1975
(4 negatives)
Personell Portrait
‘Laura García Lorca, Federico García Lorca’s niece. Born in 1953 in New York while her family was in exile from Franco’s fascist regime in Spain, Laura has worked as an actress, a writer, and now she is the Director of the Centro Federico García Lorca, which houses an extensive archive of his papers and manuscripts and puts on various cultural events.’ Here is a translation of an interview she gave to Simon Palmore in Jun 2023.
Fábula y rueda de los tres amigos
Translation of Lorc’s poem mentioned in the interview.
Fable and round of the three friends
Enrique,
Emilio,
Lorenzo.
The three of them were frozen:
Enrique in the world of the bed;
Emilio in the world of eyes and wounded hands,
Lorenzo in the world of roofless universities.
Lorenzo,
Emilio,
Enrique.
The three of them were burning:
Lorenzo in the world of leaves and billiard balls;
Emilio in the world of blood and white pins;
Enrique in the world of the dead and abandoned newspapers.
Lorenzo,
Emilio,
Enrique.
The three of them were buried:
Lorenzo in Flora’s breast;
Emilio in a forgotten glass of gin;
Enrique in the ant, the sea and the empty eyes of the birds.
Lorenzo,
Emilio,
Enrique,
the three of them in my hands were
three Chinese mountains,
three shadows of horses,
three snowy landscapes and one cabin of lilies
by the dovecotes where the moon lies flat beneath the rooster.
One
and one
and one.
The three of them were mummified,
by the flies of winter,
by the inkwells that dogs piss and burrs despise,
by the breeze that freezes the heart of every mother,
by Jupiter’s white wreckage where the drunkards snack on death.
Three
and two
and one.
I saw them lose themselves weeping and singing
by a hen’s egg,
in the night that showed its tobacco skeleton,
in my sorrow full of faces and stabbing splinters of moon,
in my joy of gears and whips,
in my chest disturbed by doves,
by my deserted death with a single mistaken passerby.
I had killed the fifth moon
and the fans and applause drank water from the fountains,
Lukewarm milk locked up in the woman who just gave birth
shook the roses with a long white pain.
Enrique,
Emilio,
Lorenzo.
Diana is hard,
but sometimes her breasts grow cloudy.
The white stone may pulse in the blood of a stag
and the stag can dream through the eyes of a horse.
When the pure forms sank
in the cri-cri of daisies,
I knew they had assassinated me.
They combed the cafes, cemeteries and churches,
they opened the wine-casks and closets,
destroyed three skeletons to take their gold teeth.
But they couldn’t find me.
They did not find me?
No. They did not find me.
But it was known the sixth moon fled above the torrent,
and the sea— suddenly!— remembered
the names of all it had drowned.
Translated by Jim Doss
Etiquetas: Federico García Lorca
This image was not included in Hags book ‘How Things Are’
For enquiries or further information please email
Created by Hag without the use of a computer by Combination printing.
Collage Montage Surreal Photography.
Combination print created by Hag by Combination printing. Surreal photography.
