René Robert He was an artist, photographer, who devoted a large part of his life and work to painting flamenco, one of the most representative traditions of our country, the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity since 2010 by UNESCO. It happened without the impulse and determination of hundreds of people who, like René, saw in him so much more than music, dancing or playing the guitar.
Although born in Friborg, Switzerland, he moved to Paris in the mid-1960s, where a Swedish dancer introduced him to flamenco. Ever since she stepped into that magical world, there was no escape, the moment that represented a before and after in her life. René fell in love with cante and all that surrounds dance, the mystery surrounding soleá, seguiriya, and buleria. And so it was reborn, because when true passion is filled with immense power, an absolute and indisputable vitality.
first photographed Manolo Marin, Sevillian dancer and choreographer at the age of thirty. And from there, he continued his tour of Andalusia with a large selection of flamenco greats, from Camarón to Paco de Lucia, many of them immortalized in black and white. His photographs are more than enough to describe his authorship.
I repeat, René Robert was an artist. But most of all, beyond her job, René was a person, a person who felt like all of us, laughed, cried, and loved when he had the chance.
René passed away on January 20. He was eighty-four years old and had a life full of memories. On Wednesday the previous day, René left his home and set out to wander the streets of Paris, as he does every day. He fell to the ground when he got to Rue de Turbigo, very close to the Place de la République. It is unknown whether he stumbled or suffered from dizziness. However, in any case, the result was the same. He stood there lying on the sidewalk, between a wine shop and an optician’s shop.
Those who know the city know that it is a very busy, noisy area. So, while René was lying there on the floor, hundreds of people, tired of their workdays, began to return to their homes. Students, businessmen, scammers. They all walked and jumped towards René, as if he were an object, without worrying about someone’s health.
Hours passed and the streets were empty. The night got darker and colder, and René was still there, alone, abandoned, dying slowly with each passing minute. And so it was, tragedy came a few hours later, in the early hours of Thursday, January 20, just before dawn. A stranger saw him and called the fire department. But when they got to the ambulance, it was too late. René had died of severe hypothermia. Rene had died of the cold.
He was a well-known, well-known artist. And that’s exactly why the news went around the world. Now, how many nameless Renés die every day on the streets of old Europe? The answer is absolutely terrifying. Nobody knows. Nobody counts. Another corpse arriving at the morgue to serve as a doll for medical students. Their names don’t matter. They are beggars, vagrants invisible to the eyes of Western wealth.
Everything is disgusting. The neighbor has ceased to be, he is no longer an enemy, but an indifferent person. At the very least, hostility expresses feelings, rebellious, yes, but feelings. Instead, indifference represents nothingness, absence.
We are so preoccupied with the “I” that we are no longer concerned with anything else. Outside the mirrors there is only space. That’s why René died. Because not all of us had René in our eyes. There was no one on the pavement. We walk around the streets like horses wearing blinders, looking into our eyes. smart phones without worry if it rains, it’s sunny, or if a vehicle five meters away collides with a pedestrian. As long as it doesn’t happen to me, it doesn’t matter.
This is how it goes. We are so tired of individualism that there is no world outside us, no life. And it is used by each other, by those in power, to play with us like puppets. Because we really are. Because the ropes they lead us are very different from the ropes hanging from the neighbor. It won’t be for us to get together and ruin the show.
Look! There’s a man on the sixth floor balcony. Looks like it’s going to fall! Incredibly alive. Alex, quick! Take your cell phone. Upload to Instagram. I’m sure you’ll get a hundred more followers today.
Nausea, said Sartre.