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During a decade of regular visits to Poland from 1977 to 1986, the American photographer, Jill Hartley, developed a sympathetic attachment to the Poles at a key moment in their country's history. Rather than giving us a journalistic account, she seeks to distill the essence of a particular atmosphere and to render a little of this "Polishness" which was at the source of the revolutionary events of those years. Her pictures discreetly unveil a "found theater" where the protagonists are caught playing their own roles. Delicately, they show the extreme tension of a people always ready to rise up in defense of their dignity. In Poland, her first book, she offers us the vision of a remarkable photographer.


Poland Experienced


Poland: this portrait presented by Jill Hartley is not the result of any predetermined project but a matter of taking off in search of imaginary ancestors, of recovering burrowed roots in that Europe of origins which slumbers, hidden, fleeting, in the hearts of Americans.

The author belongs to the generation that came of age in 1968. For this Californian, raised in Hollywood, now living in France, the first trip to Europe was in 1975. Curious and thirsty to discover how others view their world, she set out alone to Spain, then to Ireland with the secret intention to immerse herself in another reality.

Trained in painting and ethnographic filmmaking, she sought to observe some of the festivals which, during those years, were both a survival and a renewal of popular traditions. Her attitude was not that of a field worker, nor a journalist, nor an ordinary tourist, but rather that of a photographic artist, scouting the terrain, with no other idea that to practice her newly adopted craft. Pursuing her journey throughout the world (Latin America, the Middle East, Asia, Eastern and Western Europe) she was gathering impressions while conserving their trace through the photographic medium, in her own manner: discreet, sensitive.

It was in this frame of mind that she arrived in Poland in 1977. Immediately she felt here something exceptional prevailing over the socialistic tedium: a real human warmth, a vibrant faith, an old-fashioned gallantry, dignity and a fierce defense of cultural identity. Among the countries through which she had traveled, it was to Poland she would return, attached as one becomes to a first love. Over the years, tying friendships, she grew closer, dissolving into this land.

As a child, I was so shy I felt nearly invisible. It took me a long time to realize my right to take up space. I was fascinated to understand the origins of things and curious to see behind the facades, elsewhere, beyond the fantasy capital, my home town: the great dream factory. Embedded in the American mentality is an impulse to constantly move ahead toward the future, to run all the time after time, money, happiness, barely acknowledging one another's presence. Crossing Europe's divide from West to East, I had the sensation of taking a train to the past, of making a trip backwards.

My privileged position of visitor (of one who could come and go at will) allowed me to see beauty in everyday scenes, to appreciate the different values and to find respite where progress had been stifled by that heavy and ineffective system which was, for those who lived under its control, the constant source of complaining and exasperation.

Arriving, I was always affected by the first Polish faces, by their rather dreamy manner of regarding things or people, certainly very different from the measuring look of the Germans I had just left behind. I adjusted quickly to the slower pace, the softer colors, the plainer tastes. Far from the screaming advertisements, the red slogans looked almost quaint, not very convincing.

Seeing such expressive faces, without masks, I had the feeling of finding a little theater on every street corner. What was dramatic was the tension in the air, the defiance on all levels of society. I admired their stubborn courage. Their ardent sense of morality was so extreme it could take on tragi-comic dimensions, even ridiculous, though never frightful.

My intention was not to "cover" Poland, as it were, in the decisive moment of its history. I wanted to distill the essence of its particular atmosphere and to render a bit of this Polishness that so touched me, which was the source and compelling energy that produced the revolutionary events of those years.

English

Texte de présentation


Pendant une dizaines d'années, de 1977 à 1986, au cours de séjours réguliers, la photographe américaine Jill Hartley s'est établie dans une relation intime avec la Pologne qui vivait à cette époque un basculement historique. Pour elle cependant il ne siagissait pas de capter l'évenement journalistique ou l'actualité historique. Elle revait aussi d'un voyage intérieur : aller jusqu'aux racines de la ferveur des Polonais, trouver les signes de leur très profond attachement a la foi et a l'identité nationale. Photographe discrete, Jill Hartley dévoile un "théatre trouvé", le tragi-comique du quotidien ou les protagonistes se trouvent pris dans leur propre rôle. Par la delicatesse, la justesse et la fluidité de ses images, elle montre la tension extrême d'un peuple toujours prêt a relever le défi pour gagner sa dignité. Elle a voulu distiler l'essense d'une atmosphere particuliere et rendre un peu de cette polonité qui est a la source des evenements révolutionnaires de ces années la. Jill Hartley nous laisse à travers cette suite polonaise la vision d'une grande photographe. Poland est son premier livre.


L'expérience de la Pologne


     Le portrait des Polonais présenté par Jill Hartley ne résulte d'aucun projet a priori. Pour elle, il s'agissait de partir à la recherche d'ancêtres imaginaires, de capter des racines enfouies dans cette "Europe des origines" qui sommeille dans le coeur des Américains. (...) L'auteur appartient à cette génération qui a eu dix-huit ans en 1968. Pour cette Californienne élevée à Hollywood, les premiers voyages en Europe datent de 1975. Partie seule en Espagne, puis en Irlande, elle avait l'intention secrète d'aller sur place s'imprégner d'une autre réalité. Ce voyage européen a été vécu comme une initiation. Le désir de partir était lié à une curiosité, une soif de découvrir le regard des autres sur leur monde.


     Plasticienne, cinéaste et ethnologue de formation, elle se sentait attirée pas les fêtes traditionnelles et populaires dont on pouvait percevoir dans l'Europe de cette période à la fois la survivance et le renouveau. Son attitude n'était ni celle d'une scientifique sur le terrain, ni d'une journaliste, ni d'une simple touriste mais plutôt d'une photographe faisant des repérages, sans idée préconçue, juste dans le but de pratiquer son nouveau métier. Poursuivant son périple un peu partout (Amérique Latine, Moyen Orient, Asie, Europe), elle se laissait impressionner par des réalités tout en restant elle-même : discrète, émue, sensible.


     C'est dans cet état d'esprit qu'elle est arrivée en Pologne en 1977. Immédiatement, elle a senti dans ce pays quelque chose de spécifique et d'indéfinissable qui surgissait de la grisaille et de la pénurie. Un "je ne sais quoi" mêlé de chaleur humaine, de dignité, de galanterie un peu désuète, de foi vivace, de farouche défense de l'identité culturelle. Au fil des années, nouant des relations d'amitié, elle s'est rapprochée jusqu'à se fondre (sans jamais se perdre) dans ce pays. Parmi tous les pays parcourus, elle a senti que c'était vers la Pologne qu'elle retournerait, comme on reste attaché à un premier amour.


     (...)En passant d'ouest en est de l'Europe, j'avais l'impression de prendre un train pour le Passé, faire un voyage à contresens. Ma position privilégiée de visiteur (de quelqu'un qui pouvait entrer et sortir à volonté) m'a permis de voir la beauté du quotidien, d'apprécier d'autres valeurs et de me détendre là où le progrès était entravé par le Système lourd et inefficace, source constante de mécontentement et exaspération pour les habitants.


     En arrivant j'étais toujours étonnée par le visage du premier Polonais que je voyais ; par son attention portée aux choses et aux gens avec un regard doux et romantique, très distinct de celle du regard millimétré des Allemands que je venais de quitter. Je m'adaptais rapidement au rythme plus lent, aux couleurs fades, aux saveurs véritables. Loin des panneaux publicitaires criards, les slogans rouges me paraissaient naïfs, peu convaincants.


