Creatividad y Comunicación

Raúl Morales.
El autor es Director de Arte, Escritor, Consultor de Marketing y Comunicación. Fusión3 prefiere llamarlo “artista” y es nuestro invitado permanente.

Raúl Morales Art

“Entogen Magic” (2009, Raúl Morales)

Digital Art.

“Lanterna de los afiebrados” (2009, Raúl Morales)

Pastel sobre papel.

“The whole” (2010, Raúl Morales)

Tinta sobre cartón.

Details of “The Whole”: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yPenl_cVG64

Details of The Whole

“Contamination Kundalini” (2008, Raúl Morales)

“Amigos de salón” (2002, Raúl Morales)

“These three objects/shapes/things coexisted in my living room for many years, then I realized they were friends.”

Fibra sobre papel.

“Nave al horizonte” (2005, Raúl Morales)

Pastel sobre papel.

“Just before vanishing” . “Antes de desaparecer” (2005, Raúl Morales)
Arte digital. Originalmente pastel y grabado en Madera, luego fotografía digital retocada en Photoshop.

“El Momento de la Verdad”. “The Moment of Truth” (2001, Raúl Morales)
Óleo sobre tela.

“Despertar tras la curda/resaca”. “Awakening with the hangover” (2001, Raúl Morales)

Marcador sobre papel, retocado en Photoshop.

“Entidad Astral Monolito”.

On a new year eve, on an altered state of consciousness I saw the slow flash, and as it was fading out the vision of this entity “Monolith” was seen by my eyes. No communication exchange, but a mutual awareness and recognition of two living entities was experienced while the crack between dimensions lasted. Like most alephs and black holes, this crack was short lived, fragile and unstable. Here is what my hand could remember.

Arte digital (2006, Raúl Morales). Originariamente pastel con retoques en Photoshop.

“Adentro de la Nave que Respira”. “Inside the Breathing Vessel” (2005, Raúl Morales)
Pastel sobre papel, retocado en Photoshop.

“Intranauta”. “Inside Voyage” (2007, Raúl Morales)
Arte digital, originariamente foto de arte sobre madera del autor fotografiada abajo.

“Astrowoman” (2006, Raúl Morales)
Arte digital sobre fotografia de pinturas naturales sobre papel del autor.

Más sobre la obra de Raúl Morales http://fineartamerica.com/profiles/raul-morales.html

MARATÓN – Cuento

¡Corrí el maratón! Cuarenta y pico de kilómetros… Y te aseguro que el pico es lo más largo.

Todo empezó cuatro años atrás. Mis amigos estaban entrenando para correrlo y yo no quería quedarme atrás. En ese entonces estaba en buen estado físico y corria por 45 minutos, 3 veces por semana. Me apunté al maratón de Nueva York a la espera de salir sorteado por lotería.  Para el segundo año de espera, ya se me habían chingado las ganas. Mis amigos lo habían corrido, yo había dejado de entrenar y poco a poco había ganado unos kilos de más, el vicio de los cigarrillos, la tele y una vida sedentaria. Pasaron dos años más y finalmente recibí la invitación para correrlo. Dejé la carta ahí por meses sin decidir. Todos me decían: olvídalo, estás fuera de estado… yo contestaba mirándome la barriguita y poniendo cara de incrédulo sorprendido. Mi madre que ganó el título pesado en negatividad repetía: “si corres te va a agarrar un infarto”.

Dejé de fumar cuatro días antes del maratón vacilando todavía sobre la idea de dar el dinero por perdido, o desafiar loca e  irresponsablemente al sentido común una vez en la vida. Quizás más tacaño que valeroso, me decidí por eso de que “hierba mala nunca muere”. Llego el día de la verdad y me presenté en Staten Island con mis dudas internas.  Éramos demasiados a mi gusto. Allá lejos se divisaba el puente Verrazano. Los nervios al filo de la navaja y la espera interminable hicieron que el disparo del cañón nos sorprendiese a todos… pero no pasó nada. Nos apelotonamos pero nadie avanzaba todavía. Descubrí un cordón de la zapatilla suelto y me agaché para atarlo. Fue un error.  De repente, arrancaron y los que tenia atrás me empujaron, me pisaron y me saltaron por encima. Cuando finalmente me incorporé, ya estaba listo para la cama…  Con voluntad férrea, empecé a correr. Corrí implacablemente, como se corre en la vida. Me puse contento cuando alcancé al primer montón rezagado, pero sólo eran los cieguitos y ancianos. Va a ser duro —pensé.

