Raquel Jodorowsky

100 painters engraving their dreams on skin

At times I don't know if Hunger or the World allowing Hunger pains me more.

We think of these people as primitive, uneducated, crude. But bringing myself a bit closer to their lives, I felt with emotion their capacity for kindness which they radiate, because they contain it, towards any stranger. Every civilized-intelligent person, whom I have known, tends towards evil, coldness, distrust of friend. Every civilized-intelligent person, seated one step above the rest, perhaps in order to spit down on them and shout; "because I am intelligent" -with the right to everything, above everyone. I've come to the conclusion, after briefly touching these high villages without aspirations, that intelligence is not one of the human values I respect. It's inhuman. Especially since those gifted with super doses of cerebral juice can't seem to live in peace with each other. They isolate themselves and retreat from a reality they insist on showing their back. There I found men who escape all definition. Perhaps "pure" is the poor word best fitting. I feel not that "I've arrived" in a marvelous world, but that "I've left" the inclement garbage of the city. (1963)

Generally, a revolution isn't enough. For me, it's changing one chaos for another. The important thing is to know that which from this moment is to be constructed.

Long live the thieves! They don't make a lie of their lives in this wormy society. They are what they are. Sincere in their disgrace. Working with them I've learnt the importance of loyalty and honor.

There is space, I say this from my heart, to reconstruct the world. (September 1963)

I learned to dream on the roof of the house

I can climb to the top story of the highest poem and throw myself into the vacuum of a life.

I was four thousand feet high. And more. In the heart of stone of the Andes. The open mouth of the earth surprised me, with its deep color. Like one of her fruits, the coffee bean...A difficult earth, only a bit of earth stretched over the sleeping eye of a volcano. One day she awakes, yawns and swallows an entire village with its men, its screams and its trees. (September 1963)

We are born old how life descends and one gets younger.

Ay, those who can't shed light nor let others shed light.

Poets appeared like flowers on the earth.

Another day the poor inhabitants lift themselves from the ruins and right there begin to reconstruct the roads; children without shoes, but with joy on their shoulders, return to carry the future. (September 1963)

if you feed us the bread of love we will all grow stronger with fraternity with pity with serenity,

I'm just a worm with metaphysical necessities wanting to rise but lacking sun