The paintings of Remedios Varo are beautiful to look at and contain mysterious, enchanting stories.
Here, I have slipped into the mind of one of the undifferentiated group of figures who are witnessing the performance of a magician, or juggler.
Varo was much interested by the Jungian aim of self-realisation, and I think that the dramatic setting-apart of the magician (along with his acolyte in the caravan) from the unthinking mass reflects this idea.
Every artist, and thinking person, will need to make this important step away from unquestioning obedience and conformity.
He came to town last week but his small house on wheels remained closed until Sunday, after church, when he came out and we marvelled at his two-pointed beard which made the shape of a star when combined with his hat. He began to demonstrate his magic, making light appear and dance in a circle, then linking and freeing six gleaming rings of steel.
Quietly, one of our number slipped out of the cloak we all wear day and night, ducking down to release herself from the heavy grey cloth. With swift, uneven steps she ran towards his caravan and took refuge there. He made no sign, but we all knew he had seen her go in.
He continued to conjure amazing colours from his alchemical vessel and covered the sky in a haze of purple, red and orange. We noticed a large docile lion padding out from the direction of the forest to sit, as tame as a tabby cat, in the doorway of the magician’s home. Already installed in this unusual dwelling, which seemed to be powered by sails above its roof, was a shaggy goat which occasionally bleated, contentedly. When an owl arrived on the wing to make the menagerie complete, we saw our sister smile.
I cannot recall my sister’s name but this is not unusual for we rarely feel the need for individual names. We are all one in our heavy cloak and we are dedicated to service above everything.
The magician’s performance ended and we moved away. Some of us glanced back, considering going to speak to our lost sister through the windows of the caravan, but the majority craved to withdraw and discuss this unprecedented event so, as usual, we did what the majority wanted.
The next day, as we passed through the square on the way to the canteen, we heard a beautiful voice singing behind the closed curtains of the caravan. We could hardly believe that it might be our sister because none of us can sing: we rarely even feel the need to speak. The one of us who was nearest pulled back the curtain and there she was, singing to a bird in a cage. The bird, brightly marked in red and blue, began to chirp and arpeggio along with her and we watched, transported.
At length, she stopped singing and opened the cage for the bird to fly free. All of us tipped back our heads, awed by its full-throated aria to liberty. I felt the cloak tug at my neck as another one of our number began to unhook the cloth and step out of its confines.
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I love imagining the imagining!
What a wonderful bit of writing. Thank you.