Celestino de Vera stayed for hours, watching the stars, under the silence of Segovia. His wife, Aurora Ciriza, asked him what he spent so much time in the rough. “I did four years of college.” Now look at the stars from within, is walking through a hallway that presides an angel of shadows. It is the home of a mystic who forty years since was concerned about his friends on the imminence of death.
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The lyricism of Cristino de Vera Cristino de Vera paints “the slow spiritual”
The 15 of December turned 88. None of those diseases that threatened the nights of his youth was present. Now he has an eye and a half, and with them takes care of the messages of the stars and the deep sleep that there is in things, and in the books. Passed the time in which asked to the blockbuster on what came to their heads at the end of the day (“mouths, mouths, row twelve, row thirteen”), or when addressed to the passers-by (“what are you still doing the love?”).
Since the street tells you nothing. Their fingers are as they were of their father, and trees in the big hands embrace the air. His head, topped off with a black hair that has not been able to lighten the time, retains names and phrases and verses that he recites as if he were in a pulpit. Now you have on a cart towards the traveling with the slowness of a bird tired an exemplary short, On the contempt of death, of Cicero, his teacher, his book of style. His father also told him of how he had to wait for the time of the death: “Believe in the goodness, be good, and the rest will be added unto you.”
I asked, because, if it had been good. Has not aged really; in their eyes damaged still having the playfulness of a boy of the barrio (Santa Cruz de Tenerife), and guiñándolos pretends not to remember whether or not it was good of boy. The age to be irresponsible. The influence of his father sure did it good. To be good, on that philosophy that he develops as if it were a letter, it is not doing harm to anyone, or have envy of anyone, not to prosecute, take care of the ego and the vanity. In addition, be silent, not excessively mundane.
sometimes recovers the virtue of the complaint. Could do more, but failed in the leg, the view… it Has a 60% vision. But do not give to paint. Sometimes we go to places deserts to talk with his father, and the wind returns you to the answers. Ah, the book of Cicero leads him to Plato, another sage, who said: “death and deep sleep are twin brothers”. It has been protected in great sages to see what they thought of death and not suffer too much. Cicero helps: “death is a phenomenon to which all the world fears”. Death is not the end, it is the principle, read. Their readings are innumerable, as if it had been insomniac to sleep. Appointment and appointment to the wise, Greek and Latin. On the table, where there is only water from the time, arise names: Stefan Zweig, Somerset Maugham, Juan Ramón Jiménez. Such painters as don Mariano de Cossío, Giotto, Piero of the Francesca, “my invisible masters”, which lead him to God, a nebula that has been taking shape among the stars of Segovia or in the sound of his father returned in the deserts aquifers where one walks. “Ah, and Fra Angelico, and don’t forget el Greco and Zurbarán”.
The father said he was ready for the change, when the passions are also part of the pain. We hear you, and he seems to inhabit a drama, but at the side you have Aurora, which stimulates their hours, and the head, which returns him to music or verses. He insists on the losses. And this is the most stunning: “That better times have already passed. Old age is not. He said that Plato is a long and painful illness”.
With the paint looking the silence, “the best harmony, the quiet light. My last box will be searching for the true light with my invisible masters that I will not see never”. To the elevator will be put in the hands of the journalist, this phrase of Einstein’s that he keeps in his wallet, in multiple copies, and which begins thus: “The emotion most beautiful and profound that we can experience is the sensation of the mystical. It is the source of all true science. The feel this emotion as it is strange, that it can no longer marvel at and be absorbed in respect, is virtually dead”. Then go back to your door and enters into the silence in which bursts, into the hallway where the mysterious angel of shadows, the smile of Aurora.
