and Analía.
To Lucia Yampa and her family, who provided me with Rhodochrosite (Inca
Rose), set in this book. To the Avar Saracho family, from Belen, who made
the fabrics that can be appreciated in this book.
My appreciation to my friends, professionals who passionately stand up
for truth: Pablo Lanusse, Pablo Rosales, Nicolás Ramírez Toledo, Guillermo
Rosales and Carlos Boggio.
Agradecimientos.
8
Este es un libro que posee una comunicación visual fractal, es una vista desde la lente del arte fotográfico de la imagen que nos abre un mundo entre la pasión y la razón.
Es una conversación y una mirada no lineal, donde cada página es similar, y puede estar al comienzo, al medio, o al final, no importa la ubicación por donde comencemos esta conversación. Queremos que independientemente, el lugar, la forma o el nivel por donde comience, exista un mapa, que no es el territorio, como decía Korzybski, para que apreciemos el habitar de Catamarca.
Buena parte de este libro se empezó a escribir hace más de 7000 años, podemos asegurar esto, al ver los nuevos descubrimientos realizados por científicos que dicen haber encontrado rastros de vida desde antes de tiempos mencionados, en Antofagasta de la Sierra. Por eso, aseguramos que este texto se comenzó a escribir
allí. Son la mayor evidencia, nuestras formaciones geológicas, geográficas y biológicas, patrimonio de Catamarca.
Y aunque eso es mucho tiempo, cada una de las imágenes, siguen tan vigentes como cuando la naturaleza las escribió.
Nuestra intención al ofrecer el libro, como mezcla de imágenes, poemas, opiniones y reflexiones es lograr que nos hagan habitar Catamarca de una manera diferente.
Manuel Saravia -en la revista Sofía- sostiene que el habitar es dejar huella de la vida, y Catamarca está para habitar. Habitar es un arte, aquí invitamos a habitar, una vez en la vida, Catamarca. Habitar haciendo cada uno la propia historia, cumpliendo un sueño, haciendo algo extremo, sintiendo la libertad, superando
los límites, explorando nuevos territorios, experimentando el silencio de la dunas, cambiando la música, viviendo con adrenalina: habitar Catamarca en plenitud.
Habitar Catamarca también abre el espacio y el momento para darles la oportunidad de pensar, separar la rutina del placer, para vivir momentos de magia y emoción que serán muy difíciles de olvidar. Catamarca invita no sólo a habitarla, sino a convivirla. Habitar Catamarca es recorrerla a pie. Sólo así es posible crear un ambiente de aventura a lo largo de la propia ruta. Andando, Catamarca, se ofrece gratuitamente al caminante.
Habitar Catamarca es también viajarla; ella está a disposición de todos, a su albedrío y a su velocidad, sin prisa o temor. Al viajarla aparece el sol y el silencio que nos abren a pensar.
Habitar Catamarca es además demorarse en ella y sobre ella. Perder el tiempo, calentarse al sol. Estar sin hacer nada y desde la nada, pensando en cómo se está pensando y así emerge el acto creativo geológico que nos abre al mundo de hace más de 7000 años atrás. Esto nos deja sin respiración, al vivenciar la contemplación de lo bello que era ese habitar.
Catamarca es un viaje en el tiempo. Es el imán de los volcanes de hace miles de años. Es la música de los vientos que roza las dunas.
Catamarca es el habitar del adobe y la puna, con intensos colores oxidados y rojizos, viñedos y termas.
Catamarca es el habitar de los atardeceres soñados, donde
Dios comenzó la creación del mundo, según nos dicen algunos descubrimientos recientes. El aire fresco de sus noches, se cuela e inunda el interior de cualquier casa que tenga sus puertas y ventanas abiertas.
Habitar Catamarca permite ver el sol cayendo rotundo sobre esta parte del planeta, dibujando una estela luminosa sobre el suelo de los viñedos y los olivares. En sus cerros nos permite ver brillar el oro, la plata, el cobre y que mas encontraremos.
Habitar Catamarca, desde lo biológico, geográfico y geológico, nunca lo dejará de llevar a nuevas experiencias envolviéndolo en mundos emocionales de éxtasis y plenitud. Sus encantos deslumbran por aire o por tierra.
Habitar Catamarca es un viaje que revela, como metáfora, sobre qué es la vida y por qué uno no quiere dejar de vivirla. Disfrutar
Catamarca es brindarse algo de irresponsabilidad adolescente, cuando la curiosidad y la osadía conforman el buen vivir.
Catamarca habita hilando historias en Belén, Santa María, Tinogasta, Fiambala, y la ruta de las tejedoras del pasado y del presente. Este arte vive y convive en nuestra Fiesta del Poncho.
Habitar Catamarca es tomarlo, marcarlo, dejar las huellas profundas de nuestro paso por ella.
Habitar Catamarca ¡es celebrarlo!
Hugo Diamante
This book has a fragmented visual communication; it is a view from the
lenses of the photographic art of a picture, opening a world between
passion and reason.
It is a conversation and a non-linear view in which each page is similar, and
can be found at the beginning, in the middle or at the end. Where we can
start this conversation is irrelevant. Regardless of the place, form or level
where you start, we think that it is important to have a map, which is not
the territory -as Korzybski said- to appreciate the meaning of inhabiting in
Catamarca.
A great part of the writing of book started 7,000 years ago, as scientists
have discovered traces of life before the times mentioned, in Antofagasta
de la Sierra. Therefore, we can be sure that this text began to be written in
that place. The best proof are our geological, geographical and biological
features, which are part of Catamarca’s heritage.
And, although a lot of time has passed, each of the images are still alive, as
they were when nature conceived them.
The aim of this book, with its combination of images, poems, reflections
and thoughts is helping us to dwell in Catamarca in a different way.
Manuel Saravia –in the Sofía magazine– says that to inhabit in a place is
to leave a trace of life, and Catamarca is waiting to be inhabited. Dwelling
in a place is an art, and we invite you to inhabit, for once in your life,
in Catamarca. Dwelling in a place making your own story, fulfilling a
dream, doing something extreme, feeling freedom, overcoming the limits,
exploring new territories, experiencing the silence of the dunes, changing
the music, living with adrenaline: Inhabiting in Catamarca to the fullest.
Inhabiting Catamarca also provides you with the space and time to meditate,
to discern routine from pleasure, to live moments of magic and emotion that
will be hard to forget. Catamarca invites you not only to live in it, but also to
coexist with it.
Inhabiting Catamarca is travelling its territory on foot. Only then, it will
be possible to create an environment of adventure along the road itself.
Travelling in Catamarca on foot offers itself to the traveller for free.
Inhabiting Catamarca is travelling all over it; it is available to everybody to
its own free will and speed, slowly and without fear. When travelling, the sun
and the silence invite us to meditate.
