Juliá imagine perpetrating the Colossus. Besieging the canvas with the awkwardness weak beginner. I gather his disagreement with each stroke, her disappointment, once finished the work. Guess the Inquisition inflicted on himself and see the artist grieved and resolved to a new anxiety, a new destruction to rebirth. There in the corner of the time I feel terrible suffering the certainty of its contingency, its inability to answer the question without you making any life ends, his final, anonymous, like everyone else, an orphan of history and meaning.
My art teacher did not know the vicissitudes of July. Ignored the feverish passion led her paintbrush and still less the terrible pain that haunted him in each work. In his classes, aesthetic explanation of the Colossus was established mathematical calculation: a masterpiece of Goya, where aggressive stroke guess just let the people fleeing, color becomes anxiety and panic. Something like a masterpiece ahead of its time, a kind of shamanic vision invisible to the ignorant.
Manuela Mena, head of Conservation of the Prado Museum, was responsible for downplaying the story. After laborious painting studies have concluded that poverty and brush technique without flow and safety of the Colossus, show that the picture does not belong to Goya. Poor Julia, their absence made his immortal work his immortality the secondary again forever. His stroke became the impostor himself and the rest of the fatal victims of a bizarre hoax. Because all know Goya benefited, at least to sleep peacefully after being much admired. For history, once you learn, no neck gets compromised. None of these assholes would think of removing the farce, to recognize the innocence of the kids, give them to Julia Goya and his ignorance of foreign crime, the clumsy handling of their lives, the utter confusion of their destinies and their ill-fated homeless brushes. Nobody will say it is mere conjecture. Wait for the dust, constitute part of this strange and comic universe to get his clown nose and tell you it was all a joke, you asshole broke it as you are. Because you do not do more than that again and again perpetrate a new mask that will reflect in the mirror again and again to learn the rule that makes you part of the story and teaches you how to forget it all a lie, that everything could always start again, could be reconstructed again. Julia damn, damn, damn Juliá. Yes, that is. Perhaps it is better to believe that things are as they are and that's it. The rag never liked anyone. Perhaps history has always been that, a grotesque exercise to hide the rag. As Homer becoming the slaughter fabulous tale heroic Achilles. People are happy History to assume all acceptable and terrible mistake as it escapes. But fiction always comes to claim his place of foundation. The charming fictions that periodically removes the mask and shake all that we are. As Julia's ghost appeared again, either to demystify the Colossus, or to show the incompetence of those who now are wary of its artistic quality, or to expose the contingency of eternal Goya. Or as the global economic downturn, perhaps arose to denounce the injustice of the capitalist system, or to show the inevitable human indecency, or to make clear the fictitious nature of being and ultimate certainty violent wasteland in which we constantly making our lives we fled
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