Chronicle of a Sea Without Fury
Written during an artistic residency at the Sacatar Institute, Itaparica, 2015.
From the top of the Sphinx, one of the studios at the residence in Sacatar, I see the infinite array of lights in Itaparica. No day repeats itself. The sea divides into layers: the first is a very light green, blending with the color of the sand; the second, emerald green; the third, intense navy blue. The writer, an insignificant professional, shrinks even further before the vastness that crushes him. Diminutive, I descend to the pier. I need to find out if all this is really real.
I spot two men and eight dogs on the horizon. The canine population is predominant on the island. The light falls on the beach and frames the moment in a disconcerting frame. The dogs are genuine mutts. Only two are black. The others vary in caramel tones. Three of them stand out from the group and dart after birds flying close to the sand. Their joy
is amplified by the air, a sense of freedom that knows no bounds. One of the men whistles, calling the stragglers back. They run, heedless of the slim chance of capturing game. The scene reveals what was already known: dogs are capable of smiling; we are the ones losing the connection, transforming into increasingly dour and paranoid figures. No wonder.
The luminosity mesmerizes. I look around and confirm my suspicion. I alone witness the collective human-canine happiness on a normal weekday afternoon. It's impossible not to smile at the frantic runs, the whistles, the scattered barks. I'm reminded of a painting by Brueghel the Elder. The canvas shows men and dogs, looking battered, returning from an unsuccessful hunt. The setting is bleak, there's snow. The group returns carrying only a scrawny fox. In a flash, all the dogs I've had since childhood appear in a parade of barking dialogue and wagging tails. I pet them, remembering everyone's name. But the tide is rising. The light fades; the beach dogs are dispersing. The dogs of my childhood are also retreating, no matter how hard I try to keep them warm with the light of memory.
The flamenco painter's serious dogs, in contrast to the dogs of Itaparica, have something in common: bouncing or bowed, they all excite under the right light. I remain motionless at the end of the pier, hoping the smiling dogs will never stop running.