Corrí, corrí y después seguí corriendo…

Corrí todo Brooklyn (los desalmados me habían pisado en Staten Island), ya estaba bien entrada la mañana y la gente asomaba desde las ventanas y balcones. Salió el sol y se puso un día precioso. Encontré una improvisada estación de servicio, un buen hombre que había conectado una manguera y brindaba el servicio de spray o balde de agua fría… y bueno, aunque pierda un par de segundos, que es la vida sin un gusto: “baldazo, por favor… ¡Ay! Graciasss”… Eficiente y gratis. Cualquier callejón lateral sospechoso se transformaba en baños improvisados. No había pudor, reparos ni pérdida de tiempo. Sorprendido de ver lo grande que era Nueva York y extenuado ante la idea de terminar lo empezado, llegué a pisar las calles de Queens. La gente salía a la calle a darnos ánimo, nos daban agua, naranjas, bananas. Había un entusiasmo casi delirante. Me entró la esperanza de que alguno me invitara a almorzar a la casa y así poder acabarlo todo con dignidad. Ya estaba preparando el anuncio en mi mente para con familiares y amigos: “No terminé el maratón, pero gané un amigo”. Con esta dialéctica interior llegué a la cuesta del puente de la calle 59. Vi a un hombre en silla de ruedas que con sus brazos estaba luchando arduamente por conquistar la loma. Era hispano. Me conmovió su valentía… le ayudé empujándole, haciendo mi buen acto anónimo del día, por eso de si me daba el infarto al final, por lo menos, llegar al cielo con algo en las manos… Se dio vuelta, no podíamos hablar pero nuestra mirada cerró el acuerdo tácito de dos hombres en apuros. Ni bien cruzamos la lomita del puente, nuestro espíritu de camaradería terminó. Así es la gente: desagradecida. Puedes creer que protestaba el hombre cuando me subí a su regazo para aprovechar la bajadita. ¡Cuidao –decía el ladino– que nos vamo’ a’ser un bollo! Tu sabes, en momentos de desesperación la gente se “paniquea”, pero siempre hay alguien que, con nervios de acero, mantiene la calma y piensa… El trigueño pedía por su mamá que me baje. Para ése momento el vehículo bajaba a toda máquina, mientras yo le tenía los ojos tapados al paralítico para que no sufra. Todos esos que me habían pasado por encima anteriormente se abrían a los lados despavoridos ahora que bajaba la caballería con envión e ira de venganza. Medí el momento justo antes de la curva… y salté mientras el lisiado seguía para la pared. Bueno, es un deporte competitivo… Al salir del puente había alcanzado al tumulto y la gente de Manhattan nos recibía con aplausos. Ya estaba con los buenos.  Di una mirada atrás para despedirme de mi amigo y me llevé tremenda sorpresa. Para que veas como engaña la gente, lo vi saltar de la silla de ruedas justo antes de darse contra la pared. Puedes creer que el miserable impostor me gritaba groserías y caminaba hacia mi —bastante rápido, a decir verdad— revoleando el bastón. ¿Terapia de susto? Yo, más tranquilo y descansado, apuré el paso. Iba por la primera avenida hacia el Bronx. Los espectadores nos daban ánimo, pero yo estaba tentado a tomarme un taxi a casa. Pisamos el Bronx y enseguida pegamos la vuelta hacia Central Park. Miré mis zapatillas nuevas de 110 dólares y ya les había gastado media suela. Esto sale caro… La camiseta empapada seguía rozándome las tetillas y dolían como si estuviesen en carne viva. ¡Vamos… a seguir! Pensé en mis amigos, en mi familia, sobre todo en mi vieja. Si hubiera venido a verme, la podría encontrar y decirle lo mucho que la quiero y lo olvidada que la tenía “Madre, te acompaño a casa en taxi y hoy te lo dedico a vos –házme un café con leche, vieja”. Las pensé todas, debía estar al borde del delirio, pero seguía corriendo.

