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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