A dandy of the interior mirrors

Luis Eduardo Aute has turned out to be a young man of seventy-six sticks who, one week brought us the miracle of an album, and another week, brought up the prodigy of a collection of poems. And in one thing or another it was always Aute, a stress of beauty, a heart attack of poetry, a howl of coherence. It was, and it is. Because this guy returns forever today. He liked the word intemperie, the jargon of Havana, and Sharon Stone. When I wrote about him, which has been a lot, excitedly, Eduardo always appeared, and put a grateful email quickly, and very written, because he was of the epistolary genre, and an elegant one, although the times force us on the internet. I have admired him since I was a teenager, or around, and I immediately fell in love with long-haired girls, tired of youth, who were in love with Eduardo, which was a guarantee of sensitivity for me.

I have adorned him before elegant, and it seems to me that Eduardo is that, among many other meritorious things, because Aute practiced his own way of being in the world, which is, at times, even a way of not being, that even more matters, shuffling the sadness without cure and the stature of slowness. Eduardo always carried some recently tired man, but the uncle did not stop. Suddenly he was a painter who scared you by setting an unforgettable album and the next day a poet woke up who gave you the shock of directing a cartoon film of his own. And all without removing the same worn out jeans, which were a thousand anti-fashion jeans. Floats in all his things a fainting esthete, and a reversal of himself, under that motto of Pindar: “Learn to make yourself what you are.” When the style of not having any style is worn, in art and perhaps in life, as now, the vindication of the fingerprint, of the unique “I”, of the own figure, alien to everything and everyone, and in This vindication is stubborn and there is already the teacher of Aute, who sometimes seemed tired of inventing himself, but who neither tired nor tired us.

It is a little shameful to resort here to the topic that Aute thrived in creation against the current, behind everything and everyone’s back, but we must repeat it because types like that are already few, or very few. His song “Beauty” is a very exciting and eternal hymn. “At dawn” is “At dawn.” “Ten past four” is “the best time on the beauty watch,” according to Sabina. He always confessed to me that he was bored, if he stopped, and on top of that he didn’t stop smoking. I don’t know where he got time to smoke, uncle. Gone is the one who returns, an elegant of intelligence, a distinguished of nostalgia, a dandy of looking only in the interior mirrors. .

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