Inhabiting Catamarca is spending time in it and over it. Spending your time,
bathing in the sun. Doing nothing, and from the very emptiness, reflecting
on what you are thinking; then, there emerges the creative geological act
opening the world of 7,000 years ago. This leaves us breathless, experiencing
how beautiful it was to live in that place.
Catamarca is a journey back in time. It is the magnetic attraction of
volcanoes of thousands of years ago. It is the music of winds that gently
touch the dunes.
Catamarca is the place of adobe and the Puna, with deep rust and reddish
colors, vineyards and thermal baths.
Catamarca is the place of dream sunsets, where God began creating the
world, as recent discoveries tell us. The fresh air at night slips through and
fills the interior of any house with open doors of windows.
Inhabiting Catamarca allows you to see the sun setting categorically in this
part of the planet, drawing a bright trail over the vineyards and olive groves.
Gold, silver and copper shine in its hills... and anything else that you may find
in it.
Inhabiting Catamarca, with its biological, geographical and geological
features, will present you with endless new experiences, taking you to
emotional worlds of ecstasy and plenitude. Its charms are dazzling either by
air or by land.
Inhabiting Catamarca is a journey that reveals, as a metaphor, the meaning
of life and why we want to enjoy it to the fullest. Enjoying Catamarca
spoiling yourself with some of the adolescent irresponsibility, a time in which
curiosity and audacity are part of what is known as “good living”.
Catamarca lives in the stories in Belen, Santa María, Tinogasta, Fiambala,
and in the routes of the weavers of the past and present. This art is present
and lives in our “Fiesta del Poncho” (Poncho Party.)
Inhabiting Catamarca is grasping it, making a mark, leaving a deep hallmark
of our passing.
Inhabiting Catamarca means... celebrating it!
Hugo Diamante
Introduction.
10
Pablo Coria - La ventanita - Santa María
12
Pablo Coria - Santa María
I’m One of Those…I’m one of those who are calledThe dreamers of the mountain.
I’m one of those Andine poetsOf the singing of my guitar;Of those who know how to speak the languagesOf the mountain alders.
I’m one of those who are calledThe dreamers of the mountain:I’m one of those who get shelteredUnder the shadow of the flight of the eagle.
Adán Quiroga
(1863-1904)
ed. sarquis
14
Pablo Coria - Antofagasta
16
Pablo Coria - El Peñon
Reckoning (Fragment)
In your eyes, the shadow and the stars lose their limits,But from your voice stem the mornings;Your skin is summer, but from your soul, there reaches the smell of rainAnd the thunder lies, at times, in your hair.Deep country of your shapes, which I ride from the sun to the dreams.You surround me like a sacred jungle,Like a violent and sufficient atmosphere.
Your hands go deep in my hair and heartbeatsBeyond sleep and alertness.
Luis Franco
(1898-1988)
ed. sarquis
18
Pablo Coria - Parque de los niños
Petit Dictionary of Disobedience (Fragment)
The man is a son in itself in the outside and in the inside.
Most of men dream they’re awake. Some, not even that, as the sleep without dreaming.
Off a corrupt, tomorrow there can spring an honorable and brave man. From an armchair, nothing will ever stem.
Believing in the future Paradise –celestial or earthly– is an illusion of the mystic and of the mystified. Believing in the coming of a better society, and working for it, is the duty
and honor of the intelligence, the feeling and will of the modern man.
He who is able to peacefully host disgrace can quietly host happiness.
Luis Franco
(1898-1988)
ed. sarquis
20
Nicolas Anguita
22
Nicolás Anguita - ATV
24
Nicolás Anguita - ATV Nicolás Anguita - Don Yampa
26
Pablo Coria - Telar - Santa MaríaPablo Coria - Vicuñas - Laguna Blanca
28
My MuseMy Muse is the ideal. When I call herShe comes to my appeal,She gathers my, scattered, hints of painAnd heals them; she stirs them,And gives them the lyreAnd they come back to me dreaming verses.
She’s in my dreams when thinking, simple;And she ranges over their cheeksThe curves of smiling in their complexion;She gains royal air and Goddess attitudeIf she fervently pondersOver the noble, the immense and the distant.
Muse of the innermost part of my landScent of the hill,Distant echo of the great rivers:How many times, in the grasped kiss,Your voice has intermingledWith the sadness of my own verses!
Adán Quiroga
(1863-1904)
ed. sarquis
Pablo Coria - Volcán Alumbrera - Antofagasta
30
Pablo Coria - Cabramarca - Santa María
32
Pablo Coria - Cerro El Mancharo
In the beginning, it was the dust (Fragment)(…) Pedro Carrasco just woke up from a nightmare, only to go into another one. Truly, the field was resembling a slum of
hell. The great drought was like a burning recent fire, leaving only ashes and hatred.
Covered in dust to the eyelashes, men and beasts were somehow wrapped in shroud. The lungs must have been already shrink like bellows. Thirst for water like before the Great Flood. The stood on dust, breathed dust, savored dust. Perhaps, they started being dust themselves.
Pedro Carrasco felt his heart more and more shrink and trembling, like the mule going down the abyss. (…)
Luis Franco
(1898-1988)
ed. sarquis
34
Pablo Coria - Las Juntas - Ballet
Years Pass By
And we go walking.What do we carry?Love and care,The load of sweetness of that childThat we were and that shall never leave.He cries if we cryAnd laughs with the deepest smile.In our hands, we carry the burdenOf all we could’ve given and we never gave.And in our eyes, we have leftThe blue-white sparkleWith which we wear out the tenderness,Of the flowers
Only the scent of the watered garden.And some old tressFor shadow and swing.From the harvest,Only the clean wheat to be sown.
What do we carryAnd what do we leave?A drop of honey from the comb of life?Wounds are healingWith the coming of dusk,And so much of springAnd summer.So much dew in the soul. So much gettingAnd returning, and feeling a heavy heart.At the end of the roadThe can horse and the rag doll.
María Emilia Azar de Suárez Hurtado
(1918-2009)
ed. sarquis
36
Pablo Coria - Pircas + 100 años - Ancasti Pablo Coria - Ancasti
38
Pablo Coria - Las Juntas Pablo Coria - Las Tunitas
40
Pablo Coria - El Mancharo
42
Pablo Coria - Cactus - Fiambala
ThenWe liked staringAt sunsets,Getting deep in the hot shadowAnd dreaming.Then,Ay! We prayed,Did penances on our knees,Took communion,Callous and flaky knees
With a hard and dry chap.We also
Kept secretsWrapped in dregs of prayersInside a passionate heart.These were sorrowful secrets,Foreseen brotherhoods,Complicity with light amazementsThat started to sentry the bodies.
Leonardo Martínez
(1937)
ed. sarquis
44
Pablo Coria - Cactus - Fiammala Pablo Coria - Tinogasta
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Pablo Coria - CondorPablo Coria - Las Juntas - Ammato
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Pablo Coria - La Tunita
Soneto mayoren amarillo mayor
(Septiembre en Catamarca)
El sol estalla en centellitas bruscas,diminutas galaxias de amarillo;
todo el valle retiembla con las tuscas,y hasta los cerros vibran por el brillo.
