"One more shot"

It was late. I felt that the Sun wasn't shining, not only taking my hope, but the light from my executioners' eyes. They were targeting me, and many other men, probably sharers of my actions. This was the point we had reached. Cold sweat was felling all through my body. The corpses of some of us were laying in front of my feet. The soldiers didn't look human. I wouldn't know how to explain it, but from their faces had disappeared that sparkle that shows the humanity that we all have inside us. One shot. A man fell next to me, like the log that has been cut, impotent during the action, and watching its destiny. One more shot. Just one more, and this would end. But I realised my big mistake. This wasn't ending. It had just started. Was this our future? To be executed by firearm if we didn't kneel? No. It wasn't. But I knew the truth. Many of us would fall, many would die. But we wouldn't left the Frenchmen take over what was ours. Our homeland. Our hearts. Our souls. I closed my eyes. I heard an harquebus moving towards me. I felt a shot. And rest. No more shots. None.

"Un disparo más"

Era tarde. Sentía que el Sol ya no brillaba, quitando no solo mi esperanza, sino la luz de los ojos de mis ejecutores. Apuntaban sus armas hacía mí, y muchos otros hombres, probablemente compartidores de mi causa. A esto habíamos llegado. El sudor frío me recorría todo el cuerpo. Los cadáveres de algunos yacían postrados frente a mis pies. Los soldados no parecían humanos. No sabría explicarlo, pero de su rostro había desaparecido esa chispa que destaca la humanidad que todos tenemos dentro. Un disparo. Un hombre a mi lado cayó cual tronco que ha sido cortado, impotente durante el acto, y atente a su destino. Un disparo más. Uno más y acabaría esto. Pero me di cuenta de mi error. Esto no iba a acabar. Solo acababa de empezar. ¿Era este nuestro futuro? ¿Ser fusilados si no nos arrodillábamos? No. No lo era. Pero yo sabía la verdad. Muchos caeríamos, muchos moriríamos. Pero no dejaríamos que los Franceses tomaran lo que es nuestro. Nuestra patria. Nuestro corazón. Nuestro alma. Cerré los ojos. Escuche un arcabuz moviéndose hacia mí. Sentí un disparo. Y paz. Ningún disparo más. Ninguno.

Name's Pollock, Jackson Pollock

Jackson Pollock (1912-1956) has always been for me one of the best artists ever. Since he was a teen, he discovered he had a inherited talent for art. His parents died when he was just a kid, and he was adopted by a couple, all along with his brothers. He moved to New York City to experiment with different types of art. Though he quite suceeded almost in every try he made, he felt completely in love with abstract art. In his own words, it reminded him how difficult to understand but easy to stand at are our lifes. He started making paintings with liquid paint, describing shapes and lines that mixed between them, making shapes of mazes and abstract infinite paths. His art was well apreciated during his adult life. He got married in 1945, but, due to his childhood problems, his sick personality and his alcoholism, he died in 1956 in a car accident, when he was only 44. The MoMA received a lot of his paintings after his death, and in 2000, Ed Harris portrayed him in the terrific film POLLOCK. His art, pionered for those years, hasn't still been completely understood. His genius passed away with him, as well as his ideas. But not his marterpiece work, the work of a person that only had one scape from the world he had been born in. Art.

  

   






  

The 3rd May, 1808

ROTHNER: A comparison between Mark Rothko and Joseph Turner

Joseph William Turner (1775-1851) and Mark Rothko (1903-1970) are two magnificent painters, whose work has evolved until nowadays. But, although they both were born in different centuries, and different places (Great Britain and Letonia respectively), what is it that unites this artists. It was no other than their minds. Simply their minds. They both were thought to be lazy artists, whose creations were not relevant. The Truth is that they gave importance to the environment, the colors, simply that. But what could be more complex, than the background, as simple as it sounds?

William Turner showed that the main figure couldn't be relevant without the back painting, so he mixed the environments with the main actions. Though this was thought as senseless and not nice at first, people started to get used to that specially after he passed away, and they realised how he was right, how there is not painting without anything to hold it back. These are some examples of his masterpieces:

  
           Rain, Steam and Speed (1844)                                                        Steam-Boat off a Harbour's
                                                                                                                   Mouth in Snow Storm (1842)


The Burning of the Houses of Lords and Commons (1835)

Rothko went further, and proposed that why would he show again the same, if he could just impregnate his paintings with a coloured background, that meant nothing and everything at the same time. Lazy for many, still nowadays, his paintings, minimalistic but brilliant, showed that you don't need to fulfield a image with details to suceed as a painter, and to transmit the same, or even much more.

   



In my opinion, before thinking if they are real and complex art, and it deserves to be known for that, we should firstly think. Does complexity mean it's better? Isn't the simplest thing the greatest of all?