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The Other Side of Shame and jealousy

Reading My body in your hands (Editorial Terracotta, invisible writing, 2009), first novel by Rose Mary Espinosa that took seven years to finalize, I wondered if readers not to mention American-Mexicans, were prepared to enjoy it without the Judeo-Christian judge within us jump out of his box of surprises, ruddy with indignation. The second novel by Rose Mary, Crazy for me (since the title is a delightful transgression) similar doubts assailed me: in a society where women have not been educated to rule over their sexuality and should cultivate patience and resignation when they experience desire for a man, how will a girl so completely unabashed and self-esteem as bulletproof Angel Kiss? The most unusual is that, except for a couple of references and sexuality within a unusual, both novels are almost antithetical to one another. What my body in your hands is of exquisitely poetic, Loca for me what is the exquisitely nasty (best word I can think of, sorry).

The author was born on March 4 in Mexico City. The last face she would place the author of these adventurous novels, would be precisely the Mary Rose, of such sweetness that even the mischievous sparkle of her big green eyes get dim. No, does not look like an innocent woman who is not synonymous with sweetness, even insist that the common place to associate one thing with another, "quite outspoken and even fashionable to suppose. But there is definitely the kind of woman you would imagine after such characters, let's call them, perverse, in a matter of words that describe sexual temperaments, Castilian is maddeningly limited: one of the reflections arising from my reading of the work of this author definitely off usually in our context.

My body in your hands are immersed in one of the few taboos that are still valid: sadomasochism. Never named as such, and it is great: it would have been redundant (and narrow minds are limited to wonder how Aurora, the narrator, have so little dignity, without asking even if the fund does not will enjoy as much as Angel Kiss enjoys sexual exercise unbridled crazy for me, as distinct from those needed for his eloquence. The first novel by Rose Mary is crying to be carried away by emotions of the protagonist and closure of any ideology or moral judgments. It's not like someone would call simple soul, a story about domestic violence: it is much more than that: the poetic reconstruction of a thousand nicknames disease receiving psychosocial and yet has no name. And if I am forced to be specific and name it yet, I would love.

My body in your hands is a love story. True love: perfect synchrony conditions taken to limit their eager: the possessed and the possessor, terms also used in the broadest sense of the term "everything here is broad, deep, wide, exacerbated: the title for nothing is accidental or the result of a random poetizante. Indeed, this is a body that lacks any desire other than the loving hand of the executioner. An object provided with the ability to break apart and rebuild again and again to return to be broken again, into something less fragile: a gargoyle, for example. But a gargoyle that never ceases to belong to an other which is enough to make her his blowing in more ways than one.

This story of family, narrated with unusual delicacy and tenderness that may scare, again, simple souls, I brought to mind the plot of a film that remains unmatched and whose violent content at the time loving attributed to a cultural issue. I mean the Japanese Empire of the senses, where a couple anxiously pursued pleasure, endlessly circling around the element that will increase your pleasure, until she produces to him one last orgasm that will last until death. Nobody, not me, at least, would doubt the love of these lovers ... nor doubt that this sentiment is present among the lovers of my body in your hands, however great the suffering each infringed.

The conflict is with a mood ranging from the Gothic novel-a feeling that tells a ghost who can be included in any hollow-everywhere, the police thriller and suspense; line the path of the narrator of holes and silences that happen to be shouting rose petals are blood stains and blood flowing like tears, with the same reasons that range from joy confused with pain, emotional pain of knowing trapped in a vicious circle, however, has no intention of leaving. Because Aurora is aware of the anomaly and yet wallows; rolls it as on a sheet made from the tiny fragments of a statue destroyed, that vindictive and lovingly embedded in the skin.

And while this couple is immersed in this relationship that in turn feeds the art of sculptor and resentment of frustrated artist doomed to be muse, to move characters around sadly accustomed to violence, by dint of living with the quintessential music of pleasure fused with pain from the sick euphoria of those who suffer and rejoices, but trying not to touch the boundaries of these bodies are destroyed and rebuilt each other. Bodies would be nothing without each other. And it's not end up the unwitting witness considered "normal" but who sense in "it" untouchable, almost sacred as terrible as all the intangible and unnamable; language, the narrator says, "(...) the two realized without having to speak: blood, pain, surprise The quiet, at least that we were together (...) "(p. 200)