Topacio, y ámbar, y azafrán ofusca
el oro de las breas y espinillos.Gira en el aire un polen que corusca
a un agrio son de bronces y platillos.
Chorros de sol borbotan por las ramasde los chaíares; fulgen las retamas,
destellan rutilantes quellosisas.
Flora una íurea fragancia de mimosas.Y en los ojos dorados de las cosasun puma rubio y gruñidor se eriza.
Prof. Federico Emiliano PaisEDITORIAL SERQUIS
Major Sonnet in Major Yellow(September in Catamarca)
The sun blasts into sudden little flakes,
Minute yellow galaxies,All the valley trembles with the tusks,And even the hills vibrate with the bright.
Topaz, amber and saffron it dazzlesThe gold of the tars and pimps.In the air there spins a glaring pollenTo the bitter sound of bronze and cymbals.
Flushes of son spring from the branchesOf the chaíares; there twinkle the yellow elders,They gleam bright quellosisas.
There blossoms a gentle fragrance of mimosas.And in the golden eyes of thingsA blond and growling puma bristles.
Prof. Federico Emiliano Pais
ed. sarquis
50
Pablo Coria - Belén
52
Pablo Coria - Atardecer en Saujil - Fiambala - Tinogasta
54
Pablo Coria - T.M - Esqui
The Return of Moro (Fragment)
(…) Like the others are passionate about the game, the alcohol or money, I’m passionate for the horse. Since I was a child, and always, despite the years since I last felt the harmony of the galloping with my heartbeat.
For me, the neigh is not only a clarinet, with a pulse and the life that the other doesn’t have, but it’s all the music of the world, increasing the depth of the sky
and the green of the meadows. For me, the galloping is only matched by the daring jump of the waterfall or by the rainbow.
For a fourth of a century, I’ve worked in pastures, struggling with cows and horses. The Morita ¬–Peruvian blood mare, gentle like a dove and stirrable like a torrent– raised the hands so high when trotting that, once, crossing an alley with many trees, I felt a thunder in my left side, and then, I felt a tinkle in the roof of branches. The mare had lost one of her horseshoes…
Son of Marita and grandchild of a racing horse of the region, black and flying like a
blackbird, the Moro was, since very young, an excessively sharp and restless stallion.They brought it home from the stables, early one morning, two or three days after being born, with his mother, who was tied to the trunk of the aguaribay tree of the back garden. There we all ran, driven by novelty, to know it. It was extremely black, like the seed of a watermelon. He was breastfeeding at that time, with the ears backwards and one of the back legs
far away from the others. Suddenly, he left his pacifier, stood on its minute hoofs
and its long legs, with a “How lives!” in the straight ears, stirring the short tail and moving the nose while relishing the last drop of milk. His eyes: Two drops of infinite… A choir of adulations and
caresses, in which I distinguished my mother’s voice. (…)
Luis Franco
(1898-1988)
ed. sarquis
56
Mario Quiroga - Cerro San FranciscoMario Quiroga - Cerro Inka Huasi - Paso de San Francisco
58
Pablo Coria - Cerro Inka HuasiPablo Coria - Cordillera Fiambala
60
Pablo Coria - Shincal - Londres - Belén
62
Pablo Coria - Santa María
Pablo Coria - LLamas en Antofagasta - Feria de la Puna
64
Pablo Coria - El PeñónPablo Coria - Antofagasta
66
Mario Quiroga - Programación
The Dawn GirlShe dashed lifeMoving between the lashAnd the syrup of grapesShe was a woman of big breastsAnd eyes like hot guaicas.I recall the rubbing of the silkWhen carrying the prideIn the shades of the patiosWhen passingShe left a light scentOf rutting mareI remember her smile in the flowers
DarkWith threads of exterminationShe wandered in the house like a criminalUnpunishedGrowing pride within the scapulars.
Leonardo Martínez
(1937)
ed. sarquis
68
Pablo Coria - Criadores de llama - Antofagasta
TattooAll my skin is tattooedAnd my blood and what is beyond my blood.Tattooed I have the nights, and more and more nightsOf dark murkiness and window stars.And dayspring parading in flamingo flights.
And the sea with its coming and going tidesLike the sap of trees.And the bracken blossoming the first puberty of land.
And Woods covering their nocturnal labyrinths.And the delayed in the abysm.And sculptural and agile passersby of the meadows.And birds with their lofty rhyme of singing and flying.
And a monkey in monkeys raising its flat skull
To the lintel of conscienceExchanging its fore paddlesIn its shining hands of the forms of Genesis.And the whole in constant emigration and change.And old Adam barely returning to the pastAnd the still unborn making signs from the future.
Luis Franco
(1898-1988)
ed. sarquis
70
Pablo Coria - Copleros - Antofagasta
72
Pablo Coria - Tejedores - Antofagasta
74
Pablo Coria - Tinogasta Pablo Coria - Antofagasta
76
Pablo Coria - El Volcán - Antofagasta Pablo Coria - Antofagasta
78
Pablo Coria - AntofagastaPablo Coria - Paso de San Francisco - Fiambala - Tinogasta
80
In the Village
I take your bosom, Village,In the roughness of the solstice;I yet behold your cottages,The tower, the windmill, the river.
There, I behold green fields,
Gardens with optimal fruits,And vineyards creakingBy the weight of bunches.
There, a village I see,Resting by the rustic roadCarrying in the headA basket full of fruits.
Beyond the peasantsWho do their harvesting,Always joyful and singingWith no austerity, urge nor sorrow.
And on the lap of the hill,The shepherd goes after the sheep,After the hectic goatAnd after the oxen, with its crosier.
Adán Quiroga
(1863-1904)
ed. sarquis
Pablo Coria - Dique Ipizca - Ancasti
82
Pablo Coria - Hotel La Aguada
84
Pablo Coria - Cerro Crestón - Los Angeles
Dreamed Place
From “below,” “Los Ángeles,” seemed like an impossible place to get to. A slope that more than a slope seems like a long and thin snake devouring everything in its way and hindering any possibility of getting anywhere. But the will of reaching the sky is stronger.
Arrived from “Los Ángeles,” a landscape with Greek brushstrokes astonishes from the very beginning, by the essence of its poplars here and there, marking the borders of estates filled with walnut
trees, quinces and other fruits.
Following the paths, there they are, away from everything and everyone. Bur so close the sky and the protection of God, some kind locals made us feel at home, ready to offer anything they can. A green, fresh and pure place, ready to be discovered, called for enjoyment.
86
Pablo Coria - Doña María - Los Ángeles
Ms. María, the eldest woman in town, is 82 years old, but, between us… she looks no more than 60. They say that women are like good wine, and this woman definitely ratifies the theory.
