martes, 7 de marzo de 2017

RAQUEL GUTIÉRREZ [20.000]

Photo By Luis F. Guizar


RAQUEL GUTIÉRREZ 

Raquel Gutiérrez es poeta, artista y activista con sede en la bahía de San Francisco. Originaria de Los Ángeles, EE.UU., es miembro co-fundador del conjunto de arte de performance Butchlalis Panochtitlan y editora fundadora de Econo textual objetos, una pequeña prensa para los escritores y artistas cuyo trabajo se basa en las realidades de la clase trabajadora. Ha cultivado ya una larga trayectoria como escritora e intérprete. Es actriz de cine, curadora, editora (Econo Textual Objects, establecida en 2014), dramaturga, gestora cultural y organizadora comunitaria, reside en la ciudad de Los Ángeles. Escribe sobre arte, cultura, música, cine, performance y acción comunitaria y crea composiciones de performance para solistas y ensambles. Running In Place: poems about INSTITUTIONALITY es el tercer plaquette de Raquel publicado en marzo 2015, siguiendo a #WhiteBoo y Breaking Up With Los Angeles (Econo Textual Objects, 2014). 



Raquel Gutiérrez has long been a writer and live performer. She is a film actor, curator, publisher (Econo Textual Objects, established 2014), playwright, arts administrator, and community organizer. She writes about art, culture, music, film, performance and community building and creates original solo and ensemble performance compositions.

Running In Place: poems about INSTITUTIONALITY is Raquel's third chapbook released in March 2015, following #WhiteBoo and Breaking Up With Los Angeles (Econo Textual Objects, 2014). She's performed her poetry, prose and essay works locally, nationally and internationally as a solo artist (including the mountainsides of Arcatao, Chalatenango, El Salvador, Visual AIDS, Smithsonian National Museum of the American Indian, El Museo del Chopo (Mexico City), Yerba Buena Center for the Arts, MOCA (Los Angeles), Beyond Baroque and a bunch of colleges, but only one youth authority center). Gutiérrez earned her MA in Performance Studies from New York University in 2004. Raquel's work has been featured in The 2nd Los Angeles SUR:biennial,  Self Help Graphics Annual Print Fair & Exhibition, Perform Chinatown 2011, GUTTED (2010), LA Vs. WAR II - Art for Peace in the Hope Era,  A co-founding member of the now retired performance ensemble, Butchlalis de Panochtitlan (BdP), a community-based and activist-minded group aimed at creating a visual vernacular around queer Latinidad in Los Angeles. Her work has been published in Los Angeles Weekly, Artbound, The Portland Review, GLQ, Raspa Magazine, RECAPS, Make/Shift, SUR Biennial 2013, and Ambientes: New Queer Latino Writing (edited by Lázaro Lima and Felice Picano). She has poems in Huizache (Fall 2014). She has written catalog essays for visual artists Hector Silva, Shizu Saldamando, Wu Tsang and upcoming Rafa Esparza for Made In L.A. 2016.


Orlando

Este fue el verano en que alzamos la mirada,
y miramos a nuestro alrededor. Nos tallamos el sedimento del
sueño en los contornos de los ojos. Tiernamente.
Era un pedazo de película que soñamos colectivamente

                                   Aún no hemos llegado

Este fue el verano de escuchar primero, por una señal
que nos permitiera respirar, exhalar en el abrazo de unxs
a otrxs. Recordando que siempre ha sido más fácil hacerlo
con extrañxs. Distanciamiento en la noche, intercambiando

movimientos de baile con extrañxs que se sienten, también, de este modo
Y porque hemos dicho que honraremos a lxs muertxs
bailando más, y voy a asegurarme de que lo hagamos. La Vergüenza
Gay sabe que estoy demasiado quebrada para que me importe. Cuando este

se convirtió en el verano en que dejé de hablar de todo esto: un
paraíso concretado en éxtasis, paralizado por arcos coloridos;
aún puedes verlos en ventanas opacándose
por las rentas en aumento, por sentado. Está grabado en la médula,

                                   este saber, el sol saldrá cuando
                                   regresemos a casa del club nocturno

TRADUCCIÓN DE MARCO ANTONIO HUERTA
Orlando se publicó originalmente en Entropy Magazine: http://entropymag.org/orlando-by-raquel-gutierrez/



ORLANDO

This was the summer we finally looked up,
looked around. We rubbed the sediment of
sleep from the corners of our eyes. Tenderly.
It was a filmstrip we had collectively dreamt

                         We had not arrived yet

This was the summer of listening first, for a cue
permitting us to breathe, exhale into each other’s
embrace. Remembering that it was always easier
with strangers. Estrangement in the night, exchanging

dance moves with strangers who felt this way, too.
And because we said we would honor the dead by
dancing more, I am going to hold you to that. Gay
Shame knows I am too broke to give a fuck. As this

became the summer I stopped taking all of this: a
paradise concretized in ecstasy, paralyzed by colorful
arcs; you can still see them on the windows made dull
by rising rents, for granted. It’s etched in the marrow,

                         the knowing, the sun will rise when
                         we come home from the club




NACO POWER (for la guerra de los dos lados)

Estoy en una disco
que se llama La Plaza
todavía vive y queda en la
calle La Brea cruzando
la Melrose en Hollywood

Tanta jotería se encuentra aquí
que a veces es natural olvidar
las mujeres inventadas, ensayando
las letras de traición que se escuchan
en las canciones de Paquita, la gran
dama de la revancha

Se arranca el
Naco power.
Naco power.
Naco power.
Naco power.