malice I stress I do not know how else to name it-with Mary Rose tackles this thorny love story. I want to emphasize that it is a story of love, and love pink and not necessarily with a happy ending. Love admits violence because the re-developed love poetically and make it a kind of covenant. The language, therefore, is predominantly poetry, which does not rule out fast, addictive, hypnotic. Notwithstanding the foregoing, Loca by me (Grijalbo, Mexico, 2011) is read with much more agility perhaps because it is the opposite of its predecessor. It is also a love story but, as its title suggests properly, a love story starring a single person who sees his lovers as mere instruments of pleasure, something that undoubtedly will shock more than one, in effect, this is a position typically hembrista (not feminist eye.) In an interview, Mary Rose referred to this novel, in its draft stage, as a story about wine tasting and tasting lovers as parallel tracks. "

Angel Kiss, the protagonist, has something in common with the narrator of my body in your hands, with the important difference that the Angel Kiss like the pain has to do with the desire for pleasure and not with the desire to please another. That, and almost conversational language and humor with which the star of Mad About me address that paraphilia, places at the other end of the first novel by Rose Mary.

"On behalf of two couples received at different times, cuts virtually invisible in the back. They both shook his hand: one was high and tried it with a scissors, and the other a multimedia artist, who broke a crystal glass to put "spice" to the performance (...) And I think I'm going from bad to worse, because not long ago a guy came to my house with a razor. The cutter passed him first because he was a student of architecture, but the Gillette ... "Chale" I thought. As I was very convinced, he taught me what he had in the kit of flogging, a rope, some candles and various wooden hangers for hanging clothes, if we needed something more turnoff to the blades. "(Pp 56 and 57)

Beso de Angel, a character resurrected by Rose Mary, who resorted to it in their collaborations, under strict pseudonym, in the late newspaper Centro, what might be described as a "coming out" by our author. If no Angel Kiss arouses admiration for the freedom with which moves in the world without asking permission or forgiveness, at least find it outrageously funny. In fact, the author retains various data that could contribute to the overall construction of the character. Focused interest in the privacy of, call it, heroin intimacy that goes from his unorthodox ideology, his thoughts are displayed before us legs apart, stripped of ridicule imposed loincloth-conscious awareness, ie, our Judeo-Christian unblemished until less unorthodox lifestyle. More than the quintessential "girl busted" Angel Kiss is a compulsive experimenter, a curious pathology, a cross hopelessly subordinate to his wishes as he is the narrator of My body in your hands to your lover. For her worth her lovers to the extent of its ability to meet their demanding wishes. She never will be awaiting a call from a lover with whom it has been lying just to know, like "girls liberated" from our environment, released and all, can not tolerate the idea being "used" not to have been "valued". That, Angel Kiss, give a damn. And if not required by one shall be appointed for another ... or she will come to seek action ... and when I say "action" I refer specifically to sex: Angel Kiss has an extraordinary eagerness to see and experience it. Angel Kiss

openly declaring "bitch." It is not hypocritical. Do not fool anyone. It's so clear to address his "gallant" one can not help wondering if this is a kind of kamikaze. But before Angel's Kiss, sexist and hypocritical environment almost kneels before her, "I had to be clear, though he was the mamey, in my bed the beautiful and the boss is me. "(p. 76)

But if Angel Kiss is not sufficiently emancipated final subversion will arise when found not require as much "stuff" for sexual pleasure that once explored and discovered everything there was to explore and discover, is a mysterious land that never disappoint, who knows better than anyone and is always available: her own body . Self-sufficiency is Angel Kiss and cubed. Make a pact with herself, her great love ... your only love, but has come to love men as taught him that sex is everything, and leaves the scene of the latest adventure, which promised to be the most exciting of his life with satisfaction, who has taken a huge burden off. Like all the sexual adventures of his life, including the unusual loss of his virginity, Angel Kiss has had sufficient time to reflect on what you want.

This author, bolder than simply provocative, makes us see both sides quite transgressive, not only sexuality, but the feeling of love and makes us think, not without concern, what other taboo inspire her third novel. Is responsible for the blog "naked" in the Universal and the column "Lipstick in the mirror "in the magazine GQ. It also works for Day Seven, Leopard, Letras Libres, Nexos, Reforma and El Financiero.