She tells the meaning of the town. A very precious meaning for the inhabitants of LA: “The men who live close to God.”
In her tale and history, she tells us that it was Don Luis Nicanor Nieto who, riding a mule, came in back in 1917. He was the man who convinced the locals to plant walnut trees, and so there began the production of the most exquisite
nuts of Catamarca.
88
Pablo Coria - Vista de la Ciudad de San Fernando del Valle de Catamarca desde el cerro Cresto - Los Angeles
90
Pablo Coria - Los Angeles
Here was born one of the flower shops
of the city, because the most beautiful flowers can be found in the area. The
walnut and quince production is
exported every year.
There, all problems seem to vanish in your mind. Only the warm sun, the soft breeze and the shelter of the mountains seem to matter. It’s there where only truly important things make sense.
Night falls. Cold is intense. However, the heat of a brazier warms the place. In the distance, the sound of a guitar and the voice of countrymen makes you recover movement.
92
Pablo Coria - Los Angeles Pablo Coria - Los Angeles
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Pablo Coria - Cuesta TotoralPablo Coria - Hotel La Aguada
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Pablo Coria - La Merced
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Pablo Coria - Tuneles - La MercedPablo Coria - Las Juntas
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Pablo Coria - Santa María Pablo Coria - Gruta Virgen del Valle
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Pablo Coria - Cartódromo - Payaguaico
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Pablo Coria - San Antonio - La Paz
Blue Sonnet(October in Catamarca)
The purple incantation of jacarandasCharmed the worlds of poetry,And buds of blue melancholyDrizzled on its cups, in the violet
Frame of hills. Under the archOf smoke of clouds, the turquoise
Mingled with the eternal distanceBetween the afternoons of light-blue eyes.
A nostalgic lilac of wisteriasWaned in the fine hands
Of a moved sapphire air.
And in merciful indigos like incenseThe west raised in a dense veilThat faded things with its forgetfulness.
Prof. Federico Emiliano Pais
ed. sarquis
106
Mario Quiroga - Olivos Mario Quiroga - Anquincila
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Pablo Coria - Ancasti
The Human Female (Fragment)The joy of true love is perhaps the most perfect and harmonic model of human pleasure. Shared joy is not only fertile in the biological sense, but also in the moral and spiritual aspects. Twice as much joy like the wings: You enjoy yourself and the joy offered to the beloved one. Although we’re unaware of it, someone is happy in us creating more life.
Luis Franco
(1898-1988)
ed. sarquis
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Mario Quiroga - Camarin Virgen Mario Quiroga - Cúpula Catedral
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Mario Quiroga - Cuesta del Portezuelo Mario Quiroga - Villa del Portezuelo
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Mario Quiroga - Cuesta del Portezuelo
The Saints
Being so humbleNo one knew their namesThey called them the batateras (sweet potato sellers)With no registry among the livingDressed in cold and tremblingThey left from winters to prayerTo sell sweet potatoesThey harvested them in a small parcelBy the riverAnd with shrank moorPulling the loaded cartThey walked offering the goodsCents of sweet pulpOf the parcel by the river
One day, died the motherIn the streets, the daughtersWent to beg for candlesMy brother gave them a fewInside the shackThere was the dead lying on the tableAnd hollow canes stack on the floor
Were the chandeliers
Through the walls there pass the zondaAnd the sobbing of a bunch of catsAt nightIt’s been more than half a centuryAnd I still rememberThe priest didn’t comeNor a neighborThe poor girls made a coffin out of wood
They needed a lot, and many nails,And wire for a strong coffin.
The buried her in a tough dayOf uneven lightLater on, with their cart and shrank moorThere left the daughtersTowards the shadowsDeep in the winter.
Leonardo Martínez
(1937)
ed. sarquis
116
Mario Quiroga - Las JuntasMario Quiroga - El Rodeo
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Mario Quiroga - Villa Parque ChacabucoMario Quiroga - Salinas
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Mario Quiroga - Seminario
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Mario Quiroga - Guayamba
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Mario Quiroga - Posada del Casador Mario Quiroga - Hotel La Aguada - Coneta
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Mario Quiroga - Fiambaca
THE GUITAR (Fragment)
ShapeOf knife and stabbing,And in between knife and woman,Oh, sacred shape,Oh, dark disassemble,Guitar.
More spandrelThan drums and cicadas:Body wiped with spikes,Open flank of pomegranate,
And in its flatness
The two faces of the taba (jackstone.)The waist, magnet for the arms,And the curvy chains,Like the moons of dunesGiving light to the bitter water.
Luis Franco
(1898-1988)
ed. sarquis
128
Mario Quiroga - Dunas de Taton
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Pablo Coria - En duro - Las Juntas Mario Quiroga - Dunas de Taton
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Mario Quiroga - TatonMario Quiroga - Taton
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Mario Quiroga - Fiambala Mario Quiroga - Copa Cabana
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Mario Quiroga - Laguna BlancaMario Quiroga - Médano Trabaro
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Mario Quiroga - Aguas Calientes
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Mario Quiroga - Aguas Calientes
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Mario Quiroga - Vicuñas - Laguna Blanca
Guide for the One in Love with the Puna
The Milan origin Fabricio Ghilardi saw the wonders and stayed for life. Today, he’s a tourist guide, and he always compares the Pumice Stone field as the Perito
Moreno of the Antofagasta dessert, in Catamarca. Far from the Italian fields
and their green blessings, Fabricio is the main promoter of the Western beauties.
“There’s no land, dessert nor place so high and beautiful, with so many animals, with so much nature, with great people, like the Argentine Puna, in particular, the Atacama region. And in order to find
its way, he always finds the weak point
of the visitors with amazing data: in the border mountains between Catamarca and beautiful Chile, there’re the highest volcanoes in the world.Welcome to the Pune escorted by Fabricio.”
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Mario Quiroga - Cienaga Redonda
Paint your Village and You’ll Paint the Future
In the middle of the magnificence
of Antofagasta de la Sierra, its high lagoons, its vicugnas, its spot gullies, there’re messages for humanity. The rupestrian paintings hide in hidden tunnels that were once the shelter of the first inhabitants of this planet.
A brick-colored hand says, “I was here.” Now it’d be interpreted as: “Stop.” At that time, everything was beginning, essence, horizon. Somehow, that hand was being given to the others to come. That hand was teaching.
According to anthropologic chronicles, those messages speak of 7,000 years. But their message is so current. When we see a hand, let’s not say, “I need to stop.” We should say, “I need to go on.”
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Mario Quiroga - La Candelaria Mario Quiroga - La Candelaria
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Mario Quiroga - Iglesia Ancastillo Mario Quiroga - Dique La Cañada
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Mario Quiroga - Aconquija
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Pablo Coria - Valle detrás del Shincal - Londres - Belén
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Mario Quiroga - Los AltosMario Quiroga - Camino Aconquija
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Mario Quiroga - Camino al Rodeo
The Berry Queen
When you sing, Berry Queen,With morning dissipation,The night becomes shorterBecause the dawn gets longer.