     En voyant ces visages tellement expressifs, sans masque, j'avais l'impression de trouver à chaque coin de rue un petit théâtre. Ce qui me paraissait dramatique, c'était la tension ambiante, la défiance s'exprimant à tous les niveaux de la société. J'admirais leur courage obstiné. (...)Je voulais distiller l'essence d'une atmosphère particulière et rendre un peu de cette polonité qui me touchait tant et qui était la source et le moteur qui a produit les événements révolutionnaires de ces-années-là.

Français | Español

Gifts of Chance:
Jill Hartley's Photographic Lottery


The whimsical figures of the lotería belong to the visual heritage of every Mexican childhood: the skull, avidly silent as it stares at you from bottles of poison and high voltage cables; the watermelon and its summer smile; the staggering drunkard seen from across the street with fear and a tinge of compassion; a ladder leaning dangerously against the sky; a pine tree; a star; less evil than he is mischievous, a carnival devil with scant powers of persuasion; a parrot; a drum; a scorpion or a crown. Consider the characters: the lady, with silk stockings of course; the dandy, his fine manners barely concealing his villainy; the brave one, penniless yet ready to avenge any offense; blackie, all loyalty and involuntary humor. All remind us of those ill-fated romances that have nourished Mexican cinema.


Like the encyclopedia, the zoo, the patent office or the periodic table of elements, the cards of the lotería present a sample collection, a display-case of the world. Fifty-four images, nothing unites them, nothing separates them, yet they suffice to represent the world. There is no system, nor principle of classification. The rose, the bell, the heart, the Apache: the only thing they share is an existence in the singular.

"The art of photography is also a game of chance." Such is the equation that Jill Hartley proposes, and willing to provide us with the evidence, she has propped her exploration of Mexican identity on the ingenuous cards of the lotería.

A great photograph is rather like a toss of the dice. The photographer who explores the modest miracles of the everyday knows that he must rely on the terms of his relation with chance. In her wanderings throughout Mexico, Jill Hartley has befriended a providence that repeatedly sets before her eyes the delicate ingredients of a photograph. Essentially, photography is but vision becoming conscious of itself. The photographer selects his subjects from chaos, traces borders on his field of view, discriminates and arranges. Sifting the meaningful from the superfluous, he registers that meaning with his camera so others may share it and appreciate its existence.

What is Jill Hartley's aim in her photographic dialogue with the lotería?

She neither challenges nor refutes, nor does she idly mimic the vernacular. Playing the lottery by her own rules, she seeks to demonstrate the reaches of such a sample collection. Open and devoid of any classifying principle, this sampling of the world may well be as vast as the world itself. Only by appealing to chance can one aspire to capture a country and its people in a handful of cards. The pumpkin, the hand, the agave, the lovesick, the devout one, momentary deities in Jill Hartley's lottery, they are all the fleeting gifts of chance.

Echoing the very cards with which she maintains a dialogue, her lotería is suffused with an exquisite candor. Only this naiveté can render the game possible. Ready for surprise, perhaps timidly, Hartley captures her images with the discretion of one armed with a net, catches dragonflies and butterflies. The naiveté in the anonymous drawings of the lotería give them their only coherence. Likewise, the photographs interlace in a style full of lyricism.

In some quiet corner in an ever-changing Mexico, a hunchback* must be waiting as he questions the horizon. He waits in the blind and indifferent landscape to which we have reduced our daily gaze, certain that the eye of Jill Hartley will not pass him by. We too wait to rediscover in her images the subtle magic of which the world is capable.

Alain-Paul Mallard

*The sight of a hunchback, a figure in some versions of the lotería, is supposed to bring good luck.



English | Español

Les cadeaux du hasard :
La lotería fotográfica de Jill Hartley


     Les capricieuses figures de la loterie appartiennent au patrimoine visuel de toute enfance mexicaine : le crâne, avide et silencieux comme on imagine habite dans un flacon de poison ou sur les câbles à haute tension ; la pastèque et son sourire ;l'ivrogne qui titube sur le trottoir d'en face que l'on regarde avec horreur et commisération. Une échelle vertigineusement appuyé contre le ciel. Un pin. Une étoile. Plus malin que méchant, un diable de carnaval qui aurait perdu son pouvoir de persuasion. Un perroquet. Un tambour, un scorpion ou une couronne. Regardons les personnages : la dame en bas de soie ; le dandy, dont le maintien distingué dissimule à peine la vilenie ; le brave, sans fortune mais prêt à répondre à n'importe quel affront ; le petit nègre dansant, humoriste involontaire et modèle de fidélité. Ils nous évoquent ces intrigues d'amour malheureux qui nourrirent tellement le cinéma mexicain.

     Les cartes de la loterie, comme l'encyclopédie, le zoo, le bureau des brevets ou la table de Mendeleïev, forment ensemble un catalogue du monde. Cinquante-quatre images dissemblables (rien ne les unis, néanmoins rien ne les sépare) suffisent pour l'appréhender. Pas de système ; aucun principe de classification : la cloche, l'apache, le bossu ne partagent qu'une existence au singulier.

     "L'art de la photographie est aussi un jeu de hasard." Telle est l'équation que Jill Hartley nous propose et, prête à en faire la démonstration, elle a superposé ses explorations mexicaines aux cartes, pleine de candeur, de la loterie.

     Une photographie réussie est, d'une certaine façon, un coup de dés. Le photographe qui explore les prodiges du quotidien sait que son travail exige la complicité du hasard. Pendant ses promenades à travers le Mexique, Jill Hartley a atteint l'intimité avec un hasard providentiel qui dépose sans cesse devant ses yeux les délicats ingrédients d'une photographie. Essentiellement, la photographie n'est que la prise de conscience de son propre regard. Le photographe prend ses sujets dans le chaos, trace des limites dans son champ de vision, sélectionne et organise. Il découvre ce qui est significatif à travers l'évident. Et s'il a son appareil en main, il peut enregistrer et nous faire partager ses choix.

     Quelle est l'intention de Jill Hartley dans son dialogue photographique avec la Lotería ? Elle n'essaye pas de réfuter ou de mettre en doute, ni même de retranscrire photographiquement cette imagerie populaire telle quelle ; en jouant à la loterie selon ses propres règles, elle s'évertue à démontrer la richesse de ce catalogue. Ouvert, sans principe de classification, cet inventaire du monde pourrait être aussi vaste que le monde lui-même. C'est seulement en faisant appel au hasard qu'on peut prétendre attraper un pays et ses gens dans une poignée de cartes. La calabaza (le citrouille), la mano, (la main), el maguey (l'agave), la enamorada (l'amoureuse), la llorona (la pleureuse), divinités fugaces dans la loterie de Jill Hartley, sont toutes des cadeaux du hasard.

     Ses photographies, en écho aux images du jeu, se parent d'une exquise ingénuité. C'est peut-être parce qu'il porte en lui une sorte d'innocence qu'un tel jeu peut exister. Voulant se laisser surprendre, parfois un peu craintive, Hartley capture ses images avec la discrétion de celui qui, armé d'un filet, chasse les libellules et les papillons. Dans les illustrations de la loterie, c'est la naïveté du trait du dessinateur anonyme qui donne son unique cohérence à l'ensemble. Les photographies, de la même façon, s'entrelacent dans l'harmonie d'un style plein de lyrisme.

      En un point immobile du Mexique, ce pays changeant, il doit avoir un bossu qui attend interrogeant l'horizon. Dans le paysage aveugle et indifférent dans lequel nous avons réduit notre regard quotidien, il attend avec la certitude que l'œil de Jill Hartley ne passera sans le voir. Nous aussi, nous attendons Jill pour redécouvrir dans sa loterie la magie subtile dont le monde est capable.