Para ese entonces apostaba dinero a que habían reservado las millas más largas para el final. Divisé la meta. Estaba tan cansado que ni miré el tiempo. Me calmé, deambulaba y divagaba en círculos. Pensé que de ahora en más ya nada podía ser tan malo. Sentía las piernas como palos y la satisfacción de que lo pude hacer. Pensaba: Se lo voy a contar a mis amigos, a mis hijos, a mis nietos… Uy, si es que no se me gastó con tanto sobe. Ay! Me imaginé un posible futuro orinando parado en un toilette público con alguno de esos altos mirones a mi lado que pregunte: qué me pasó ahí abajo

–y yo querer contestar a secas—“erosionado…” o quizás peor, “gastada”. Veo venir la siguiente del curioso: “¿Play boy?”

–y yo tener que entrar en detalles: –No, vea usted… corrí un maratón sin calzón…

Ya entrando en razón, encaminé tambaleándome a casa de Luisa: mi novia, amiga más querida y sobre todo cercana. Vivía a sólo unas cuadras… En ese estado de shock me tentó una farmacia y el vendedor se aprovechó -–aspirina, tylenol, ibupufrin, bengay, sal de aquí, y de  allá– yo seguía ordenando desde la silla con tal de no pararme.

A la noche me agarró esa fiebre de moribundo. Escalofríos, chuchos de frío y toda la parentela. No sabes lo que fue sacarme las zapatillas: parecía que hubiese nacido con las Nike pegadas. Los pies me palpitaban con efectos de sonido, igual que en los dibujitos animados. Después, el baño de inmersión. La secada fue un asunto delicado. La tenía loca a la Luisa: friegas aquí, no me toques allá, paños calientes, fríos y templados, un tylenol extra strengh con dos aspirinas y quiero un ibupufrin de postre… apúrate que necesito masaje en el talón y aparte se me están por caer las uñas de 3 dedos.

Le dije a Luisa que cuidáse de mi culebra, que le entregue unos escritos a Juan, la pipa para Charles, y mis poemas a Alicia, de no despertar. Le pregunte a mi novia si me quería por el sexo, por mi corazón o por mi mente. Lo último –replicó. Largué un suspiro de alivio, porque, aunque obviamente no fui muy inteligente, el cuore y el wini corrían grandes peligros al momento. Dormí con cuatro frazadas y lo que quedaba de mis pies afuera a la brisa. No sé si fue un sueño, pero lo último que recueredo fue levantar mi cabeza y ver que a esas patas les salía humito.

No sé cuál será el sentido de correr tanto en la vida. Cualquier día, y hasta el peor y el más largo, terminan igual: Se desvanecen en un misterioso sueño al rendirnos a ese último suspiro que nos deja ir… y descansar.

El autor sobrevivió al maratón de Nueva York de 1998 con un estoico tiempo de 4 horas, 46 minutos, treinta y cinco segundos y décimas de pensamientos presentes.

MARATHON – English version

Hey, I ran the marathon! 23 and something miles… and I tell you for sure; the something is the longest!  It all began 4 years before. My friends were training to run it and I didn’t want to “stay behind”. By then I was in good shape and I would run at least 45 minutes, three times a week. I applied to the New York Marathon with the hopes of coming up by lottery.  But by the second year of waiting, I was, not just disappointed, but almost indifferent. My friends had already ran it, I was not training anymore, and little by little I have been watching too much TV at the couch, gaining extra pounds like a seal, oh! and picked up the nicotine habit too.Hey, I ran the marathon! 23 and something miles… and I tell you for sure; the something is the longest!  It all began 4 years before. My friends were training to run it and I didn’t want to “stay behind”. By then I was in good shape and I would run at least 45 minutes, three times a week. I applied to the New York Marathon with the hopes of coming up by lottery.  But by the second year of waiting, I was, not just disappointed, but almost indifferent. My friends had already ran it, I was not training anymore, and little by little I have been watching too much TV at the couch, gaining extra pounds like a seal, oh! and picked up the nicotine habit too.