When you rehearse after dinnerArtist’s peak and throat,You, tree, oh great flautist!
At twelve, it’s celebrating.
If you murmur its affairsOr tell its charm,It’s the flow of your singing
Like a stream flowers.
So much honey in each noteHas the comb of your art,That the falcon, listening to you,Suspended in the air it floats.
When you hurt your violins
In the willows there cheerA cohort of thrushesAnd a crowd of crespines
The larks, in conflict,
Oppose to you being cheered;But in public contest,There’s a unanimous verdict.
It awards with discrete vows,In the uneven fight,
With the natural roseYour erotic sonnets;
Sparkling in the dark forestYour singing, when sounding,Star of rhymes, surroundedBy a nimbus of harmony.
Adan Quiroga
ed. sarquis
158
Mario Quiroga - Iglesia Piedra Blanca
“Duty”
(...) Wenceslao: “What a lagged behind life. On top of bein’ poor, the businesses of women muddle ya ev’n more. The jealousy of Josefina, on the one hand, the fights
with Ms. Giacumina, on the other, and, to cap off, how offended Pascual is with me make me crazier than a sack of rabid weas. It’s just that, sometimes, women make you dizzier than wine. Sometimes I think not worryin’ any more about the chata and the mancarrones, workin’ hard, seein’ if I can get a trip out of the master enough for a drink and seein’ the back of all women; but they ain’t pay no toll for making love; they just come across ya and, once in the middle, there’s no goin’ back. An’ then, if I stand in a corner, I tighten the strings of my chamberguito (hat) an’ I play the distracted singin’,
mutterin’ under my breath, some song -ya know- an’ I make quiver all gals that pass
by. They come close, smile, give me a look sharper than a knife, we chat a littl’, and I show off a littl’. And in the first dance
with a break that comes up, I make a break and I continue the game until I get bored, and then, I make my move of…. love an’ lurk…” (...)
Ezequiel Soria
(1873-1936)
ed. sarquis
160
Pablo Coria - Museo - Antofagasta Mario Quiroga - Museo Calchaquí
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Mario Quiroga - Dique Pirquitas Mario Quiroga - Vista de la Ciudad de San Fernando del valle de Catamarca
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Mario Quiroga - Parque Adán Quiroga
How…
Beautiful your perfection isDear hummingbirdLast night, the full moonI saw passingIt had a worn out soulAnd a smile in the robe.Water passing byI see it in the riverBathing its robe.The lady, what a beautiful lady,Small chipacas tortillasAnd cracklingsUnder, I’m goingHeaps, slope, heapsAnd I kiss herAnd the humming birdQcui Qcui QcuiHoneysucklesBreeze that blowsAnd lady that passes byI’ve discovered herWhite in the garden.
Tiger of soft eyesStaring at your two teatsI get angry.Oh, yes, yes, yesWhat beautiful eyesThey’re little drumsThey’re a thimbleYoung poppy with no tailGive me the girlLook what a ladyWillow hairAnd the smileIn the robeSo so soThe lady of the planSmall chipacas tortillas andcracklingsGive me the lady of marzipan.
Enrique Traverso
ed. sarquis
166
Mario Quiroga Pablo Coria - Lanas
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Pablo Coria - Ponchos
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Pablo Coria - Viñedos en Tinogasta
Blue Blood Wines
Malbec, Bonarda, Syrah, Tanat, Merlot and Barbera. As if it wasn’t enough, also traditional muscatel. The red wines of Tinogasta are already avant-garde in Argentina and in the world. Let’s not talk about the aromatic torrontes, that comes down the Calchaquí valleys. It’s trying
the same grape.
So many years of patience and tuning place the West Catamarcan as ones of the blue blood Argentine Wines that set a trend. Each year, 15 million liters are
processed, 30% for varietals and 30% for the must. But those are numbers. Sensations grow more quickly.
Today, in the main restaurants of the country, the Catamarcan Syrah is already requested (“But, please! The one from
Catamarca, don’t bring just anything…” so the guest utters.) What’s the secret? They say there’s a clue that cellarers know and a fellowship of the Avenida de Mayo, in Buenos Aires…
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Pablo Coria - Tinogasta Pablo Coria - Belén
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Pablo Coria - Laguna Blanca
I Speak on Behalf of the DawnThe birds don’t know what to do with so much sky.Only a pure threaten, dawn isOf a resurrection tearing its shroud.The horizon offers its diademAnd the lightest blow goes up to Numen.
A wind of remoteness, still blue,Comes searching for the sailing soul of birdsThat blast immediately in a crowd of wings,While the sky begins to sound in their peaksJust as the sea sounds in the shells.
Christmas, growth. And the livingWith its immortality day after day.The birds don’t know what to do with so much sky.The sky, the sky, the skyPosing the forgetting of earthJust as the eyes of the belovedPose the forgetting of the body.
Luis Franco
(1898-1988)
ed. sarquis
176
Pablo Coria - Olivos
From Catamarca to Paris, nonstop
In the unique restaurant of the Paris
neighborhood, they may not know it, but it’s appreciated as a unique flavor. There
rests the grand light of the grand Olive, a “Catamarca branded” olive oil that is within the top gourmet producers of the City of Lights. And, of course, it’s made of Argentine hands, with Catamarcan hands, that know how and where to go.
Based on an entrepreneurship of the Cohen Sabban family, the olive oil is nourished in the olive trees of the Poman Valley, in Catamarca. The gorgeous landscapes on the side of the road foretell the colossal results. The company is called “Monte de Olivos” (Mount of Olives,) retelling the origins of our Christian history.
Balance speaks of wisdom. Of matureness. Of the shapes of these products when ready to reach new horizons. That’s why they make it to Paris, leaving their imprint.
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Pablo Coria - Viñedos Tinos
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Pablo Coria - Oratorio de los Orqueda - El Puesto - Tinogasta
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Pablo Coria - Iglesia Anda Collo Pablo Coria - La Vega - Laguna Blanca
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Pablo Coria - Feria La Puna - Antofagasta
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Pablo Coria - Llamas - Antofagasta Pablo Coria - Barranca Larga - Belén
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Pablo Coria - Barranca Larga - Belén
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Pablo Coria - Cordillera Fiambala - Tinogasta
There I GoNaked the soul and the wisdomLooking for pure shapes.
I know I shallListen to the sound of water
Or know a slice of orangeAlone and allLike a slice of orange.
May I gaze at your cheeksAway from my lipsLike a thousand thrown poresLike your cheeksLike your cheeks.