Enter the fantastic blog of Rose Mary Evans, the naked

Pokemon Indigo Coolrom

angel

For Patricia de Souza

Many of the drama human, in my opinion, born of the confusion that exists between sexual desire and love. CM

Maristain Interview with Monica, Weekly Goals , 2009

Catherine Millet is a discreet woman, you might say: beautifully shy. Is director of the most prestigious monthly magazine of visual arts in Europe: Art press, and has written several books on art criticism. As revealed in his second novel, Jealousy, published his first texts in this vein his early twenties, uneducated by professionals, guided by a greedy nourished empiricism readings that helped alleviate a family life full of hypocrisy and vulgarity. "Nothing forging both a stealth character as a constant within the family" is the phrase that the young Catherine Balzac copied in a notebook.

His office, which predominates cream, is decorated with simplicity and good taste. The elegance of Catherine M. owes much less to the brand of their clothes than to ease the body's own release that characterized his every gesture. The best of his face, in addition to the slanted brown eyes, is the wonderful smile which he boasts, has not had to spend a dime: The dentist took pains in exchange for some good coming and she seemed a fair exchange. If an unknown address in an elevator at Madame M., she would react with indifference: not a friend of blows, unless you are requested to increase the pleasure of a sexual act casual, as if they are the vast majority of their encounters . When he published his autobiography The Sexual Life of Catherine M., many hoped was a Kantian joke, but no: Catherine M., prudent, discreet, flung open the curtain on its tumultuous privacy.

born on April 1, 1948, in Bois Colombes, France, Catherine M., rather shy, reluctant to thunderous sneezes necklines and belongs to the first generation of sexually emancipated in Europe, those who knew the pill improved and did not require commit emotionally to sleep with someone. Married and with the poet, novelist and amateur photographer Jacques Henric (1938), chose to narrate in detail sexual life, ie his life with the objectivity of an entomologist, so it must have been forced to cancel your ego and be seen as something alien to it, without even aesthetic experience the euphoria of the photographer to his subject or object of contemplation. The autobiography of Catherine M. could not be written regardless of their sexuality, because the life of Catherine M. is sex. Does not cease to overwhelm them with an overwhelming intelligence, precise prose and poetry, however, with all the coldness, free of passion or violence, that goes into gory details. Jealousy in the back of reading a statement at all exaggerated, "What if Montaigne and Rousseau had been profligate and women? Would they have been the Catherine Millet of your time?

The Sexual Life of Catherine M., is indeed, a book deeply obscene ... and obscenity, I thought after reading it, without resorting to a secondary source to substantiate my "theory" is halfway that nobody believes exists between eroticism and pornography, but for there own Catherine differentiation between the two, all-encompassing obscenity. Because eroticism, like pornography, can be obscene and obscenity need not be vulgar. Catherine M. has the elegance of a Marquis de Sade. I refer specifically to the style, not content: Catherine M. not conceive of the suffering. Do not violate, at least. Nor pleasure is the end, as in the overwhelming majority of Sade's characters. Its simplicity to refer the crevices of the body, however, is comparable to that of Marquis, although all such terms, cock, pussy, shit, etc, come from a female voice seems to exacerbate the idea of \u200b\u200bobscenity. This woman demystifies once and for all, the widespread belief that women, while gender, necessarily involves the feelings of sexuality. It also contradicts the usual argument to revile pornography: impossible for a human being, less a woman, a sexual practice animal, instinctive. All this, however, does not prevent Catherine experiencing love or jealousy. It creeps into his first book. Confirms-painfully-in the second. It is perfectly rational and critical, even to explain itself without justification: "(...) My freedom was not for those exercised at the mercy of the circumstances of life, but that which is expressed strongly in the acceptance a destination to which you surrender without reservation: as a professed religious vows "(...)" (The Sexual Life of Catherine M., p. 70).

Catherine descends into the depths of his past, just the origin of all vices and virtues of childhood. Nothing extraordinary, Catherine seems to tell us. Even my name escaped from the ordinary: Catherine, promiscuously spread between French and English were born in the post-war ... perhaps by nominating a saint who enjoyed particular popularity at the time. Because, of course!, Catherine was born into a Catholic family ... and rather poor. Five members were scattered around this tiny apartment. There were more because the parents chose to sleep in separate beds, which does not mean that the parent has opted for a chaste life, at all. Neither his mother, whom the young Catherine was surprised in full fling with a "friend." Catherine, the youngest and only women had to share the bed with this. The absolute lack of privacy, he says, would mark his life. The fact is that Catherine was a copy girl, even pious ideals fed ... until he discovered the excitement of waiting for his mother fell to indulge in the pleasure rendered discovered between her thighs "(...) A paradoxical skill which I will not have had to I use to get pleasure myself in a near motionless, almost in apnea, so that the body of my mother, I played the roll, not noticing that I was vibrating! Perhaps the obligation to arouse mental images with explicit fondling foster the development of my imagination (...) when I opened my body, I learned above all to unfold. "(pp 144 and 145).

