Instruments of measure of the time (I) | Jorge Rodríguez

Rascainfierno, Fernando Higueras

Always the doubts have assaulted me, I hesitate when the moment to choose approaches. But it is something that has never worried me.

The doubt, the uncertainty is common. Far from denoting sluggishness or weakness, I see it as the indicative one of reflection, of pause and silence before the action. Come to this point, do I want to remember a few verses, recommendation of a good friend, of  San Juan de la Cruz,

“That one that acts with lukewarmness, is fence of falling down”.1

Since I have said, it is not the uncertainty what worries me, is the warmth (that not quality) of the decision. The degree of implication with the way that we choose, the passion and the fondness with which we live through it. It is cardinal to act with the conviction which we enjoy that one that surrounds us, more if it fits in this putrid environment in which the hopes of good to live turn chimera, and that promised sand sous they pavès, is not any more than the fourth row than a beach of third, infected of mothers daubing to little children with Nivea factor 15. In this environment, we have to surround with that one and those that we entrust will make us enjoy.

First we must ourselves locate, do the one that is going to be our home, the place of the fire. And I say to do because I do not count in the choice of a site, but in his manipulation, on optimizing his potentials, definitively, to do, as whom it does a bed, the place in which we will find the comfort, the tranquility or frenzy, which every moment needs to develop, to live to taste. And in occasions, to create. I me like to imagine my place, as one capable of generating, capablly of helping to stimulate my ideas, and simultaneously, capablly of enjoying them and to receive them.

It makes me a couple of weeks I brought over to the coast it gives morte and after a walk along Muxía I did a visit to the German of Camelle. The energy that resides in his house, Man’s place, shows the intensity with the one that was lived. It is his work in turn museum and passion. On Man I cannot make recommend any more than you a visit and that you him have a look at the article that Carlos Pita wrote for the Obradoiro 342. Already you will tell me.

Returning for Corunna with redraft of squids, me there was coming to the head the place that there constructed himself Fernando Higueras buried together with his house, the rascainfierno. Beyond the mamoneo of the name, he was thinking about the brilliant of his decision disguised as madness. He constructed a place with an agreeable temperature and tremendously stable abundance of zenithal controlled light and a hammock. And much I spread to surround itself with that one that was mattering for him, which he believed that it would help him to enrich his thought, it was doing years that he had stopped being a man of action. There, he said, was happy. Surrounded with Antonio’s Lopez pictures, Chillida’s sculptures, thousands of sketches, planes and models. Books, many books. For the nights, whiskey with ice and someone that another stripe.

It assaulted this place, but we might think about Picasso’s study about the Rue des Grand Augustins, about the cabin of Heidegger, about that Corbu´s Cap Martin. Or in Kolonihaven de Miralles’s little house. Small places, instruments of measure of the time.

It does a couple of months architect was listening to a young person and publisher of a blog, good could be this one, which if he was finding something as feature definitorio and fundamentally of his professional path, was the collaboration. The persons are a vital factor in the local configuration. They are indispensable. And his track is a natural, evident manifestation. I am extracted of hinge by the ethereal, brilliant, white sites up to the hypothalamus, which they do not admit to be lived. Rich kid’s anorexia. Lukewarm, places where the passion does not fit.

Do not be up to what point Man’s place, or that of Higueras, they had of them themselves and of his people. Probably, which differentiates the place of the persons is thin as the skin, and to separate it hurts, bleeds. What I know it is that they were enjoyed, lived hotly. Darlings. Still in spite of the decadent of his oldness, the erosion of the time and the tolls that both paid. Already it is known, the world of the passion, is unsatisfactory.3

Now all sound perplejidades classic that Borges was saying. Where, with whom. Always the doubts have assaulted me, I hesitate, when the moment to choose approaches.

But it is something that has never worried me.

Jorge Rodríguez Seoane
February 2014. Coruña

1.- San Juan de la Cruz. Obras Completas. Ed. Espiritualidad. Madrid, 1992. P.205
2.- Revista Obradoiro nº34 ‘O limite’ VV.AA. COAG, Marzo 2012, A Coruña.
3.- El amor, las mujeres y la muerte. Schopenhauer, A. Ed. EDAF. 1993, Madrid

Instruments of measure of the time (I) | Jorge Rodríguez

Jorge Rodríguez Seoane

Arquitecto y socio fundador y gerente de Seoane Arquitectura.

Experiencia activa en evaluación de riesgos y plan de negocio, gestión de personal y dirección de proyectos de ejecución.

Gestión de carteras de inversión inmobiliaria, búsqueda de activos singulares y representación de intereses.

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