Enrique Traverso
ed. sarquis
192
Pablo Coria - FiambalaPablo Coria - Ruinas entrada Salar del Hombre Muerto - Antofagasta
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Pablo Coria - Paso San Francisco
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Pablo Coria - Campanas del RosarioPablo Coria - Edgardo Prevedello, Free Style
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Pablo Coria - Vista de los Cerros Inka Huasi - San Francisco - Paso de San Francisco
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Pablo Coria - Ref. del Minero - Andalgala
The Toy for these Holidays (Christmas and Twelfth Day)
Don’t give your childNeither riffle nor shotgun.
Don’t give him violence.Give him a clangorous drumLike chaya box.Don’t put a gunIn his small hands.Nor the sword that is usedTo play war.You, loving father,Make him a cartWith some old woodFrom a table full of dreamsWhere there had dinner on Christmas EveThe children and the old.And teach him to fill it with chañares,
With oak, and sand.With branches of creosote,So that he can light the oven of memoryBy the path of return.
Don’t give your child the gun that killsThe brother and the friend in the game.The child is loading, in his innocence,What the brain keeps.Give him the music of the can flout.
The joy of the dancing clown.Of a garden setThat mixes mudJust like the baker,For his gamesTo have wings.And if you have a blond or brunette girl,You, mother, a doll.So that she can pour all her sweetnessAnd grow love and beauty.The Three Kings stay for only one nightAnd childhood is the beginning of life.
María Emilia Azar de Suárez Hurtado
(1918-2009)
ed. sarquis
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Pablo Coria - Mina Santa Rita
Pablo Coria - Boca de Mina Pablo Coria - Mina Santa Rita - Andalgalá
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Pablo Coria - Rodocrosita
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Pablo Coria - Las JuntasPablo Coria - Las Juntas
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Pablo Coria - La Silueta
Nocturnal No. 3
With hunger and thirst for loneliness.To this shore there comes my nocturnal heart to harvest its sorrows.With the bridge in a ship overlooking beyond the waves and night.With me, with her hand over my shoulder, I always remember her eyes.And all remote, trodden or virgin.You in me, always, with the motherland in the heart of a heroAnd my dreams with the shape of a wing and the color in their eyesMore hurt than the flesh, the soul,
And the liquid rumor of the fountain
washing the silent wounds.Your remoteness suffocates my anxiety,
and I, scratching in the deep,I want to set free to send you the most potent starLiving you, wonderful, in pulse and breath, with the feverishWatching of the starsUntil dawn, I shall cherish your memory.Beat by beat, I shall measure night. Suddenly, you appear...Where? I keep my eyes wide shut for you not to leave.But there’s more than your absence,The absence that makes the night greater.
Luis Franco
(1898-1988) ed. sarquis
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Pablo Coria - Las Juntas
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Pablo Coria - Mezada de Zarate
Rhymes of Pain
Lucky you, poet, who sing to life,Lucky you who encourage the desire of living.My soul is like the whining soul the of suicide,It neither believes in the present nor wishes for the future.
Sad is life when the lonely soulLives in the absence of the beloved oneWandering in an unknown universeAway from their land, from their love.
Sad is life if death dreamsOf sweet illusions lost,Of flowers uprooted from plants
Of hope exhausted by pain.
Why the boredom of life, this unbearableTedium invading my soul?Why the eternal shadow of –my- deathNever goes away?Why do I quietly cry so many times
Without any tears in my eyes?
Higinio Rizo
(1896-1920)
ed. sarquis
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Pablo Coria - Pozo los Curas - Las Juntas Pablo Coria - Atardecer Dunas de Saujil
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Pablo Coria - Shincal - Londres - Belén Pablo Coria - Shincal
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Pablo Coria - Las Juntas Pablo Coria - Plaza del Aborigen
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Pablo Coria - Cuesta Minas Capillitas
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Pablo Coria - SuplicantesPablo Coria - Plaza del Aborigen
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Pablo Coria Vista de la Ciudad de San Fernando del valle de Catamarca, desde la Cuesta del Portezuelo
The RainThe rain falls slowly.I loved rose trees.The rain falls slowlyLike a white woundOf velvet seal.
The rain asks meFor my long hair,For my Brown hair.For my long handsThat embrace afternoons.
From that laughThat clabbered nards.
The rain asks meFor my fine waist,
For my wide dresses.
The rain falls slowlyLike calling channels,Digging roots
Tossing in the fences,Soaking bumblebees.
What has happened to the stonesThat contoured in pink?And my highest singing?And the pearly sands?You haven’t asked allTousled rain.
And this heart of mine:Nacre, roses, fragrances,Sand and laughs?
And this heart of mine?
- Mum, are you calling me?The rain asked me.No words left.
Ma. Emilia de Suárez Hurtado
ed. sarquis
226
Ariel Pacheco - Campo de Piedra Pomez - Antofagasta
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Ariel Pacheco - Campo de Piedra Pomez - Antofagasta
Myths and Legends
Mother of the Pool.
In order to avoid children from throwing rocks to the ponds, they’re told the story of an evil ghost that dwells in the deep pools, who gets crazy when bothered. Others say that it’s a beautiful woman, who combs her hair continually, looking at herself in the reflection of water. When
someone tries to bathe in the pool, she sinks them forever.
The Salamancas of Catamarca. It’s told that in the Northern area, there’s a deep hole with an access gate. It’s only possible to pass through it naked. A black crow guides the visitor, given that (s)he complies with certain requisites,
like drinking wild hog blood and frog urine. Only a few steps, a huge snake coils up from head to feet. If the visitor has pretended to be heretic, but (s)he
didn’t actually leave his/her faith, the tooth of the snake will send him/her straight to the world of the dead. If (s)he has truly converted, the snake will uncoil. Then, there’s a confined place full
of men and women dancing with a soft and compelling music. Further on, huge gardens open up, filled with stunning
flowers, colorful birds and temptations
that are impossible to resist. In other places, there are other Salamancas, where it’s possible to learn the art of the witches. In them, after going through tough tests —like climbing a tree shook by the worst of the storms or climbing a crazy goat— the apprentices start with their studies. The evil may also compel the witches to jump down a well and swim in its water day and night, while, from the top, it tries to sink them with the pealed stream of a poplar. The night when the full moon up
in the sky coincides with the hole of the well is certainly the definite night. The
candidates who’re still afloat are already
witches as the Devil commands, and the leave the well to perform as much fiendishness as possible.
The Mountain with Diaguita Soul. It’s told that in the laps of the Ojos del Salado volcano, there’s a big golf mine explored by the Incas. During the Spanish oppression, the Diaguitas raised, resulting in their extermination. As retaliation, the colossus of the Andes got mad and stirs when someone dares touch it, becoming the guardian of the spirits of the Incas and Diaguitas while they wait for the emancipation of the Andine race. Those who dared recover the gold stones of the place went down chased by the white wind and the snowstorm.
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Ariel Pacheco - Laguna Blanca - Belén - Captura de Vicuña
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Ariel Pacheco - Ballet Montaraz - Fiesta del Poncho
In the Old Families
There crowded conscience and loveAnd like the Lord of AutigastaWe found freedomDwelling in the woods.Living with the wild animalsWe learnt how to smell the enemy,To see what’s behind the horizon(Also writing with silences,Inventing with silent words.)From our mischiefsThere came the twins,Those unfortunate poets of the earth.
