Paula Becker a Clara Westhoff
Paula Becker 1876-1907
Clara Westhoff 1878-1954
Clara Westhoff 1878-1954
se hicieron
amigas en Worpswede, una colonia de artistas cerca de Bremen, Alemania, en el
verano de 1899. En enero de 1900, pasaron medio año juntas en París, donde
Paula pintó y Clara estudió escultura con Rodin. En agosto volvieron a
Worpswede y pasaron el invierno siguiente juntas en Berlín. En 1901, Clara se
casó con Rainer María Rilke; al poco tiempo, Paula se casó con el pintor Otto
Modersohn. Murió de una hemorragia dando a luz, murmurando: ¡Qué lástima!
El otoño parece haberse puesto lento,
el verano todavía está por acá, hasta la luz
parece durar más de lo que debería
o quizá la estoy usando hasta el límite.
La luna rueda en el aire. No quería este niño.
Sos la única a la que se lo dije.
Quiero un hijo tal vez, algún día, pero no ahora.
Otto tiene un modo calmo, complaciente
de seguirme con sus ojos, como diciendo
¡Pronto vas a tener las manos llenas!
Y sí, las voy a tener; este hijo va a ser mío,
no suyo, los errores, si fallo
serán todos míos. No somos buenas, Clara,
para aprender a prevenir estas cosas
y una vez que tenemos un hijo es nuestro.
Pero últimamente me siento más allá de Otto o de cualquiera.
Ahora sé la clase de trabajo que tengo que hacer.
¡Requiere de tanta energía! Tengo la impresión de que
estoy yendo a algún lado, paciente, impacientemente,
en mi soledad. Busco en todas partes de la naturaleza
nuevas formas, viejas formas en nuevos lugares,
los planos de una antigua boca, digamos, entre las hojas.
Sé y no sé
qué estoy buscando.
¿Te acordás de esos meses en el estudio juntas,
vos con tus fuertes antebrazos bañados en arcilla,
yo tratando de hacer algo con las extrañas impresiones
que me atacaban – las flores japonesas
y pájaros de seda, los borrachos
buscando refugio en el Louvre, esa luz del río,
esas caras... ¿Sabíamos exactamente
por qué estábamos ahí? París te ponía nerviosa,
te parecía demasiado, sin embargo seguías
con tu trabajo... y después nos encontramos de vuelta,
las dos casadas entonces, y pensé que vos y Rilke
parecían nerviosos. Sentí una especie de tristeza
entre ustedes. Por supuesto que él y yo
hemos tenido nuestras diferencias. Quizá estaba celosa
de él, para empezar, llevándote de mi lado,
quizá me casé con Otto para llenar
mi soledad de vos.
Rainer, desde luego, sabe
más que Otto,
él cree en las mujeres. Pero se alimenta de nosotras
como todos ellos. Toda su vida, su arte
estuvo protegido por mujeres. ¿Quién de nosotras podría
decir eso?
¿Quién de nosotras, Clara, no tuvo que dar ese salto
y llegar más allá de ser mujeres
para salvar nuestro trabajo? ¿o es para salvarnos nosotras?
El matrimonio es más solitario que la soledad.
Sabés: estaba soñando que moría
dando a luz a mi hijo.
No podía pintar o hablar o incluso moverme.
Mi hijo –creo- me sobrevivía. Pero lo que era gracioso
en el sueño era que Rainer había escrito mi réquiem –
un largo y hermoso poema, y me llamaba su amiga.
Yo era tu amiga
pero en el sueño vos no decías una palabra.
En el sueño su poema era como una carta
a alguien que no tiene derecho
a estar ahí pero que debe ser tratado amablemente, un
invitado
en el día equivocado. Clara, ¿por qué no sueño con vos?
La foto de nosotras dos – todavía la tengo,
las dos mirándonos con fuerza
y mi pintura detrás. ¡Cómo solíamos trabajar
lado a lado! Y desde entonces he trabajado
tratando de crear siguiendo el plan nuestro
de que llevaríamos, contra toda posibilidad, todo nuestro
poder
a cada cosa. No callar ni guardarnos nada
por ser mujeres. Clara, nuestra fuerza todavía reside
en las cosas de las que solíamos hablar;
cómo la vida y la muerte se toman las manos,
la lucha por la verdad, nuestro compromiso contra la culpa.
Y ahora siento el amanecer y la llegada de un nuevo día.
Me encanta despertarme en mi estudio viendo mis cuadros
cobrar vida con la luz. A veces siento
que soy yo misma quien patea dentro de mí,
a mí misma a quien debo alimentar, amar...
Me hubiera gustado hacer esto una por la otra
toda nuestra vida, pero no podemos...
Dicen que una mujer embarazada
sueña con su propia muerte. Pero la vida y la muerte
se toman las manos. Clara, me siento tan llena
de trabajo, de la vida que veo adelante, y del amor
por vos, quien de todas las personas,
por más que esto lo esté diciendo mal,
va a escuchar todo lo que diga y no pueda decir.
1975-1976
Versión de Tom Maver
°°°°°°°°
Paula Becker to Clara Westhoff
Paula Becker 1876-1907
Clara Westhoff 1878-1954
became friends at Worpswede, an artist's colony nearBremen , Germany 1899. In
January 1900, spent a half-year together in Paris Berlin
The autumn feels slowed down,
summer still holds on here, even the light
seems to last longer than it should
or maybe I'm using it to the thin edge.
The moon rolls in the air. I didn't want this child.
You're the only one I've told.
I want a child maybe, someday, but not now.
Otto has a calm, complacent way
of following me with his eyes, as if to say
Soon you'll have your hands full!
