Lúa Coderch

The stain, the stain is now white and round, now, nine centimetres by four; the stain isn't exactly round, but rather an oval, a white oval, a black background and in the middle, the mouth of a white woman. A mouth of an adult woman, adult, a stage actress. She's called Billie, she's called Jessica, she's called Madeleine, Tricia, Julianne, Juliet, she's called Lisa. She is the mouth of an adult woman appearing through an oval-shaped hole, an open oval-shaped hole on a black background. Black. She is a praised mouth, praised for her almost superhuman ability to recite, with mathematical precision, at a speed that almost overtakes thought, they say, praising her. But it's just the mouth of a white woman. Although it is not white. The woman is white but the author of the play that she interprets is only interested in her mouth, so he makes up the lower part of her face with a cheap black paint. Making a blackface, a blackface, making a blackface but only on the lower part of the face, because the author is only interested in her mouth. Her mouth. It's now a black stain inside another black stain. Only the teeth, and the tongue. The author is a gentleman, he's an older gentleman, he's an old man, and he's very severe; he's very severe and doesn't accept mistakes or improvisation. He doesn't want contributions, he doesn't want accents, he doesn't want interpretation. He doesn't want colour, he says. He says he doesn't want colour. The words of his mouth, the words of her mouth are not his words; they're not her words, and perhaps neither are they his; even though they are praised, they are not, they're not her words even though she can say them, she says them, she hasn't lost her voice, her lips are moving, like the nymph Echo, she doesn't possess the words, she reflects them. She's not lost for words, she hasn't lost her voice, she's not without a voice...she's not even a little hoarse.