Alain-Paul Mallard

Français | English

Los Dones del Azar:
La Lotería Fotográfica de Jill Hartley


Las caprichosas figuras de la lotería pertenecen al patrimonio visual de nuestra infancia: la calavera , ávida y silenciosa como dicen que habita en los frascos de veneno y en los cables de alta tensión; la sandía y su sonrisa; el borracho trastabillante visto desde la acera opuesta con algo de horror y algo de lastimosa simpatía. Una escalera peligrosamente apoyada contra el cielo. Un pino . Una estrella. Menos afín a la maldad que a la malicia, un diablo de carnaval con escaso poder de convencimiento. Un cotorro. Un tambor , un alacrán o una corona. Los personajes, pensamos en la dama -hay que adivinar sus medias de seda-, el catrín -cuyos finos modales apenas encubren su vileza-, el valiente -pobre, pero dispuesto a lavar cualquier afrenta-, el negrito -todo lealtad y humor involuntario-, remiten a aquellas intrigas de amores sin fortuna que tanto nutrieran al cine nacional.

     Los cartones de la lotería, como la enciclopedia, el zoológico, las oficinas de patentes o la tabla de Mendeleyev, conforman un muestrario del mundo. Cincuenta y cuarto imágenes disímbolas -nada las une y sin embargo nada las separa- le basten para apresarlo. Ningún sistema las reúne, ningún principio clasificatorio. La rosa, la campana, el corazón, el apache, sólo comparten una existencia en singular.

     "También el arte fotográfico es un juego de azar." Tal es la ecuación que Jill Hartley nos postula, y dispuesta a ponerla en evidencia, ha apuntalado su exploración de lo mexicano sobre los candorosos cartones de la lotería.

     Una gran fotografía es, en cierta medida, un golpe de dados. El fotógrafo que explora los prodigios de lo cotidiano sabe que se apoya en los términos de su relación con el azar. En sus andares por México, Jill Hartley ha conseguido intimar con un azar providente que sin cesar coloca ante ojos los delicados ingredientes de una fotografía. En esencia, la fotografía no es sino la toma de conciencia de la propia mirada. El fotógrafo recoge a sus sujetos del caos, traza fronteras en su campo de visión, discrimina y ordena.

     Descubre lo significativo en lo superfluo. Y, de tener una cámara a la mano. lo registra para que nosotros podamos advertir y agradecer su existencia.

     ¿Cuál es el afán de Jill Hartley en su diálogo fotográfico con la lotería? No impugna ni rebate, tampoco remeda en vana recuperación de lo vernáculo. Al jugar a la lotería bajo sus propias reglas busca demostrar la amplitud de semejante muestrario. Abierto, sin principio de clasificación, el muestrario del mundo podría ser tan vasto como el mundo mismo. Únicamente apelando al azar puede pretenderse atrapar un país y su gente en un puñado de cartas. La calabaza, la mano, el maguey, la enamorada, la beata, deidades momentáneas en la lotería de Jill Hartley, son todos dones del azar.

     Sus fotografías, en eco de las láminas con que dialogan, se revisten de una exquisita ingenuidad. Sólo en la ingenuidad late la posibilidad del juego. Dispuesta a sorprenderse, acaso con algo de temor, Hartley captura sus imágenes con la discreción de quien, armado de una red, caza libélulas y mariposas. La naïveté en los trazos del dibujante anónimo aporta a los cromos de la lotería su única coherencia de conjunto. Las fotografías, de igual modo, se entrelazan en la comunión de un estilo pleno de lirismo.

     En algún punto inmóvil de ese país cambiante debe haber un jorobado que aguarda interrogando al horizonte. Espera, el paisaje ciego e indiferente al que hemos reducido nuestro cotidiano, con la certeza de que el ojo de Jill Hartley no lo pasará por alto. También nosotros esperamos a Jill. Para redescubrir en su lotería la sutil magia de que es capaz el mundo.

Alain-Paul Mallard

Français | Español

To each his own Cuba


Famous for its contradictions, the island makes an intense impression on a new arrival and each one interprets what they find here in their own way. For me, it looked as if the world had come to an end. But instead of dying, the people were still alive, and in fact seemed rather more alive than anywhere else. I was charmed by their gestures and expressions, their candor and unaffected sensuality. Between 1998 and 2003, I returned a dozen times, basking in this bath of human warmth, always discovering new facets and layers to daily life. This book represents my last photographic project using the Leica camera loaded with black and white film and a desire to capture visually the amazing character of this corner of the world using only the light reflected off the surface of things.


I was probably attracted by the music besides ordinary curiosity when I first arrived from Mexico where I live. By this time, Cuba had more or less recovered from the economic upheaval and scarcity of the "special period" brought on by the loss of the Soviet Union as the "petrol for sugar" trading partner. ​​ But life was still a struggle for most. Tourism was a budding industry, although a kind of official apartheid tried to keep these golden geese separate from the locals making it problematic for foreigners and Cubans to get around together. Many wanted to leave their island to live almost anywhere else. That year, a foreigner walking in Havana, easily spotted a block away, might expect to receive at least one marriage proposal before arriving at the next corner. A Cuban invention for public transport made from tractor trailers, los Camellos (camels), now extinct, roamed the streets of Havana where boys played baseball with sticks for bats. You could buy a Hatuey beer, a glass of guarapo (pressed sugar cane) or a mamey milk shake with ordinary Cuban pesos, at least in the provinces. Fidel was making marathon speeches on one of the two TV channels. Strolling in the evening, one could follow a certain Brazilian soap opera coming from every open window. Mostly there was live music for Cubans to enjoy in dance halls everywhere, and amazing singers and musicians in small-town cultural centers, old-age asylums or played by orchestras practicing in the park.

In 2003, the documentary I had filmed there, 50 years of chachachá with the Orchestra America, was shown at the Havana Film Festival. In 2009 I exhibited photos at the Benito Juárez Mexican cultural center: Lotería fotográfica mexicana. When finally, I was able to return to Cuba in February of 2020, I found that things had changed. ​Besides the now six TV channels on flat screens, cell phones and limited internet access in the park, people seemed a little plumper,​ more frustrated, less lively. ​A long line of false convertibles from the fifties waited in front of the Capitol building painted bright colors like orange and purple with the logo “Rent a Fantasy” and the popular dancing spots I had known had all disappeared.

English | Español

Chacun cherche son Cuba


     Célèbre pour ses ambiguïtés, l’île fait une impression intense sur le nouveau venu et chacun interprète à sa manière ce qu’il ressent. Pour moi, c’était comme si le monde était fini, mais au lieu de mourir, les gens vivaient, en fait ils me semblaient bien plus vivants que nulle part ailleurs. J'ai été séduit par sa candeur et sa sensualité naturelle, ses gestes et expressions. J’y suis retourné une douzaine de fois entre 1998 et 2003, en savourant ce bain de chaleur humaine, découvrant toujours de nouvelles nuances et facettes du quotidien. Ce livre est le résultat de mon dernier projet photographique avec l’appareil photo Leica chargé de pellicule noir et blanc et le désir de saisir visuellement l’étonnant de ce coin du monde seulement avec la lumière qui reflète la surface des choses.