Nobody ever surprised. His parents did not even imagined that his daughter was a baby skinny sexed. Lose his virginity to a pretty average age: eighteen. So far, Catherine M. proletarian is a French girl with a common name. What is extraordinary begins when he decides to run away from home and the first thing to emphasize their freedom is sleeping with a libertine friend was not even a boyfriend, although Jealousy recognizes that Claude was more important than it appeared, that his side knew more than the art, freedom and sex:

... I bit the dust when I had to acknowledge that one aspect of that body ran into a limit, that is, as it was not the prettiest might prefer another-something I was not foolish enough to ignore, but a woman, especially very young, has a thousand resources to break this evidence in the illusion of the games of seduction - and that for the first time I had given to understand clearly. I bit the sheets on the bed where I sank sobbing, and some responses consisted Claude throw on the model (Jealousy, Anagram, translation of Jaime Zulaika, Barcelona, \u200b\u200b2010, p. p 26 and 27)

met

violence ... and jealousy, but never dares to name them as such. At the moment of writing this testimony and in his maturity, Catherine takes Claude's violence against her, which became physical, I had to do with a feeling of jealousy is not recognized by either. Jealousy could not be accommodated in a relationship "civilized" and "modern."

Catherine had prepared thoroughly since they shared a bed with a mother outside the eroticism of her daughter. Bashful, beyond imagination, but "my shame is elsewhere," Catherine needed confused the crowd to exercise their sexuality: lost, depersonalized, reifying "(...) I felt anxious at the same time the idea of \u200b\u200bstrangers that soon I would force myself to wake up (...) It was a state close to that overwhelms me always before the lecture, when I know that I shall concentrate entirely on my theme and devote myself to the audience (...) "(p. 30) That is not always desire that pushes the human octopus-arms of many many hands ... whose origin little importance that, in fact, almost never want to do with their impulses, but with the impulses of others, which relates more to a democratic position and / or lavish, closer to holiness than lust. It is also perfectly capable of plunging into his work with the wet crotch. The real excitement, usually takes more to be herself. It is then delivered to his voracious imagination, which takes, here and there, visions and feelings reflected the intense sexual activity shared with other men and women, but do it with not very much excited, "fueled by a staggering monitoring capability that has made her one of the most prestigious art critics in Europe ... the gift that allows you to describe with startling beauty and clarity that someone less curious and attentive crudely narrated: "(...) The bed was placed near a window and threw some signs on yellow reflection, what Hopper (...) The reader may have noticed: The decorated planted immediately. Where my fissure has consented intimate access, wide open eyes. When I was very young I learned in this way, among others, to guide in Paris (...) "(pp. 138 and 140). In Catherine's own words, one of the most exciting aspects of living a promiscuous, was waking up every day in a different location presents different aspects of architecture. Not considered, however, an artist, even an aesthetic; just a perfectionist.

When Jacques Henric storming in the life of Catherine M., it is already at the forefront of Art press and gained part of its current prestige. It is a woman in her thirties that takes place with great professionalism and has prudently set aside his personal life and work. Some errors found by him in a photo guide to some poems of his own, coming to be published in the monthly, carries the principal to request his presence at the office. Together they conduct the review without even rubbing material, interspersed with a joke. Very politely, he ends up inviting her to leave and Catherine, who has not developed great skill communicate without words in it's body language is what prevails, understands that this is a proposal for a friendly type, and comes with no expectation of enjoying the scholarly discussion of the writer.

Already entered in confidence, Jacques asks if you hold a relationship, to which she responds with ease, almost innocence, maintaining relations "with a lot of people", to which the writer will respond, embarrassing even more than she to him: "It's rare to hear the woman he finds himself falling one who sleeps with a lot of people."

