Pensava em inglês.

I feel numb.

It seems that nothing can change this feeling. It seems that I won’t be able to feel anything ever.

Man Ray was born in the 19^th century. How is that possible? I don’t know.

He did a lot of nude pictures. Nudes are timeless. There’s no time, history, or difference when the clothes are off. People are all the same, aren’t they?

There is one of his pictures, the girl is looking left.Rarely, she has her clothes on, but is like Man Ray took them all when he clicked, cause she is revealed. Or she isn’t, I really don’t know yet if either happen when people are nude. The girl’s head is upon her hand Is like he has put all the weight of the picture in that hand. She is flawless, with her 20’s make up, her veil. It moves me. I can’t stop staring at it. I almost cry. Why all feel this things, sometimes, with works of art? For no reason at all, I feel the urge to cry and cry and cry. But I don’t. It was like that with a Miró in New York. Is like I’m empty inside and the artist sees that and makes me want to cry. No, they don’t see anything. But they work see through me as I look at them.

The girl has a trace in her make-up, just like an Arabian princess. I think was fashion in those days. Now it isn’t, I’ve been told. She has such a sad look. Or she is happy but feels numb and bored to have her picture taken by Mar Ray. I bet she didn’t expect him to turn out to be a famous photograph.

Her nails are short. She is sitting on a chair, very beautiful one. You can’t really see it, but you can imagine it. I notice her shadow behind the chair, for the first time. It has the curve of her 20’s hair-cut. The veil on her face is like Monalisa’s. Why I keep looking at this picture and writing? I don’t know. I guess it makes me feel alive.

I turn the page of the book (it only says Man Ray in the cover. Nothing more). There are two pictures of a woman naked. I think it’s the same lady from the last page. I turn the pages very rapidly without looking carefully at any of the pictures. Of course they must be wonderful. Perfect. But I seem to feel that all of them are trying to be that first one with the perfect woman, her shadow and her face. It’s just like what happened with Miró.

I guess that the first impression stays for good. But that is just a guess, isn’t it?

I look to all the pictures in the book. I love his work, it is surprising, mysterious and so beautiful. The women are so perfect. I love him. I discover the name of the girl: Kiki de Montparnasse. Actually, her real name was Alice Prin. I guess she’d pretend to be French and would fake an accent. Must have been a real character.