     Lorsque je suis arrivée pour la première fois, du Mexique où je vis, attiré par la musique et par la curiosité, Cuba avait récupéré un peu de sa crise économique provoquée par la chute de l’Union soviétique et la perte du traité "pétrole contre sucre." Néanmoins, vivre était toujours une lutte pour la majorité. Le tourisme était une industrie en début de croissance. Une sorte d’apartheid officiel voulait s'éloigner ces oies dorées des indigènes et c'était souvent problématique de circuler ensemble étrangers et Cubains. Beaucoup voulaient quitter leur île pour aller vivre n'importe où ailleurs. Cette année-là, un étranger qui se promenant dans La Havane, facilement détecté à distance, pouvait recevoir au moins une demande en mariage avant d'atteindre la prochaine rue. Une invention cubaine pour le transport public fabriquée à partir de remorques, les chameaux (los camellos), aujourd'hui disparus, parcouraient les rues où les enfants jouaient au baseball avec des bouts de bois en guise de battes. Vous pourriez acheter une bière Hatuey, un jus de sucre à canne pressé (guarapo) ou un mamey frappé avec la monnaie cubaine ordinaire, du moins dans la province. Fidel donnait des discours marathons sur l'une des deux chaînes de télévision. En marchant dans la nuit, on pouvait suivre un certain feuilleton brésilien qui sortait de chaque fenêtre. Surtout, il y avait de la musique live dans les salles de danse partout, et des chanteurs et musiciens extraordinaires dans les maisons de culture des petites villes, asiles de retraite ou par des orchestres qui répétaient dans le parc.

     En 2003, mon documentaire : 50 ans de chachachá avec l'Orquesta América a été présenté au Festival de Cinéma de La Havane. En 2009, j'ai eu une exposition de photos à la maison Benito Juárez : La lotería fotográfica mexicana. Lorsque j’ai finalement réussi à retourner à Cuba en février 2020, je l’ai trouvé changé. Mis à part les six chaînes de télévision, les écrans plats et les téléphones portables, l'internet limité dans le parc, les gens semblaient plus dodus, plus frustrés et moins joyeux. Il y avait une file de faux cabriolets des années 50 qui attendaient devant le Capitole, peints en orange et violet disant « Rent a Fantasy » et toutes les salles de bal populaire que j'avais connues avaient disparu.

Français | English

A cada quien su Cuba


Famosa por sus ambigüedades, la isla causa una impresión intensa al recién llegado y cada uno interpreta a su manera lo que siente aquí. Para mí, pareció como si se hubiera acabado el mundo. Pero en vez de morir, la gente seguía viva, pero mucho más viva que en ningún otro lado. Me encantaron sus gestos y expresiones, su franqueza y su sensualidad tan natural. Volví una docena de veces en los siguientes años, entre 1998 y 2003 gozando de este baño de calor humano, siempre descubriendo nuevas matices y facetas de la vida cotidiana. Este libro es el resultado de mi último proyecto fotográfico con la cámara Leica cargada de película blanco y negro y el afán de capturar visualmente lo asombroso de este rincón del mundo sirviendome únicamente de la luz que refleja la superficie de las cosas.

     Atraída por la música y la curiosidad, llegué por primera vez desde México donde vivo. En este momento, Cuba había recuperado un poco de la escasez del "período especial" provocado por la caída de la Unión Soviética y la pérdida del tratado petróleo por azúcar. Aunque vivir seguía siendo una lucha para la mayoría. El turismo era una industria empezando a crecer. Una especie de apartheid oficial trató de mantener estos gansos dorados separados de los lugareños por lo que era a veces problemático circular juntos extranjeros y cubanos. Muchos querían dejar su isla para vivir en casi cualquier otro lado. Ese año, un extranjero que paseaba por La Habana, percibido fácilmente a una cuadra de distancia, podría esperar recibir al menos una propuesta de matrimonio antes de llegar a la siguiente esquina. Un invento cubano para el transporte público hecho a partir de remolques, los Camellos, ya extintos, paseaban por las calles donde niños jugaban béisbol con palos por bates. Pudieras comprar una cerveza Hatuey, un guarapo o batido de mamey con pesos cubanos corrientes, al menos en la provincia. Fidel daba discursos maratónicos en uno de los dos canales de televisión. De cada ventana en la noche, cierta telenovela brasileña se podía escuchar. Más que todo, había música en vivo para disfrutar en salones de baile por todos lados, y maravillosos cantantes y músicos en cada casa de la cultura pueblerina, asilo o por orquestas ensayando en el parque.

     En 2003 se presentó en el Festival de Cine de La Habana mi documental: 50 años de chachachá con la Orquesta América. En 2009 tuve una exposición de fotos allí en la casa de Benito Juárez: La lotería fotográfica mexicana. Cuando finalmente logré a volver a Cuba en febrero de 2020, lo encontré cambiado. Aparte de los seis canales de televisión, pantallas planas y celulares, internet limitada en el parque, la gente parecía más gordita, más frustrada, con menos alegría de vivir. Había una fila de falsos descapotables de los años 50 esperando frente al Capitolio pintados de naranja y violeta promocionando “Renta una Fantasía” y los salones de baile que había conocido, ya no estaban.



Projects


Français | Español

Jill Hartley


I was fascinated with the experience of pregnancy and wanted to record the state of my own body. Later I continued photographing pregnant friends aiming to express the beauty a woman feels in her body that contains another one. Whatever discomforts she may bear seem trifling compared to the sacred power of her new female identity, as if she contains the whole world and is suddenly connected to all other mothers and to the cycle of generations, past and future. But she keeps these thoughts to herself while all the attention is focused on the infant, not on the mother. The extraordinary metamorphosis to motherhood is still strangely ignored in our society. In contemporary visual media there is no suggestion that feminine beauty can be associated with fertility. How odd that people are often uncomfortable with this subject, so awe-inspiring yet so normal. After all, each one of us came to this world by way of a mother.

English | Español

Jill Hartley


     L'expérience de la grossesse me fascinait et j'ai fait des autoportraits pour garder une image de mon état physique. Plus tard je continuais à photographier mes amies enceintes, en vue de montrer la beauté qu'une femme ressent dans son corps qui en contient un autre. Les quelques inconforts qu'elle pourrait subir semblent peu de chose par rapport à l'émerveillement et la force de sa nouvelle identité féminine. C'est comme si elle contient le monde entier et soudain est connectée à toutes les autres mères et au cycle des générations passées et futures. Mais elle n'exprime pas ses pensées lorsque toute l'attention est concentrée sur l'enfant, non sur la mère. L'extraordinaire métamorphose de la maternité est encore étrangement ignorée dans notre société. Dans les médias visuels contemporains, rien ne suggère que la beauté féminine puisse être associée à la fertilité. Cela m'étonne que les gens soient souvent mal à l'aise face à ce sujet, si profond et pourtant si normal. Enfin, nous sommes tous venus au monde par une mère.

Français | English

Jill Hartley


La experiencia del embarazo me fascinó y hice muchos auto retratos. Luego seguí fotografiando a mis amigas embarazadas con el objetivo de expresar la belleza que siente una mujer en su cuerpo que contiene a otra. Las incomodidades que podría experimentar parecen insignificantes en comparación con la maravilla y la fuerza de su nueva identidad femenina. Es como si contuviera el mundo entero y de repente estuviera conectada con todas las madres y con el ciclo de generaciones pasadas y futuras. Pero no expresa estos sentimientos mientras toda la atención se centra en el bebé, no en la madre. La extraordinaria metamorfosis de la maternidad es extrañamente ignorada en nuestra sociedad. En los medios visuales no hay ninguna sugerencia de que la belleza femenina pueda asociarse con la fertilidad. Qué raro que este tema tan profundo y, sin embargo, tan normal pueda causar incomodidad. Finalmente, todos llegamos a este mundo a través de una madre.