And yes, I will; this child will be mine
not his, the failures, if I fail
will all be mine. We're not good, Clara,
at learning to prevent these things,
and once we have a child it is ours.
But lately I feel beyond Otto or anyone.
I know now the kind of work I have to do.
It takes such energy! I have the feeling I'm
moving somewhere, patiently, impatiently,
in my loneliness. I'm looking everywhere in nature
for new forms, old forms in new places,
the planes of an antique mouth, let's say, among the leaves.
I know and do not know
what I am searching for.
Remember those months in the studio together,
you up to your strong forearms in wet clay,
I trying to make something of the strange impressions
assailing me—the Japanese
flowers and birds on silk, the drunks
sheltering in the Louvre, that river-light,
those faces...Did we know exactly
why we were there?Paris
you found it too much, yet you went on
with your work...and later we met there again,
both married then, and I thought you and Rilke
both seemed unnerved. I felt a kind of joylessness
between you. Of course he and I
have had our difficulties. Maybe I was jealous
of him, to begin with, taking you from me,
maybe I married Otto to fill up
my loneliness for you.
Rainer, of course, knows more than Otto knows,
he believes in women. But he feeds on us,
like all of them. His whole life, his art
is protected by women. Which of us could say that?
Which of us, Clara, hasn't had to take that leap
out beyond our being women
to save our work? or is it to save ourselves?
Marriage is lonelier than solitude.
Do you know: I was dreaming I had died
giving birth to the child.
I couldn't paint or speak or even move.
My child—I think—survived me. But what was funny
in the dream was, Rainer had written my requiem—
a long, beautiful poem, and calling me his friend.
I was your friend
but in the dream you didn't say a word.
In the dream his poem was like a letter
to someone who has no right
to be there but must be treated gently, like a guest
who comes on the wrong day. Clara, why don't I dream of you?
That photo of the two of us—I have it still,
you and I looking hard into each other
and my painting behind us. How we used to work
side by side! And how I've worked since then
trying to create according to our plan
that we'd bring, against all odds, our full power
to every subject. Hold back nothing
because we were women. Clara, our strength still lies
in the things we used to talk about:
how life and death take one another's hands,
the struggle for truth, our old pledge against guilt.
And now I feel dawn and the coming day.
I love waking in my studio, seeing my pictures
come alive in the light. Sometimes I feel
it is myself that kicks inside me,
myself I must give suck to, love...
I wish we could have done this for each other
all our lives, but we can't...
They say a pregnant woman
dreams her own death. But life and death
take one another's hands. Clara, I feel so full
of work, the life I see ahead, and love
for you, who of all people
however badly I say this
will hear all I say and cannot say.
1975-1976
Paula Becker 1876-1907
Clara Westhoff 1878-1954
became friends at Worpswede, an artist's colony near
The autumn feels slowed down,
summer still holds on here, even the light
seems to last longer than it should
or maybe I'm using it to the thin edge.
The moon rolls in the air. I didn't want this child.
You're the only one I've told.
I want a child maybe, someday, but not now.
Otto has a calm, complacent way
of following me with his eyes, as if to say
Soon you'll have your hands full!
And yes, I will; this child will be mine
not his, the failures, if I fail
will all be mine. We're not good, Clara,
at learning to prevent these things,
and once we have a child it is ours.
But lately I feel beyond Otto or anyone.
I know now the kind of work I have to do.
It takes such energy! I have the feeling I'm
moving somewhere, patiently, impatiently,
in my loneliness. I'm looking everywhere in nature
for new forms, old forms in new places,
the planes of an antique mouth, let's say, among the leaves.
I know and do not know
what I am searching for.
Remember those months in the studio together,
you up to your strong forearms in wet clay,
I trying to make something of the strange impressions
assailing me—the Japanese
flowers and birds on silk, the drunks
sheltering in the Louvre, that river-light,
those faces...Did we know exactly
why we were there?
you found it too much, yet you went on
with your work...and later we met there again,
both married then, and I thought you and Rilke
both seemed unnerved. I felt a kind of joylessness
between you. Of course he and I
have had our difficulties. Maybe I was jealous
of him, to begin with, taking you from me,
maybe I married Otto to fill up
my loneliness for you.
Rainer, of course, knows more than Otto knows,
he believes in women. But he feeds on us,
like all of them. His whole life, his art
is protected by women. Which of us could say that?
Which of us, Clara, hasn't had to take that leap
out beyond our being women
to save our work? or is it to save ourselves?
Marriage is lonelier than solitude.
Do you know: I was dreaming I had died
giving birth to the child.
I couldn't paint or speak or even move.
My child—I think—survived me. But what was funny
in the dream was, Rainer had written my requiem—
a long, beautiful poem, and calling me his friend.
I was your friend
but in the dream you didn't say a word.
In the dream his poem was like a letter
to someone who has no right
to be there but must be treated gently, like a guest
who comes on the wrong day. Clara, why don't I dream of you?
That photo of the two of us—I have it still,
you and I looking hard into each other
and my painting behind us. How we used to work
side by side! And how I've worked since then
trying to create according to our plan
that we'd bring, against all odds, our full power
to every subject. Hold back nothing
because we were women. Clara, our strength still lies
in the things we used to talk about:
how life and death take one another's hands,
the struggle for truth, our old pledge against guilt.
And now I feel dawn and the coming day.
I love waking in my studio, seeing my pictures
come alive in the light. Sometimes I feel
it is myself that kicks inside me,
myself I must give suck to, love...
I wish we could have done this for each other
all our lives, but we can't...
They say a pregnant woman
dreams her own death. But life and death
take one another's hands. Clara, I feel so full
of work, the life I see ahead, and love
for you, who of all people
however badly I say this
will hear all I say and cannot say.
1975-1976
