:: David Miguel Ángel

:: antes de David hubo piedra fría, sin destino, esperando una forma. La tocaron manos de hombre que no soñaban con la belleza, sino con el descanso. La movieron un poco hacia la luz, sin saber que en ese gesto ya comenzaba la estatua. A la celebración vino el escultor, con su mirada de otro tiempo. Vio en la piedra un cuerpo dormido, un pensamiento que pedía ser liberado. Cada golpe suyo repitió el rumor de las manos anteriores, como si el trabajo siguiera respirando dentro del mármol. Cuando el polvo se asentó, el David de piedra miró al mundo. Pero no estaba solo. En su quietud brillaban, invisibles, otros David que lo rozaron sin saber que tocaban la eternidad. Porque la belleza, siempre, es obra de muchos David. Arthur Inclán & calber

imagen::david miguel ángel / two eggs en piso nuevo / Santa Gema llama / Nacimiento del Guadarrama por A. Montero

:: plants

image::calber - Peace Agreement and Garden Preparation Agreement Day

::I write from a season of sowing and plants of the future. My hands sink into the damp earth, hoping that one day firm roots and upright stems will sprout from it. The work is arduous: the sun beats down, the earth sometimes resists, and the rain doesn't always arrive on time. But no fruit is born without first facing the patience of waiting. I don't want these seeds to wither under the pressure of my own demands, as happened in a previous cycle, when insecurity ended the greenery. I don't want to repeat that experience. Today, however, I walk with different feet through this garden. A wise gardener accompanies me: he reminds me that for life to sprout, we must give it our all, that each seed feels the pulse of its caretaker. He is there, steadfast, encouraging me to trust the process. Other gardeners, watching from a distance, celebrate my finding him; they send me messages of encouragement like rays of sunshine caressing my most fragile shoots. Sometimes it's hard not to feel like you're in your most fertile moment, as if the season has already passed. But I know that a true garden isn't measured by the speed of its blossoming, but by the consistency with which it's watered. Perhaps I won't yet achieve everlasting plants, but what I seek is more humble and true: to see the first ones germinate, the ones that will pave the way for the entire garden to one day make me a gardener. Remember that the seeds you now bury in the dark soil aren't dead, they're dreaming. Give them time, nurture them without haste, and they will show you the strength you fear you won't achieve today. With strength, with hope, and with hands full of present earth. Arthur Inclán

:: yorkshire

image:: Hockney/Calber

Garrowby Hill (Yorkshire) - Cerro Guadarrama (Arcicóllar) /// 40.052968, -4.033786

The view on a clear day in 1998 from the top of Garrowby Hill is breathtaking, and driving the winding road makes it even more fascinating. David Hockney's depiction of Garrowby Hill was, once again, realized from several vantage points, rather than a single static vista from the summit. 

Hockney, on a trip through Castilla-La Mancha in 2025, recalled his return to Yorkshire. As he drove along dusty roads and crossed the Guadarrama River, that rural land of Spain revealed itself to him like an unexpected mirror: a distant echo of his intimate England. The landscapes, almost like siblings, led him to relive familiar emotions, as if life were once again offering him the opportunity to walk paths he had trodden before. Walking the same road again and again, living the same life twice, repeating a destiny that insists on returning, became a living experience. There, nourished by images and words that returned in English, Hockney felt a future of colors open up again, a horizon that called him to walk again, repeating with wonder the old journey.

:: deriva

::ayer el ánimo era atonía, nudos en el distrito. El futuro parecía una barricada, hasta que el grupo inició su deriva peripatética por las arterias de un barrio flamante. En busca de ideas bellas, una bonita puerta, un reflejo dorado en los vidrios, la palabra inesperada en un dado. Alguien habló de Aquiles el asesino de Héctor, que luchaba contra capas de cebolla, en la voz oculta. Y en esa visión, el cansancio se volvió leve alegría, como si cada paso fuese semilla. La calle lenta, aprendió a latir despacio en los ojos. Y allí nació una certeza, incluso lo prometido puede abrirse, como muñeco que aguarda impaciente, que camina con la mirada para encontrar un inicio y quemarlo. Arthur Inclán & calber

imagen::calber