Leonardo Martínez
(1937)
ed. sarquis
234
Ariel Pacheco - Antofagasta de las Sierras
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Ariel Pacheco - Antofalla - Antofagasta de las Sierras Ariel Pacheco - Doma y Folclore - Valle Viejo
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Ariel Pacheco - Salar de Antofalla - Antofagasta de las Sierras
Moon Night
(...) Don Cástulo: “Sure, here we live like in a family. One brought me an uneven cot to put the missing leg. I didn’t charge him because he was a relative. Another devoted brought me a statue of a saint, for me to put on the missing ear and nose, eaten by the mice, and I didn’t charge her because she was another relative. All in all, I missed no presents of old hens and skinny chicken. Then, there died my poor woman… So I had to sell the Little I had to pay to the boticary and the physician, who were no relatives of mine. (Very emotional.) I still had some joy, some comfort, and I returned to work with two-hundred pesos, which my deceased brother gave me, your father… You don’t remember my little son Luis, he was very young when you left… He was a small thing like this… Vivacious, smart… Everyone were fond of him. He was ahead
at school… I was going to make him become a physician. He lived proudly and people considered me better because they knew what my son was going to be. One day, he came back from school complaining about his throat… With glassy eyes, he looked at me as begging me to ease his pain… A few hours later he died… (Pause.) With my last pieces of wood, I made him a White coffin with glass window; he looked like
a sleeping angel. With the little furniture left, with the few tools I had left, I bought a piece of marble, which placed in his tomb, a nice tomb with a small garden. I made the cross myself. And I carved his portrait in it… The best work of my life! (Wiping his tears) My hands haven’t worked ever since! (whining)
Julio Sánchez Gardel
(1937-1979)
ed. sarquis
240
Ariel Pacheco - Procesión de La Virgen - Los Morteritos - Belén
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Ariel Pacheco -Valle Viejo
At 1:05 in an October
Day of my dreams housing the smell of orangesOf your cheeks living inside my pillowThe moon passes by showing offWithin the cloudsAnd a playful starFollows it with star stepsTo step on its petticoatAnd seeIts tail.
Enrique Traverso
ed. sarquis
244
Ariel Pacheco - Dakar - Fiambala
246
Ariel Pacheco - Dakar - Fiambala
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Ariel Pacheco - Dakar - Fiambala Ariel Pacheco - Dakar - Cortaderas
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Ariel Pacheco - Santa María - La Ventanita - Inti RaimiAriel Pacheco - Laguna Blanca - Belén
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Ariel Pacheco - Laguna Blanca - Belén
Shepherds of the Puna, Creators by Nature
The Pachamama widowed and, since that time, she not only knew she had to raise her children, but that she had to perform the tasks of her beloved husband, who said “Goodbye.” In these lands, the Pachamama deals with llamas, making the most of them.
With the passing of time, her action was recognized by specialists. Not only did the Pachamama handle the rodeo as her own, but it also tried to instill the handling of animals and the use of their wool.
It’s said that when Pachamama is alone, she feels the loneliness of the landscape. But, from that stunning view, there stems the energy that transforms into creations. She shears and works with millennial techniques. These ways shall pass on to
her children. And so it will be forever…
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Ariel Pacheco - Laguna Blanca - Belén - Corpachada
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Ariel Pacheco - Laguna Blanca - Belén - Corpachada
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Ariel Pacheco - Dakar - Fiambala - Tinogasta
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Ariel Pacheco - Mesada de Zárate - Fiambala - TinogastaAriel Pacheco - Oratorio de Los Orqueras - Valle Viejo
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Ariel Pacheco - Mesada de Zárate - Fiambala - Tinogasta
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Ariel Pacheco - Mesada de Zárate - Fiambala
266
Ariel Pacheco - Museo del Hombre - Fiambala - TinogastaAriel Pacheco - Iglesia San José - Ruta del Adobe - Fiambala - Tinogasta
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Ariel Pacheco - Termas de Fiambala - Tinogasta Ariel Pacheco - Comandancia de Armas - Ruta del Adobe - Fiambala - Tinogasta
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Ariel Pacheco - Bodega Don Diego - Ruta del Adobe - Fiambala - Tinogasta
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Ariel Pacheco - Santa María
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Ariel Pacheco - Fiesta de la Batea - Salar del Pimpanaco
276
The AcrobatsIn a circus of magicians,In a show night,There talk in the interval,In the inner foyer,The artists restingFrom their hard performance.They go over a thousand different topics,And then there’s a voiceThey all listen to carefullyWith interest and delight.The old clown is talkingIn verse he once heardWritten by a poetDedicated to the clown.And the colleagues request
That in such an inspirationHe “recites” some pieces,And the old man accepted;And thus, in the circus, that night,These verses uttered the clown:“It’s the beloved artistsOf our first age,
Free birds,Always wandering without life;They fly with restless desire
After the chimeras of art,¬Arriving anywhereAnd towards anywhere they head.They’re those who, free of restraintsTheir true humor unveilWho the children amuse,And in children adults turn.Who in the dying bed doesn’t rememberThat then, in those old days,The sweetest of joysWas gifted by a clown?
They’re the old minstrels“winners” in the circusThe modern harvestersOf popular joy.They speak simple, charmingThey jump, roll and dislocateBringing admiration aboutTheir turns in the air.They time beasts and horsesAnd people, amazed,See how they risk their livesWithin light and tinsels.When they grieveSo much they must pretend;To the audience smileAlthough wanting to cry.And that circus, that arena,In round and vast extension,With no shuffling nor curtain
Is the artist’s stage?There, he shows his finery
To the noisy crowd,Happy, naïve, “extreme,”In search of cheers and flowers,
And contained in the arenaThere parades that caravan,Just as the human greySpinning around lifeThese are the beloved artistsOf our first age,
Free birds,Always wandering, without a nest.”
Ezequiel Soria
(1873-1936)
ed. sarquis
Ariel Pacheco - Fiesta de la Batea - Salar del Pimpanaco
278
Ariel Pacheco - Fiesta de la Batea - Salar del Pimpanaco
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Ariel Pacheco - Nevado AconquijoAriel Pacheco - Santa María - La Ventanita - Inti Raimi
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Ariel Pacheco - Fiesta de la Batea - Salar del Pimpanaco
For HD
Life itself hasShapes and hues,Variations that lead usFrom sorrow to joy,As if in a swingRocking us,From one sideTo the other.What matters,Is the intensityOf living.