Español

A Day at the Beach

in South India



I was heading to Chennai for two or three months with some vague ideas for a book project. One of them, thanks to Nadine who described it to me, was the beach. Then when I saw it, well, it was simply irresistible, a feast for the eyes and the heart. What colors! What fun! What handsome people frolicking in the warm sea with their fancy clothes on, bursting with joy and laughter! The hand-cranked gaily-painted merry-go-rounds, horse-rides, stands to get your photograph taken with your favorite cardboard movie star and arrays of snacks and drinks. A carnival, a collective spree inspired by sand and sea, it makes all the other beaches I’ve seen in the world seem rather serious and sad in comparison.

Chennai, India's fourth largest metropolis, is hot and humid even in winter and is also blessed with immense sandy beaches. In the early morning hours, the vast stretches of sand are spotted with joggers, body builders, cricket players, Frisbee tossers, dozing dogs and cawing crows. At midday, if you’re able to brave the heat, you’d find it mostly deserted except for some rows of empty stalls, bits of trash and a few couples hiding from the sun in the small squares of shade cast by scattered unpacked carts. Fishermen beach their boats at odd hours and haul their nets to shore where they pick out fish and sell them to waiting customers or hand them over to their wives who clean and lay them out to sell. Otherwise, they can be seen mending nets or circled around a card game at the far end of the beach where they live.

Late in the afternoon, vendors start setting up stalls in preparation for the coming crowds. When the sun is low and the air has cooled a bit, they start arriving in small groups of families, friends, couples or entire classes of uniformed school children. Balloon sellers squeak their wares, toy peddlers play flutes and pink cotton candy boys roam back and forth ringing bells. Bee bee guns pop bi-colored balloons. Horse riders meander about offering rides for rupees. Mischievous monkey handlers wander in and out. Fortune-tellers sit cross-legged awaiting clients. At a certain hour, khaki-clad policemen and women appear, some on horseback, combing the shore to bully swimmers out of the water. The sea here is in fact dangerous and many die carried away by the undertow. Camera boys with battery-powered printers in their shoulder bags offer minute photos for a modest sum. To attend to any appetite there are corn roasters, fish fryers, sugar cane juicers and peddlers of every kind of sweets and treats. Others just play games in the sand: blind man’s bluff, foot races, Kabaddi.

The excitement peaks around sunset. Then lanterns are brought out and glow toys planted in the sand. People linger long after dark enjoying the cool breeze and good company. Finally they squeeze the water from their clothes, shake off the sand and head for home.

JH

This project was supported by an artist-in-residence grant from the Mexican National Fund for Culture and the Arts (FONCA) and by Tara Books. The photographs were taken in the winter of 2012-2013 at Marina Beach, Elliot's Beach and Mahabalipuram Beach.



English

Un día en la playa

en el sur de la India



Iba a Chennai para quedarme dos o tres meses con el propósito de hacer un libro. Uno de mis ideas, gracias a Nadine quien me la describió, fue la playa. Luego cuando la vi, era simplemente irresistible. Un festín para los ojos y el corazón. ¡Qué divertido! ¡Qué gente tan guapa retozando en el cálido mar con sus ropas elegantes, rebosantes de alegría! Los tiovivos con manivela pintados con colores brillantes, los paseos a caballo, los puestos para tomarse una fotografía junto con una estrella de cine de cartón y una gran variedad de bocadillos y bebidas. Un carnaval, una juerga colectiva inspirada por la arena y el mar. Todas las playas que he visto en el mundo parecen serias y tristes en comparación.

     Chennai es la cuarta metrópolis más grande de la India. Es calurosa y húmeda incluso en invierno y está bendecida con inmensas playas. En las primeras horas de la mañana, las vastas extensiones de arena se poblaron de corredores, culturistas, jugadores de críquet, lanzadores de Frisbee, perros dormitando y graznidos de cuervos. Al mediodía, si eres capaz de desafiar el calor, lo encontrarás casi desierto a excepción de puestos vacíos, trozos de basura y algunas parejas que se esconden del sol en los pequeños cuadrados de sombra que arrojan los carritos desempacados. Los pescadores varan sus botes y arrastran sus redes a la orilla, donde recogen los peces y los venden a los clientes que están allí esperando o se los entregan a sus esposas, quienes los limpian y los colocan a la venta. O se les puede ver remendando redes o sentados alrededor de un juego de cartas en el otro extremo de la playa donde viven.

     En la tarde, los vendedores comienzan a instalar sus puestos en preparación para las multitudes que van llegando. Cuando el sol está bajo y el aire un poco más fresco, empiezan a venir en pequeños grupos de familiares, amigos, parejas o clases enteras de escolares. Los vendedores de globos hacen chirriar sus productos, los vendedores de juguetes tocan flautas y los niños que venden algodón de azúcar rosa deambulan de un lado a otro tocando campanas. Las pistolas BB revientan globos bicolores. Los jinetes andan ofreciendo paseos a cambio de rupias. Traviesos domadores de monos entran y salen. Los adivinos se sientan con las piernas cruzadas esperando a los clientes. A cierta hora aparecen policías vestidos de caqui, algunos a caballo, para sacar del agua a los bañistas. De hecho, el mar aquí es peligroso y muchos mueren arrastrados por la resaca. Por una suma modesta, fotógrafos con impresoras a batería en sus morrales ofrecen fotos. Para atender cualquier apetito hay asadores de maíz, freidoras de pescado, exprimidores de caña de azúcar y vendedores ambulantes de todo tipo de golosinas. Otros simplemente juegan en la arena: farol del ciego, carreras a pie, Kabaddi.

     La emoción alcanza su punto máximo alrededor del atardecer. Se sacan linternas y se plantan juguetes luminosos en la arena. La gente se queda después del anochecer disfrutando de la brisa fresca y la buena compañía hasta finalmente se exprimen el agua de la ropa, se sacuden la arena y regresan a casa.

J H

Este proyecto fue apoyado por una beca del FONCA y Tara Books. Las fotos fueron tomadas en el invierno de 2012-2013 en Marina Beach, Elliot's Beach y Mahabalipuram Beach.



Français | Español

SIGHT


SEEING with Jill Hartley

30 years of photographs with Leica cameras and black and white film: 1975-2005


This is a collection of images, mostly unpublished, that have been waiting in a box for a new life in a book. They have little in common with each other except for their author who made them. Maybe they compose a kind of self-portrait or traces of looking, the record of my journey, my ethnographic sketchbook, or some sights recorded along the way and then selected because I liked them for some reason.

Just the act of finding ourselves in an unknown place wakes up our sensory antennas. This SIGHT SEER is a traveler in a foreign place who looks and listens rather than a tourist who tours. As the travelog may be literature, travel photography may aspire to poetry or art whereby personal reflections, impressions, the desire and the ability to communicate, makes a trip the occasion for extended observations on a nation and its people. A century ago, few had the opportunity to travel. Today, almost everyone can travel and everyone is a photographer especially when they are traveling. Why do they like to photograph themselves in front of a famous background? Proof that they traveled? To appropriate the world and take it home?

English | Español

SIGHT


SEEING avec Jill Hartley

30 ans de photographies avec les appareils photo Leica en noir et blanc: 1975-2005


Ceci s'agit d'une collection d'images, pour la plupart inédites, qui attendent dans une boîte leur nouvelle vie dans un livre. Ils ont peu de liens en commun sauf leur auteur. Peut-être qu'elles constituent une sorte d'autoportrait ou bien, les traces de mon regard, le compte rendu de mes voyages sur la planète, mon carnet de croquis ethnographique, ou des scènes enregistrées en cours de route, puis sélectionnées parce qu'elles me plaisent, je ne sais pas pourquoi.