Two more years went by, indulging in this delicious sedentary life, when I finally received the invitation to run it. I left the letter there, at the kitchen table for months without making a decision. Everybody would say to me: “forget about it”, “you are out of shape”… My comeback was a look at my little beer belly followed by an expression of surprise and skepticism in my face. My mother, who has earned the heavy title in negativism, would say over and over: “you’re going to have a heart attack, if you ran”.

I stopped smoking four days before the marathon, undecided still about the idea of giving up and let the money go to waste, or to crazily and irresponsibly challenge common sense in a crazy and irresponsible manner once in a lifetime (even if it happened to be the last one).  Maybe more because of being cheap rather than brave, I decided to trust in that old belief “a bad weed never dies”.

The dawn of truth arrived, I remember the quiet moment of putting on my socks sitting at the edge of my bed, submerged in maximum concentration, adjusting the fit perfectly, then my power T-shirt, and tying up the shoelaces of my mint $220 Nike. There was silence. No birds chirping around, the city had not wakened up yet. All compounded to a perception of frozen time that match the solemnity and seriousness of what was at stake. I said good-bye to the last minute doubts and fears in my head as I closed my apartment door in The Bronx.

As an innate optimist I convinced myself that attitude is what counts. I took the 4 train going to Manhattan and I felt the stare of a few passengers imagining stories about me; a real marathoner—meanwhile I was trying to keep my internal composure. Emerging downtown, we –the runners– were flowing in like water finding its place. We took the ferry going to Staten Island. It was like D-day at war. I was gazing the coast with its factual mystery as the cold morning breeze awakened to the reality of the fact that this was the point of no return. Everything was magnified, reality felt colossal. Looks were exchanged among strangers; we all knew some would be left on the way… laying on sidewalks, victims of a cramp or a fall, or sitting down exhausted on the outer steps of a building contemplating defeat.

We spent a lot of time waiting in lines, checking in lists, and doing nothing but a routine of stretches, comparisons, inconsequential gestures and hellos among confusing inaudible instructions.

We were too many. Definitely too many for my taste.  At a distance I could devise the mesh of the Verrazano Bridge. We all had our nerves at the edge and finally in position. The never-ending wait was a set up for all of us to be surprised when we heard the cannon shoot. But nothing happened. We pushed ahead in the crowd but none was cleared to advance. I noticed an untied shoelace and bended over to correct it. It was a bad move. Suddenly they all took off at once in a wave, the ones behind me pushed me, jumped over, and stepped on me. When I finally stood up, I felt I was ready to get in bed.

Under a fierce will I pushed myself to run. I ran relentlessly, as we run in life. I felt better when I caught up with the first bunch of those lagging behind, but these people were the elderly and the blind! Ok, it’s going to be hard—I thought.

I ran, ran and ran, and then I kept on running… I ran all of Brooklyn (the heartless have stepped all over me in Staten Island); the morning was well in its way. People would begin coming out to the balconies and windows to see us. The sun was shinning and the weather turned out to be excellent. I found what had just become an improvised service station; a good man that had connected the hose out of his building and was offering spray or cold-water bucket service… and well even if I would loose a few seconds, what’s life without some pleasure.

“I’ll take the bucket over the head, please” I exclaimed

“Go for it, son” he replied

“Aaaah!  Thaaank  yooou” I said in shock while returning the bucket.

