What we want is to be inside those eyes. To see what she sees. For her to make room for us, to lend us the spyglass to look at the island on the other side. To have lynx eyes, cat eyes, fox eyes. To see the glow when the night breathes. It could be a matter of geography, to ask where. Painting insists. Color seems to draw the border. Here, this world, there, the other. How far away is that green? Is it possible to get there? To cross the threshold? The night is calm. There is no insomnia in this world. Here one sleeps because one awakens. Darkness allows it, reveals it. It is like the mountain mirrored in the lake, intact and defined. We could also ask about the process, how Majo paints, or what she is doing besides painting. How she presses the bristles against the canvas. How she finds color. How she manages to bring from that hidden place the invisible things that we now see. In the darkness, when the night breathes, the flame of the fire enters. Its light enters. Fear evaporates into the cloud. It vanishes. It is possible. That green. That blue. Black and white. No more. It is not necessary. There is no intention. Not even intention itself. We are before an organism. The work works, labors, opens, barks, honors. There are the things we once saw and will want to look at again. There are the birds that touch the sky and the dogs that sink their claws into the earth. There are nests in the tree, leaves that burn, and birds that managed to cross the storm. The brush is a shovel to see something inside and a rocket to see something out there. Where is the glimmer of the instant? Derek Jarman wrote, the eye, I know, Alberti said in the fifteenth century, “is lighter than anything else.” Swift color. Fleeing color. Majo enters color as if she had a secret key. There are tools the magician leaves within reach. It is like having lost something and going back to look for it. A ring fell into the sand, is the search a return? The materials are on the table, smoke, feathers, green, sky that seems like earth, earth that seems like sky. Passages that are landscapes. The spyglass that reaches the mystery. It seems one must wait to see the heart of the night. It shines just like the aurora borealis. One must trust it. Have the vision of dogs that see better in the dark. One must paint to know the phenomenon of light. Majo creates the event. The hollow is not a hollow. The invitation is to follow a trail. Pizarnik writes, on this night in this world, extraordinary the silence of this night, what happens with the soul is that it cannot be seen. Painting is the mantle over the mantle. The mantle that protects the spell in its appearance. As one protects lightning with the gaze. May it endure. May it shine in the storm, may the eyes not release what they have seen. It is heard. Ears open on the surface. These feathers, these clouds, holes that are stars. One learns. From faith, from constancy, from the white canvas. What I see are not the things I see. There is a new possible order. Thunder and wind know it. In Majo’s painting the treasure is created. It is created because one believes in it.