Le simple fait de se retrouver dans un lieu inconnu réveille nos antennes sensorielles. Le SIGHT SEER qui voyage dans un lieu étranger, regarde et écoute plutôt que le touriste qui fait le tour. Comme le récit de voyage peut être de la littérature, la photographie de voyage peut aspirer à la poésie ou à l'art. Les impressions et les réflexions personnelles, le désir et la capacité de communiquer, font d'un voyage l'occasion d'observations approfondies sur une nation et son peuple. Il y a un siècle, peu avaient l'occasion de voyager. Aujourd'hui, presque tout le monde peut voyager et tout le monde est photographe, surtout lorsqu'il voyage. Pourquoi autant se photographient devant un arrière-plan célèbre? Preuve qu'ils ont voyagé? S'approprier le monde et le ramener chez soi?

Français | English

SIGHT


SEEING with Jill Hartley

30 años de fotografías con la cámara Leica en blanco y negro: 1975-2005


Es una colección de fotografías, inéditas en su mayoría, que esperan desde una caja de cartón, a una nueva vida dentro de un libro. Poco les une aparte de su autora. Quizás forman un autorretrato o rastros de miradas, registros de mi viaje por el planeta, relatos etnográficos o escenas grabadas en el camino y luego seleccionadas porque me gustaron, quien sabe porqué.

El solo hecho de encontrarse en un lugar desconocido despierta las antenas sensoriales. Este “Sight Seer” viajando por un lugar extranjero, mira y escucha a diferencia del turista que recorre. Cómo una crónica de viaje puede ser literatura, la fotografía de viaje puede aspirar a la poesía o al arte. Las impresiones y reflexiones personales, el deseo y la capacidad de comunicar, hacen de un viaje la ocasión de largas observaciones sobre una nación y su gente. Hace un siglo, pocos tenían la oportunidad de viajar. Hoy en día, casi todos pueden viajar y todos son fotógrafos, especialmente cuando viajan. ¿Por qué tantos quieren fotografiarse frente a un fondo famoso? ¿Prueba de que viajaron? ¿Apropiarse del mundo y llevárselo a casa?

Français | Español

Brazzaville: Autoportrait

JILL HARTLEY



In Congo-Brazzaville alone about 60 distinct languages are spoken daily. To provide a means of communication between different groups, trade languages developed. I imagine that the popular use of paintings on shop signs in African cities, which everyone can understand, emerged as a visual lingua franca.

When I was invited to Brazzaville, it was my first visit to Sub-Saharan Africa. I had heard that Africans in general dislike being photographed off guard. When I asked permission, many explained to me that they feel offended by the image of Africa in the foreign press. I can see their point; we do see a profusion of famine, disease and war. Still asking permission, I began to photograph paintings on shops signs because I found them beautiful and because I am interested in how people view themselves and their world.

The most common paintings allude to grooming and dressing well: barbershops, hairdressers, shoe stores, tailors and fabric shops. Prized modernity takes the form of cell phones, televisions, musical instruments, computers and photo studio portraits. This popular street art reveals what people covet and desire like a reflection in the mirror of their worldview.

English | Español

Brazzaville: Auto portrait

JILL HARTLEY


Dans le seul Congo-Brazzaville 60 diverses langues sont parlées tous les jours. Pour assurer un moyen de communication entre les différents groupes, des langues véhiculaires se sont développées. J'imagine que les peintures publicitaires sur les magasins dans les villes Africaines, compréhensibles par tous, ont fait leur apparition comme une lingua franca visuelle.

Quand j'étais invitée à Brazzaville, c'était ma première visite en Afrique subsaharienne. J'avais entendue dire qu'en générale les Africains n'aiment pas être photographié à leur insu. Je leur ai donc demandé la permission. Beaucoup m'ont expliqué qu'ils se sentaient offensés par l'image d'Afrique diffusée dans la presse européenne. Effectivement on y voit surtout la famine, la maladie, la guerre. Toujours en leur demandant la permission, j'ai commencé à photographier les peintures sur les boutiques car je les trouvais belles et parce que je m'intéresse à la façon dont les gens se perçoivent et perçoivent leur monde.

Les enseignes les plus fréquent concernent la présentation personnelle : le salon de coiffure, le magasin de chaussures, le tailleur, le vendeur de tissus. La modernité estimée prend la forme de téléphones mobiles, de téléviseurs, d'instruments de musique, d'ordinateurs et des portraits de studio photo. Cet art populaire urbain révèle ce que les gens désirent et apprécient, comme un reflet dans le miroir de leur univers.

Français | English

Brazzaville: Autorretrato

JILL HARTLEY


Se hablan diariamente 60 idiomas distintos solo en el país de Congo-Brazzaville. Para facilitar la comunicación entre diferentes grupos, se desarrollaron idiomas comerciales. Me imagino que el uso popular de pinturas publicitárias en las fachadas de las tiendas, que todos pueden entender, surgió como una lingua franca visual. Este arte urbano habla un lenguaje universal.

Cuando me invitaron a Brazzaville, fue mi primera visita al África subsahariana. Había oído que a los africanos en general les molesta estar fotografiados desprevenidos. Cuando pedí permiso, muchos me explicaron que se sienten ofendidos por la imagen de África en la prensa extranjera. Es cierto que vemos una profusión de hambruna, enfermedad y guerra. Siempre pidiendo permiso, empecé a fotografiar las pinturas de las tiendas porque las encontraba bellas y porque me interesa cómo la gente ve a su mundo y a sí misma.

Las pinturas ponen en evidencia lo que desea la gente, lo codiciado, lo valorado o lo que causa inquietud. Las más populares aluden al arreglo personal y el cuidado en el vestir. Entendemos la importancia que tienen la apariencia y la belleza física. Hay muchas estéticas, tiendas de ropa, de zapatos y de telas. La preciada modernidad toma la forma de teléfonos celulares, televisores, instrumentos musicales, computadoras y retratos fotográficos. Este arte popular callejero es una ventana a la vida cotidiana del pueblo y un pequeño reflejo de su cosmovisión.

Français | Español

Triptychs ƒotoTaroc

We see what we want to see.


I've always noticed how people find meaning in photographs by mixing what they see with their own projected preoccupations and experiences. I decided to make a set of cards with purposely ambiguous or symbolic images, which lend themselves to various interpretations to summon up secret corners of the unconscious.

The basic rules go like this: The person who will “read” the cards first shuffles the deck and chooses three at random, then places them face up for all to see. Paying close attention to first impressions, they must look for a personal message.

The triptychs represent possible combinations of three images from the deck, although carefully chosen, that invite the viewer to imagine how the images might relate to one another.

English | Español

Triptyques ƒotoTaroc

On voit ce qu'on cherche.


J'ai toujours remarqué comment les gens trouvent du sens dans les photographies en mélangent ce qu'ils voient avec leurs propres préoccupations et expériences. J'ai décidé de faire une série d’images expressément ambiguës ou symboliques, qui se prêtent à interpréter de multiples manières pour révéler les secrets de l’inconscient.

Les règles du jeu : la personne qui va « lire » les cartes d’abord mélange le paquet et en choisit trois au hasard, puis il les place face visible à la vue de tous. Portant une attention particulière aux premières impressions, il doit y chercher un message personnel.

Les triptyques représentent des combinaisons possibles de trois images du jeu, plutôt soigneusement choisies, qui invitent le spectateur à imaginer des rapports entre elles.

Français | English

Trípticos ƒotoTaroc

Vemos lo que queremos ver.


He siempre notado cómo las personas buscan sentido en las fotografías mezclando lo que ven con sus propias preocupaciones y experiencias. Decidí hacer una serie de imágenes expresamente ambiguas o simbólicas que se prestan para interpretaciones variadas y que sirven para revelar rincones de la inconsciencia.