Empieza el show y las plumas doradas
brillan debajo de un
globo espejado
Llego con mi mejor amiga
Marí, la soltera buscando las del pelo suelto

Trenzas agresivas
Femenino masculino grueso
Vestida con camisa de futból
Americano
Anda suelta la soltera
y las dos queremos
echarlas a todas

Que naca bien naca
Bien naca mi fren
Trae

Naco power.
Naco power.
Naco power.
Naco power.

Vemos a una chica
con pelo del color de zanahoria
Trae cadenas doradas
Amuletos de oro
apenas diecinueve

Que le digan la Viri
Viri
Viri
Viri-Viri Diana
Hasta el ombligo trae joyas
No es cualquiera

Yo me sonrío debilmente
Yo te apoyo Marí
Tenemos
Naco power.
Naco power.
Naco power.
Naco power.
entre las dos

Dos semanas después
La Marí me contaba
como se quedó plantada
Pues La Vidi no salía de su casa
era una caserón en medio de un barrio
en el sureste de Los Ángeles

A lo mejor te salvastes, mi fren
mi fren, te salvastes

Dos horas pasé esperándola
me la quería
pues tu sabes
pero el tío, había un tío
no te conté de la Viri y su Tío

Paquetes
le estaba esperando los paquetes
ni te cuento de los paquetes
Pa' que te cuento

Sorpresas
por andar de pendeja
Y llena de
Naco power.
Naco power.
Naco power.
Naco power.




NACO POWER (For The War on Both Sides)

NACO POWER

I'm at a club
called La Plaza
She’s still alive and holding it down
on La Brea

Cross street
Melrose in Hollywood

Maybe you know it?

Tonight
there is so much jotería here
Naturally you sometimes forget
the women of invention, rehearsing
lyrics, songs of betrayal, the kind you hear
Paquita wail in the songs that have made
her the grand dame
of vengeance

Doors open
Here comes the
Naco power.
Naco power.
Naco power.
Naco power.

Start the show 
see the arc of golden feathers
glow under a
mirrored globe
I arrive with my best friend
Mari, the bachelor looking for the loosest of long hair

Her aggressive braids
Female Male thickness
Dressed in football jersey
going long all night

My friend so naca
So naca my friend
She’s got the

Naco power.
Naco power.
Naco power.
Naco power.

We see a girl
with hair the color of carrots
She wears gold chains
And amulets 
she’s only nineteen

Her name we’re told is Viri
Viri
Viri
Viri, Viridiana
She wears her name on a thick platinum bracelet 
in case we forget

I smiled weakly
But I’m here because I support you, Marí
We have
Naco power.
Naco power.
Naco power.
Naco power.
between the two of us

Two weeks later
Mari told me
I got stood up
Viri wouldn’t leave her house

I could see her at the window inside
an enormous house in the middle of a barrio
in southeast Los Angeles

You dodged a bullet, my friend,
my friend, you dodged a bullet

Two hours spent waiting
I wanted to
you-know-what but the little girl had an uncle
and her uncle had a package for her
She said she felt bad

Packages
packets waiting for her
long story these packages

I don’t even know where to start

Surprises
filled with
Naco power.
Naco power.
Naco power.
Naco power.



Extracto de #WhiteBoo: Para Yolanda Retter


#26

 For Yolanda Retter

No one
taught us
how to live
and receive

we waited
for our golden calf
any form of recognition
stated in the positive

there was alcohol
in abundance
silly smoke screens
that obscure

an honest reflection
the laws on books
you took to task
first in this city

you took issue
with history
you made it possible
necessary

absolutely life depending
to question authority
your life’s work
because life is work

took work
to appreciate
you beat your chest
refusing mea culpa

slighting the white woman
I was with that night
asking her not where she was from
but when was she going to

fuck up on me; it was you way
of saying hello.

a warrior of the body politic
the kind of fighter
that leaves on her armor
only to see my reflection

in your metal chestplate
to see what
often goes unseen
seldom a voice

yes, the armor is a mirror
that speaks roughly




Segundo extracto del nuevo #WhiteBoo chapbook


#10

Curse the state of contemporary art
Mid-Spring; I sit up front behind black
Church, an elegant curvature as lithe and
white masculine bodies seize the
season amongst the seizure-inspiring

Strobe; when I follow the catwalking
I see the entire audience behind me; angular
Asexual. A brutalist movement. And muscle
Butch queens are the only semblance of
Camp

there is only one black choreographer
And she shouts me down about cunty realness;
scolds the woman in front of me about
Her less than ebulient response to her call and
Now perhaps less shall travel to Harlem.

non-existent is the approach.
Is it just
better to not exist?
Question the approach to
the House of Xtravanganza

and other grander
authenticities with custody; even
the highest of priestesses
greet Yemaya with their backs
turned to the ocean




#16

I wake up and think of that black and white photo
Of you with your dad that hung in our hallway
You’re tiny and looking into the camera; he’s balding
and bending over you with a belly that peeks out

from underneath his smallish polo shirt. Yours is a
straight bob, bangs that frame a smile, toothy and
generous. Dust here alongside the where. Hope and faith.
Your little face implores the camera to believe. The joy

from the previous decade blunts this part of the story. Your
dad pulls your mom’s wig off her chronic disease; flushes it
down the toilet because he was a rageaholic. We can say
it plainly because what other reality was there? Then he

left and came back and left again. You grew up; he blinked
back sobriety. And your mom returned to school; found an
embarrassing boyfriend named Don in A.A. The solitary cathexis,
the atavistic ability to turn the youngest daughter into a feral

cat. And now I have love again and am making it work since
that’s what you called survival and I only know this because the
scars on my face make me look distinguished though I wince
when I remember how I got them in the first place.


















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