A Jacques does not appear Catherine affect reality, beyond the initial surprise. This man will soon become the first "official partner", to call it somehow. And Catherine reveals, not without amazement, that while Jacques is not exactly a prude, share a visceral rejection to witness sexual acts with third parties. She is cautious enough to name it "love." Instead, the word "jealousy" comes up over and over again, replacing the former. You can almost hear the intonation puzzled by Catherine the states: "(...) is taboo for me to use the home you share with someone else when she is away and ignore it (...) The common room, the bed "marriage" represents an absolute prohibition (...) "(p. 183).

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Catherine M. is taboo. Jealousy is a sign that there is a taboo. It is not prohibited feeling that she thinks and looks like any other, but to act accordingly to prevent any unfortunate situation. Catherine and Jacques have a sexual life outside your relationship. But their relationship remains glassed, and within a niche, sacred ... and apart from "other", Catherine Jacques lives with her best aesthetic experiences, which involve, of course, sex, areas in which both unfold as fish in water. The album-book written by Henric, Legend of Catherine Millet, in addition to presenting their theories regarding body display, displays photos of Catherine's own, taken by himself, where she exposes a body in its splendor ordinary that has nothing in particular except host a wonderful intelligence and be the subject of love and admiration of the man behind the lens. In an interview for the cultural supplement of the world, the author asserts that the display of intimacy has nothing to do with protest against political correctness, that is, the hypocrisy of a society that is, at bottom, a large round bed: "... I wanted to somehow amend the clichés about sexual freedom. There is a puritan discourse and, against this, another of the militants of sexual freedom. But there is another series of arguments much simpler and I thought it was important to provide an experience of sexual freedom, which is about life and reality. "

Married for twenty years with Jacques, Catherine Jealousy narrates the crisis that ripped through his marriage when he had the idea of \u200b\u200bopening the diary of her husband, on the other hand, did not bother to leave not out of reach his wife, and discovered, first, photographs of a woman who should be the same on which he wrote Jacques. Naturally, although a wild experience internal wave, Catherine is kept in a species and initiates a profound reflection, not so much about the reasons for Jacques to deceive, neither has given up extramarital affairs, but with the tacit agreement not even mention it-but of his own inner turmoil. Jealousy becomes therefore an almost detective story but also intimate, because the narrator desperately fumbling in their psyche, their emotions, their memories and is drawing all sorts of discoveries about herself and the man who love does not necessarily pleasant. The unusual thing is that this detective of the wanderings of her husband never expressed hatred for him or her lover in turn. The other women in the life of Jacques had no face, no name. That's what separates the rest ... Blandine what triggers jealousy in Catherine naked and almost as obscene as a sweaty, heaving mass. Jealousy, rather than pathological, addictive:

I have seen work by archaeologists. With the help of a string grid field in units of less than one meter on each side, and each scratch its square with a spoon. No escapes were a waste of ceramic the size of a fingernail. Worked well I in the space inhabited by Jacques. Badly organized, always has spread through the house creased papers more or less scribbling. This always irritated me. I dare not throw them out of fear that contain phone numbers, notes that search later. I acquired the habit of smoothing and read them (...) I do not go unnoticed that the inquisitorial cruelty became an addiction. The symptoms were more frequent repetition of acts, the need for more caustic pain. (pp 108 and 109).

So then, Catherine's pain is real ... but it gives the pleasure of reconstructing a story. Those who have experienced jealousy I guess nobody is exempt from it-know that fantasizing is part of the torture. One can not help imagining the subject of jealousy in the company of the umpire. Catherine is no exception, and writes extensively on how to make love Jacques le Blandine, describing the most complex positions. And seems to enjoy it than to have, despite the throbbing pain in several passages. But just as he was able to think objectively about their sexuality, openly scrutinizing well, Catherine is able to challenge the subjectivity that characterizes the feeling that some describe as "irrational" and yet, it is clear, it is not Therefore, and delve into his own pain with a look almost scientific, almost getting out of herself to become a spectator of herself ... and it does, however, with a delightfully poetic prose comes to move more for their beauty than for the Detailed description of the silent suffering of women. Finally, as she narrates, his salvation, his "therapy" was to concentrate on writing what would be his first and controversial novel, The Sexual Life of Catherine M, "... now I know that everyone can, if not afraid to look retrospect, to discover that his past is truly a novel and that this discovery is that, for painful episodes it contains. "(p. 220)