Se juega así: la persona que va "leer" las cartas primero baraja el mazo y elige tres al azar. Las coloca boca arriba en cualquier orden a la vista de todos. Prestando atención a sus primeras impresiones, debe buscar en ellas un mensaje personal.

Los trípticos representan posibles combinaciones de tres imágenes del juego, aunque bien escogidas, que invitan al espectador a imaginar relaciones entre ellas.

Français | Español

Lucina's Album

JILL HARTLEY



Lucina's Album is a series of portraits recording my daughter's passage through childhood made on the exquisite Polaroid 665 film. The project was strictly personal, starting with her birth until she went away to study when I decided to bring it to a close, and besides, the Polaroid Company had by then declared bankruptcy. Whenever I showed the small album of contact prints, I realized that it touched emotions regardless of whether or not the person knew my daughter. They say the universal dwells in the most intimate places.

This was a ritual for three collaborators, each with her own role, contributions and conditions: myself- photographer/mother, Lucina- subject/daughter and the film- medium/photography. Like most new parents, I wanted to celebrate each month completed by my little daughter during her first year of life. Lucina was born on the 23rd of September 1986, thus I began making a ceremonial portrait on the 23rd of each month. I was free to choose the moment until she learned to walk and talk, and from then on she would decide the right moment which almost never came on the 23rd. I would suggest we make a portrait once in a while, taking care not to let too much time go by without bringing out the Polaroid camera. Because the film is slow, the subject must hold still or else come out as a blur. Focusing and framing is dificult. Once the shutter was released, I would count out a minute, then carefully pull on the tab to release the photo and separate positive from negative. The negative would then be washed and hung to dry while we inspected the positive. There would be seven more chances until the pack ran out.

Lucina's childhood was divided between two cities: first Paris and then Mexico with vacations usually spent in California. Having grown up with it, she must have thought this ritual was like a normal part of life and she was fascinated to see how she looked before. She would not enter into the game, however, without a reason, like a desire to document something special. The years four, five and six were blessed with dress-up fantasies. Between fifteen and seventeen she often preferred we do the picture another day.

To display the selected photographs, I fashioned a small book of linen-covered cardboard with black paper pages joined together by two brass screws in which I would slip the newest portrait under stick-on corners on the top page of the stack. Thus the album always began with the most recent picture, progressing backwards in time, like memory, to end where the story began. Already, at the moment of making a portrait, we are aware of looking back at it from the future.



Petra Ediciones

First Readers

About Petra Ediciones


The Switchman

short story by Juan José Arreola


original title “El Guardagujas”


The foreigner arrived out of breath to the deserted station. His large suitcase, that nobody wanted to carry, had worn him out to the utmost. He wiped his face with a handkerchief and with his hand shading his eyes, looked at the tracks disappearing on the horizon. Breathless and pensive, he checked his watch: exactly the time when the train should leave. Someone, out of who knows where, gave him a gentle slap on the back. Turning around, the foreigner found himself facing an old man with the vague appearance of a railwayman. He was carrying a red lantern, but so small it looked like a toy. He looked smiling at the traveler who anxiously asked,

-Excuse me, has the train already gone?

-You haven't spent much time in this country?

-I need to leave immediately. I must be in T. tomorrow.

-It appears that you are completely unaware of things. What you should do right away is look for lodging in the inn for travelers, and he pointed to a strange, ashen building that looked more like a prison.

-But I don't want lodgings. I want to leave on the train.

-Rent yourself a room immediately if there are any. In case you can get one, rent it by the month. It will be cheaper that way and you'll receive better service.

-Are you crazy? I must get to T. tomorrow.

-Frankly, you ought to abandon yourself to your fate. Nevertheless, I will give you some information.

-Please.

-This country is famous for its railroads, as you know. Until now it has not been possible to organize them properly, though great things have been done regarding the printing of time-tables and the dispatching of tickets. The railway guidebooks cover and link all the towns in the nation. You can buy a ticket to the tiniest and remotest of villages. All that's lacking is that the trains follow the indications contained in the guidebooks and actually pass through the stations. The inhabitants of this country do hope so. Meanwhile, they accept the irregularities in the service and their patriotism prevents them from showing any signs of displeasure.

-But, is there a train that stops in this town?

To answer in the affirmative would be equivalent to committing an inexactitude. As you yourself can see, the rails exist, although they're a bit broken down. In some towns they are simply indicated on the ground by two lines of chalk. Given the current conditions, no train is obliged to pass by here. But then nothing would prevent this from happening. I have seen many trains pass by in my life and have known some travelers who were able to board them. If you wait patiently, perhaps I myself will have the honor of helping you board a luxurious and comfortable wagon.

-Would this train take me to T.?

-And why do you insist that it has to be precisely to T.? You ought to consider yourself satisfied if you can board. Once on the train, your life will effectively take some course. What does it matter if this way is not the one to T.?

-It's just that I have a valid ticket for T. Logically I should be conducted to that place. Isn't that so?

people who have taken precautions, acquiring great quantities of tickets. As a general rule, those with foresight buy fares for all points in the country. There is one who has spent a real fortune in tickets.

-I believed that to go to T. a ticket was enough. Look at it.

-The next stretch of national railroad is going to be constructed with the money of one single person who has just finished spending his immense capital in round-trip tickets for a railway route whose plans, that include tunnels and bridges, have not even been approved by the engineers of the firm.

-But the train that goes to T., is it already in service?

-And not only that. In reality, there are many many trains in the nation and travelers can use them with relative frequency, while taking into account that it's not a reliable and fixed service. In other words, on boarding a train, no one expects to be transported to the place he wants to go.

-How is that?

-In its eagerness to serve the citizens, the firm must resort to certain desperate measures. They circulate trains through impassable terrain. These expeditionary convoys take, at times, several years to complete their journey and the lives of the voyagers suffer some considerable transformations. Deaths are not uncommon in such cases. But the firm that has anticipated everything, adds to those trains a chapel wagon and a cemetery car. It is a source of pride for the conductors to deposit the cadaver of a voyager luxuriously embalmed, on the platform of the station written on his ticket. On occasion, these trains are forced to run routes where one of the tracks is missing. All of one side of the wagons shake deplorably from the wheels striking the sleepers. The voyagers in first class (it's another provision of the company) stick to the side where there's a rail. Those in second class suffer the blows with resignation. But there are other routes where both tracks are missing. There the voyagers suffer equally until the train is left totally destroyed.

-Good God!

-Look, sir. The little town of F. grew up because of one of those accidents. The train was crossing impassible country. Ground by the sand, the wheels wore down to their axels. The voyagers passed so much time together, that out of the obligatory trivial conversations grew close-knit friendships. Some of these friendships soon turned into romances and the result has been F., a progressive little village full of naughty children who play with the rusty remains of the train.

-My God! I wasn't made for such adventures.

-You need to go about tempering your spirit. Perhaps you'll get to become a hero. Don't believe that opportunities are lacking for voyagers to demonstrate their courage and their capacity for self-sacrifice. Recently two hundred anonymous passengers wrote one of the most glorious pages in our railroad annals. It happened that during a test voyage, the driver noticed, just in time, a serious omission by the constructors of the line. In that route, a bridge was missing that should have spanned an abyss. Well the driver, instead of putting it into reverse, appealed to the passengers and obtained from them the necessary effort to continue on ahead. Under his energetic direction, they disassembled the train piece by piece and carried it on their shoulders to the other side of the abyss, that still held out the surprise of hiding a rushing river in its depth. The result of the exploit was so satisfactory that the company directors permanently renounced construction of the bridge, resigning themselves to giving an attractive discount to those passengers daring to face the extra inconvenience.

-But I must arrive in T. tomorrow!

