|The light of the La Franja does as that of the Toscana: it bathes you. And it bathes Sherry when she goes out of the car with the same pleasure with which Venus is born of the shell. The river Cinca like the river Arno.|
A distant evening of May, many years ago, I dared to say it to you, Sherry. We were going out of Semeiotics's class and were walking towards Bella-terra's station, among hills of pines and cypresses as those of Florence's surroundings.
—You would not have to be a Canadian, nor live in Catalonia; you would have to be Tuscan and live in Rome.
—Why? —you turned yourself, smilingly.
—Because you are Botticelli's picture: a Madonna, a Venus, the spring! If Botticelli had known you, he would not have wanted nevermore another model that you.
—I do not know that you claim.
—Nothing. To express the truth. To adore the beauty. That is the same thing … Because of it, because it is the same thing, you would have lowered with him to Rome and he would have formed you in the walls of the chapel Sistine.
Yes, Sherry, you would have to be in chapel Sistine. Not in Botticelli's walls, but in Michael Angel's roof. There you would be if Michael Angel, in his search of the platonic Beauty, of the «radiance of the Truth», of the Idea beyond its presence among us as prisoner of a certain material human body –and therefore necessarily of a concrete genre– he had not preferred liberating it of the cage of the masculine bodies, instead of the feminine ones. That is to say, if Michael Angel had liked a bit more the women. Do you imagine the fictitious hypothesis of Sherry as model of «Eve's creation», instead of «Adam's creation» in the center of the roof of the Sistine?