Enrique Traverso
ed. sarquis
284
Pablo Coria - Ultima fiesta Ponco en el Polideportivo
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Pablo Coria - Virgen del Valle
The Faith of the BlindThere walks the holy VirginShe walks for Bethlehem.When half wayThe baby needs to drink.The holy Virgin says:Don’t drink water, my darlingBecause they’re turbid,So much they can’t be drank.They walk furtherAnd come across an orange grove.The grovecarerWas blind man.The holy Virgin says:Non-seeing blind,Please, give an orange to the childTo please his thirst.The blind answers and says:What as you need.
When the child was cuttingMore oranges grow.The holy Virgin says:God pay you well,With the blessing of the childHe opens the eyes and sees.The blind screaming:Who this miracle has made?I am the Virgin Mary,Heading for Bethlehem.So are over these versesChrist was born in BethlehemThe birds in the field
Sing its glory. Amen.
Juan Alfonso Carrizo
(1895-1957)
ed. sarquis
288
Pablo Coria - La Puerta
290
Pablo Coria - Tinogasta
292
Pablo Coria - TapeoPablo Coria - Santa María
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Pablo Coria - Cordillera - Fiambala Pablo Coria - Coplera - Antofagasta
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Pablo Coria - Ancasti
Myths and Legends
The Sachayoj. Is a superstition in the department of La Paz. They so tell that when a storm starts it’s the Sachayoj, the owner of the mount and the hives, who tried to prevent its honey treasure to be stolen.
The Goblin. The personification of the devil is also
called “Sombrerudo” or “Huamanpailita.” It’s described as short, with a big hat, with one iron hand and another hand of wool: with one hand, it punished and, with the other, it strokes. At naptime, mainly in summer time, it catches young men stealing fruits. When close enough, he scared them or punished them with the wool hand that is more painful than the iron one. It’s also known to always be falling in love; when he goes out at night,
it’s a signal that it’s trying to catch the attention of some young woman.
The Mother of Water. So tells a legend that it was once a beautiful woman; her body was transparent as a cloud that became visible in the gullies and in inaccessible places of the summits with a bracket deer, on which she ride the hills. One day, she lifted in the air, leaving the bracket deer alone, and a hunter finds it and kills it passing
through its heart with an arrow. Hurt, it crashes against the rocks. The woman, the mother of water, cried day and night brokenheartedly. Her eyes became fountains, from where there stem rivers; her beautiful hair became torrents that washed the blood of the deer; and her body slowly became a crystal clear spring.
298
Pablo Coria - Termas de Fiambala
300
Pablo Coria - Predio Ferial
302
Pablo Coria - Fiambala
ANDES (fragment)
Odor of stone, look of stone, stone silence,stone ambush!The great presses out ribs,It can’t breathe through our noses.Like galloping in the cliffsideWatches came to a sudden stop.She’s under the ages like a turtle under the covering of its shell.Immobility is heavier than a hunch.We want to see, hear, know,But our senses are only the hint of wings.The antitheses of the human are here.
Luis Franco
(1898-1988)
ed. sarquis
304
Pablo Coria - BelénPablo Coria - Monte Pisis
306
Pablo Coria - Tapso Pablo Coria - Municipalidad Tapso
308
Pablo Coria - BelénPablo Coria - Fiambala
310
Pablo Coria - Valle viejo Pablo Coria - Fiambala
312
Pablo Coria - Telar - Villa Vil - Belen
The Artisans, Looms and Objects of DesireThe artisans carry indigenous blood in their veins. They blend past, present and future in their crafts. Raised by the mothers and grandmothers of Belen, Santa María, since they were small children, they pictured the traditional blankets, pellets, knapsacks and clay pots. But now, they don’t want to lag behind, and they’re very capable of reinventing themselves.
The artisans build new objects of desire with their elderly hands. Now, the daily use pots, and even garment, are part of their creations.”
Artisans work with their hands and heart. We can see them at the side of the road, in the squares or in the fairs of the Calchaquí
valleys.
314
Pablo Coria - Santa María Pablo Coria - Aceitera Monte Olivos - Poman
316
Pablo Coria - Tito Mascareño - El Rodeo
Lonely Man
They’ve all diedThey’ve died, one by oneI could’ve killed themBut I’ll leave the task to timeAt times, I’ll be an ownerOwner solely of memoriesAnd from my benchI shall involve the dreams of othersTheir big disappointmentsTheir lives in piecesWhen death comesI’ll remain sat, like in this instant,Under the tala treeSeeing without lookingThe hills far away.
Leonardo Martínez
(1937)
ed. sarquis
318
Pablo Coria - Dunas en Saujil - Fiambala - TinogastaPablo Coria - Paso de San Francisco - Fiambala - Tinogasta
320
Pablo Coria - Dunas en Saujil - Fiambala - TinogastaPablo Coria - La Sevila
322
Pablo Coria - Mesada Zárate
SONG OF THE STARVING CHILDREN (Fragment)
Still not knowing that hunger isWorse than all winters?Makes my eyes go redAnd my pulse drunk.My rebellion howls darkMore than the hungry wolf in the snow.I shall sing like the piratesPulling with the windAnd the outcast soulThe cords of the boat.
What the others eat doesn’t matter:There are starving children, know it.Weeping childrenWith the cry of men, Oh Lord!
Luis Franco
(1898-1988)
ed. sarquis
324
Pablo Coria - Tatón
Mamma Jasi (Fragment)
[Notation: Basically by oral tradition, in the North Eastern are of Argentina, the story of a gold mine –called ‘sacha inti’ (false sun)– is known, which was originally exploited by the Cacanes, a Diaguita tribe, who had to continue exploiting it under the domain of the invading Incas. Even today, there are tunnels crossing the mountain, result of the never-ending human eagerness. The Jasi –land strengthened by stone– mingle in the desert landscape, like eternal figures of
guard.]
(The scene opens with an old woman
squatting, think robe with big pocket in
the skirt, from where she takes handfuls
of table salt. Slowly, she pours them
from hand to hand, and every once in
a while she throws them according to
indications.)
(Standing up, she examines the scene.)
Flamingos are no longer there. I behold the cracks. The sisi: The crazy dusty ants dancing in starvation. I behold the salt place. The place with no birds. Only the water that left and the tunnels filled with
wind.
They came from acullá (there). (She points
out an indefinite point.) Barely awake, we thought it was a storm. Thunder. The men ran to hide in the caves. Women ran for their children. Young ones crying for their mummies. The vicugnas ran away from their fence. Everything was like a frog’s belly, exploding drums.
They were cloud, yes, of only earth. A trotting bushwhacker. Leather and spears, boleadoras (leather thongs tipped with leather-covered stones) and tall feathers. A thrust that came blowing with maces
to overpower us. (She throws a handful
of salt angrily towards the soil, in front
of her.) They wanted the patches of false sun. The sacha inti and the cover of the wool.
Jorge Paolantonio
ed. sarquis
326
Pablo Coria - Puente Ingreso
328
Este libro se terminó de imprimir en junio de 2010, en Akián Gráfica Editora. Buenos Aires. Argentina.