-Very well! I like that you don't give up your plan. I see you are a man of conviction. Get yourself a room at the hotel for the moment, and take the first train that stops. Try it at least. There'll be a thousand people blocking your way. When the train comes, the voyagers, irritated from waiting so long, pour out of the hotel in a tumult and noisily invade the station. Many times they provoke accidents by their incredible lack of courtesy and prudence. Instead of boarding in an orderly fashion, they intentionally smash each other. In the end they prevent anyone from boarding of the train and it departs leaving them all piled up on the platform. The voyagers, worn out and furious, curse their lack of breeding and spend a lot of time insulting and punching each other.

-And the police don't intervene?

-They tried to organize a police corps in each station, but the unpredictable arrival of the trains made such a service useless and extremely costly. Besides, the members of this unit very soon demonstrated their crookedness by devoting themselves exclusively to protecting the departure of wealthy passengers who gave them in exchange for this service all they were carrying. It was therefore resolved to establish a special type of schools where the future voyagers receive lessons in courtesy and adequate training. There they teach them the correct manner of boarding a train, even if it is moving at high speed. Also they provide them with a kind of armor to prevent the other passengers from breaking their ribs.

-But once on board the train, is one then overwhelmed with new difficulties?

Relatively. I only recommend that you pay careful attention in the stations. It could happen that you believe you have arrived in T. and it would be just an illusion. To regulate life on board the crowded wagons, the company sees itself obliged to resort to certain measures. Stations exist that are purely appearance built in the middle of the jungle and carry the name of some important city. But it's enough to pay a little attention to discover the trick. They are like theater sets and the people who appear in them are full of sawdust. On these mannequins, it is easy to distinguish the ravages of the outdoors, though at times they are a perfect mirror image of reality, wearing on their faces the signs of an infinite fatigue. Fortunately T. is not too far from here. But for the moment, we are lacking direct trains. Nevertheless, it shouldn't exclude the possibility that you arrive tomorrow, just as you wish. The railway organization, although deficient, does not exclude the possibility of a non-stop trip. You see, there are people who have not even realized what's happening. They buy their ticket for T. The train comes, they get on, and the next day they hear the conductor announce: “We have arrived in T.” Taking no precautions whatsoever, the voyagers get off and find themselves indeed in T.

-Could I do something to make sure that will happen?

-Of course you can. What we don't know is if it would be of any use. Try it by all means. Get on the train with the fixed idea you are going to arrive in T. Do not deal with any of the passengers. They could disillusion you with their travel stories, even denounce you to the authorities.

-What are you saying?

-In virtue of the current state of things, the trains travel full of spies. These spies, voluntary for the most part, dedicate their lives to fomenting the constructive spirit of the company. At times one doesn't know what one is saying, talking simply to talk. But they realize all the meanings a phrase may have, as simple as it might sound. Out of the most innocent comment, they know how to draw a guilty opinion. If you manage to commit the slightest imprudence, you'd be apprehended without further ado, to pass the rest of your life in the prison wagon. Or they'd oblige you to get off at a false station, lost in the wilderness. Travel full of faith, consume as little food as possible and don't put your feet on the platform in T. before you see some familiar face.

-But I don't know anyone in T.

-In that case, double your precautions. You will have, I can assure you, many temptations along the way. If you look out the window, you risk being tricked by a mirage. The windows are provided with ingenious devices that create all kinds of illusions in the minds of the passengers. It's not necessary to be weak to fall for them. Certain apparatuses operated from the locomotive make you believe through noise and movement that the train is moving. While the train remains at a standstill entire weeks, the voyagers watch captivating landscapes passing by through the glass.

-And for what purpose?

All this is done in the healthy interest of diminishing the travelers' anxiety and to eliminate as far as possible sensations of relocation. It is hoped that one day they will give in completely to chance in the hands of the omnipotent company and that it will no longer matter to them knowing where they are going nor from where they are coming.

- And you, have you traveled a lot by train?

-I, sir, am only a switchman. To tell you the truth, I'm a retired switchman and I only appear here now and then to remember the good old days. I have never traveled, nor do I want to. But the voyagers tell me stories. I know that the trains have created many towns besides the village of F. whose origin I referred to. It occurs once in a while that the crew members receive mysterious orders. They invite all the passengers to descend from the wagons, generally with the pretext to admire the beauty of a certain place. They speak to them of caves, waterfalls or famous ruins. “Fifteen minutes for you to admire the grotto or whatever,” says the friendly conductor. Once the voyagers have gone a certain distance, the train runs away at full steam.

-And the voyagers?

-They wander bewildered from place to place for some time, but finally they gather and establish a colony. These untimely stops are made in suitable places far from civilization and with sufficient natural resources. They abandon their selected lots of young people with above all plenty of women. Wouldn't you like to pass your days in a picturesque unknown spot in the company of a young girl?

The old man winked and kept looking at the traveler mischievously, smiling and full of goodness. At this moment, a faraway whistle was heard. The switchman gave a hop, looked anxious and began making ridiculous and chaotic signals with his lantern.

-It's the train? asked the stranger.

The old man started running for his life along the rails. When he got a certain distance, he turned and shouted, -You're lucky! Tomorrow you'll arrive at your famous station. How did you say it was called?

-X, answered the traveler.

In that instant, the little old man dissolved into the morning light. But the red dot of his lantern kept running and jumping recklessly between the rails to meet the train. From the depth of the landscape the locomotive was approaching like a noisy apparition.

Translation from the original Spanish by Jill Hartley



Petra Ediciones

Preschool

An interview with Jill Hartley


Circle or Square?

Jill Hartley – Petra Ediciones


Asking ... isn't that what kids always do? By asking, the world opens up to them, secrets are revealed. The attentive reader will understand that such a simple question, circle or square?, is actually more subtle. Hey you, boy or girl! will you know how to recognize these two common forms hidden in the visual richness of the world? You, the reader, no longer a child, can you do this with the eyes of a child? On the cover of Jill Hartley's book, a young photographer looks at me through a toy camera: his childhood imagination playing with paper and paperclips challenges me. These humble materials are enough for his creativity to invent a new reality, that of magical thinking.

CIRCLE OR SQUARE? The book looks like candy, we want to eat what we see. The eye of Jill Hartley offers us a wondering look at Mexican culture and how it must feel to be a Mexican child today. Well, being a child means playing a lot (with a flower, dice, dominos, spinning tops, a ball, marbles), eating sweets (and desserts, tortillas, jello, lollipops, chewing gum), and seeing the world as a combination of squares and circles in cacti, flowers and painted doors; the world as a construction game using basic forms to build with the eyes rather than with the hands.

The beauty of this book also comes from its warm colors, from the varied compositions and from the different subjects: play, nature, food, art, finally all human creation in Mexican culture. Thus we can also view "CIRCLE OR SQUARE?" with the eyes of an anthropologist (what do they eat, what do they play with, how do they dance, what colors do they wear?) or from an aesthetic point of view: the round tortillas on an orange and white checkered cloth converse with the orange hoop of the girl on the facing page, the marbles in their circle of white chalk are the earthly sisters of the ethereal soap bubles, and the bunch of painted wooden tops spin like the aerial dancers in a blue sky. This book invites us to form new connections, create other meanings and to invent metaphors

The powerful poetry emanating from CIRCLE OR SQUARE? also has to do with these two shapes: the square, symbol of the earth and solidity, joining the circle, symbolic of perfection and infinity, in a constant dynamic of creation. Jill Hartley offers us a view of the world seen through a prism of the square and the circle, perhaps because, behind the complexity there is something more simple. She invites us to see better and to play like children: to be poets.

Bruno Lecat
October 2007