It was efficient, and free! Now any suspicious looking lateral alley was recognized by all of us as improvised toilets. There wasn’t any shame, precautions or loss of time. We were all in frenzy and all was in good spirit. I was surprised to see how big New York is, and extenuated in the anticipation of finishing what I’ve begun.

I started to step on the streets of Queens, at this time, people would come out to the streets to cheer us. It was encouraging and welcoming. They will give us water and offered oranges and bananas. There was an almost delirious enthusiasm in the crowd. I got the hope that someone would invite me to lunch with them at their home and that way, be able to put an end to this running with dignity. I began preparing how I would break it out to family and friends:

“I did not finish the marathon, but I won a friend”; yeah, that would sound good.

With this dialectic inner dynamics I arrived to the ramp of the 59th St. Bridge. I saw a man in a wheelchair that with great effort of his arms was struggling to conquer the hill. He looked Hispanic. I was moved by his determining courage. I somehow helped him out pushing from the handles. I felt I was doing my anonymous good deed of the day. You know, just in case I got that heart attack at the end, at least to reach heaven with some assets in my hand. He turned around. Our exhaustion did not aloud for words, but the encounter of our eyes sealed the implicit contract between two men in trouble.  As soon as we went over the bridge hill our camaraderie spirit tuned sour. People are like that… ungrateful!  Could you believe the man complained when I jumped into his lap to take advantage of the slope?

“Watch out, Yoo!”—He would scream—“we’re gonna crash and f…… ourselves up!

You know, at desperate times people loose it. But there is always somebody with a cool head that keeps the calm and thinks…  The guy was begging for his Mama that I step down. By then the vehicle had evermore accelerating momentum going down, meanwhile I was trying to keep the handicap eyes covered by my hands so he wouldn’t suffer unnecessarily. All those that had stepped all over me before would now desperately launch to the sides of the way, now that the cavalry was coming down like a vengeful demon on fire. I precisely calculated my timing just before the curve ahead… and I jumped out meanwhile the handicapped fellow keep on towards the wall.

Well, it’s a competitive sport! Coming out of the bridge I had finally caught up with the big bunch of runners. The people of Manhattan were welcoming and cheering us. I was again with the “good ones”.

I turned back to say good-bye to my friend y had the surprise of my life.

So that you see how people really are… I saw him jump out of his wheelchair just before crashing the wall. Could you believe that the miserable impostor was screaming at the top of his lungs in foul language as he walked towards me —quite fast, I should say— menacing me with his cane. Shock therapy?

I felt a bit rested and at ease, so I stepped up the pace! I was on First Ave. towards Bronx. People were trying to encourage me, but I was ready to take a taxi home. We step on the Bronx and —of course— we immediately turned around back to Midtown. I checked my new Nikes and I had already worn out half sole.

“This is also expensive” —I noticed.

The drenched T-shirt had been rubbing for hours against my —by then irritated giant— nipples and they were hurting pretty bad.

“Let’s go. Keep on” —I would repeat like a mantra. I thought of my friends, my family, my Mom above all. Had she come to see me, I could tell her all that I love her and how taken for granted I had her all that time:

“Mamá, let’s take a taxi home and I will dedicate this day to you” I thought—“would you make me a café con leche”. I thought of all the possible ways out. I must have been at the edge of delirium, but I kept on running.

By then I was betting money that they have left the longest miles for the end. I finally saw the finish banner. I was so tired or just out of it that I didn’t look at the time. I tried to calm down. I was J walking in circles incoherently. My legs felt like unstable wood sticks and I had mixed feelings, but above all I was exhilarated that it was over and I had finished it.

“From now on, nothing would be as bad as this,” I thought. “I’m going to tell this to my friends, to my kids, to my grandkids! Uhh” then the thought crossed my mind: “maybe my kids making instrument wore out with all this friction!”

“Oh, my God” I imagined a possible future in which I was on a public bathroom urinating with one of those tall curious guys standing next to me, and that this guy would ask me:

“What happened to you down there”?

