Paloma is a singer, translator and performer. She studied translation and interpreting in Germany. She has sung in different Chorus in Germany and Spain including Vox Augustana or the Suavo program for young singers and Baroque Choir School of Andalusia. She has participated in international tours with the Chamber Choir of Seville, and has performed in the Cathedral of Cuzco and the towns of the Chiquitanía Boliviana. She works regularly with Peter Harrison and has experience as Choir and Orquestra conductor.
Ivan Vergara García –Mexico-
Ivan is a poet, musician, editor, cultural manager, and documentarian. He is the Director of PLACA (Platform for Artists Chilango Andalusians), his main project, spreads the Mexican and Spanish culture by creating connections between artists from different disciplines and poets from various regions. He lives in Sevilla and organizes cultural events like Recital Chilango Andaluz. He has participated severals projects as an actor and theater director, director of short films, radio host, and was a member of the folk-rock group Tomorrow, he released with them his first album “To see who arrives before the end” in 2010. He is also editor (Editorial Ultramarina Cartonera & Digital Editorial). He published his first book, translated by Jennifer Rathbun, in 2013: Man, Myth, Beast and the short collection of poems Montañas de Aurelia (2011). Currently he is preparing the first season of ‘Contemporáneos’ a series of micro-documentaries and PLACA’s new TV program.
Un Silencio Atlántico
Mi padre cruzó un continente, se convirtió en indio posmoderno al entrar por la aduana del nuevo mundo, surcó presto su orientación de monte y perdida la esperanza tomó trenes, autobuses para otras tierras, aviones erradicados por la peste y no era él
hoy mi padre yace en cama bajo el agobio de las horas extra, trajo un lastre de quinientos quince años con el cual descansar los pies y las manos y no sean él
yace mi padre en un techo de casa blanca con su cuerpo moreno asfixiado por la historia, con su cuerpo tallado por la vista de los volcanes y un indómito yacimiento de leyendas donde se escribe la historia de mi viejo, sobre una ladera marina y tintas de piedra
ha salido esta tarde y se ha tirado al río con el fardo absurdo de todo lo recorrido, ha ahogado a los peces contándoles la historia de un hombre y una mujer que se amaban como tierra blanca y fértil, yelmos recios de conquista
ha devorado al unísono dos continentes y se ha convertido en tierra submarina; salió por la tarde un indio posmoderno y la noche recibió todas las almas, todos los llantos
por la noche un llanto de ultramar, por la mañana la tierra engreída, conmocionada por la espera que mueve valles, tumba ciudades, engendra mitos, y lo que se escucha entre las ruinas es un llanto que pierde a sus vástagos un padre indio que duerme en casa blanca con su corazón rebozando tierra, rebasando a las aves, resplandeciendo de nada absoluta nada
An Atlantic Silence
My father crossed a continent, he became a postmodern indian when he entered through customs to the new world, he quickly ploughed across his mountain orientation and all hope lost took trains, buses to other lands, eradicated planes over the plague and it wasn’t him
today my father rests in bed beneath the pain of the extra hours, he brought his burden of five hundred fifteen years with which to rest feet and hands and may they not be him
my father lies on a roof of a white house with his dark body asphyxiated by its history, with his body sculpted by the view of the volcanoes and an unbroken field of legends where the story of my old man is written, over a marine side and rock inks
he has left this afternoon and thrown himself in the river with the absurd weight of everything that has happened, he has drown the fish telling them his tale of a man and a woman that loved each other like fertile white land, tough helmets from the conquest
he has devoured in unison two continents and turned into submarine land; in the afternoon he left a postmodern indian and the night received all of the souls, all of the cries
at night a cry from overseas, in the morning the conceited land, touched by the wait that moves valleys, overthrows cities, makes myths, and of what is heard between the ruins it a cry that loses its offspring an indian father that sleeps in the white house with his heart beating earth, passing by birds, shining from nothing absolutely nothing
Iván Vergara, translated by Jennifer Rathbun.