“Erosion” I would succinctly reply… or worse, I would say “it wore out”.  I could imagine his next questions: “Are you a playboy kind of guy?”  And I would hate to go into the details: “no, you see… what happened is that I ran a marathon without underwear…”

Well, after I came down from what must have been a runners high, I headed barely holding on towards Luisa’s home: my girlfriend, most loved friend and above all the closest to where I was. She lived a couple of blocks away.  I was enticed by a pharmacy in such shock state, and the salesperson took advantage of me: Aspirin, Tylenol, Ibuprofen, Bengay, bath salts; I would just keep ordering from the chair I found so that I didn’t have to get up!

At night I got that moribund fever. Chills, spasms and everything else. You would not believe the big deal on taking off the running shoes. It seemed as if I have been born with them stuck. My feet would pulse with sound effects—like in the cartoons! Then the salts bath and the delicate matter of drying me up with the towel. I was driving Luisa crazy: “rub here, don’t you touch me there… hot towels… no, cold ones…OK, lukewarm… I want one Tylenol extra strength with two aspirins on the side and an ibuprofen for desert.” The pain was intensifying as time was passing. “Hurry up—I would say to Luisa— I need a massage on my heel and I think I’m going to loose 3 toe nails”

As my voice was becoming broken, I asked Luisa to take care of my pet snake, to hand over some writings to Juan, my pipe to Charles, and my poems to Alicia, if I wouldn’t wake up. Following I asked my girlfriend if she loved me because of the sex, because of my heart or because of my mind.

“The latter” she replied. I let go a sight of relieved because, even though obviously, I had not been quite smart, my heart and my weenie were at great risk at the time. I fall asleep under four bed covers and what was left of my feet out taking on the breeze. I don’t know if I dreamt of it, but the last thing I remember was raising my head and seeing those feet shaking amidst raising vapors.

I don’t know what’s the reason we run so much as we all do in life.  Any day, and even the worst and the longest, end up the same way. They vanish in a mysterious dream when we surrender to that last sight that allows us to let go… and rest.

The author, Raul Morales, survived the 1998 NYC Marathon with a stoic time of 4 Hrs., 46 minutes, thirty five seconds and tenths of runners’ high lucid moments.

Sobre el autor:

Nació de sorpresa, una noche y despacio se fue despertando como cualquier mortal. Resultó ser en Barracas, Buenos Aires, un día de Junio del 63. Nunca estudió dibujo, arte, pintura, ni música ni literatura. Estuvo dando vueltas y vueltas alrededor de la religión, filosofía y espiritualidad desde los trece. Ahora, mareado de seguir a tanto gurú, se ha puesto a mirar más la vida con sus propios ojos. Siempre a punto de morirse, se recomienda invertir en su arte ahora.

About the author:

Raul was born into this in a total surprise. It happened to be in Buenos Aires, a stormy night of June, 1963. He slowly begun acquiring knowledge of the rules of the game and awakening to his destiny little by little like any other mortal. He never studied drawing, painting, music, literature or sex, but this did not prevent him from doing so. He had been orbiting around religion, philosophy and spiritualism since he was thirteen years old. Presently, still feeling dizzy from following so many gurus, he has begun looking at life with his own eyes. Always about to die, Raul’s existence is precarious, fragile and unique. It is recommended to invest in his art now.

National Association of Hispanic Publications / José Martí Awards

Película creada por Raúl Morales, Director Creativo, para iniciar la entrega en vivo de los premios Jose Martí en las categorías más relevantes durante la cena de gala de la Asociación Nacional de Periódicos Hispanos de EE.UU. celebrada en Atlanta ‘08.

Desarrollada con Keynote Speaker e iMovie para mezcla de audio y efectos.
Raúl ha creado además comerciales de TV para General Motors, Budweiser, US Census, AT&T y Lipitor, entre otros.

Ver película: NAHP\’08_15Act-é-CDRaúlMorales

“The art of fashion, featuring Raúl Morales Art.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/luarzorrillo/

Copyright 2010 – Raúl Morales – Todos los derechos reservados.