AntonellaPrescott

Biography of Antonela – The Muse of Desire and Elegance

Antonella was not born. She appeared. A muggy late afternoon, while the sky grew heavier with ochre and memories, it emerged like a long-held sigh. From the start, she carried on her skin the warmth of a south that does not apologize. Brown, with reflections of dark amber on the skin, it seemed forged of dense light and inhabited silence. Her beauty was not wise. She was carnal, organic, almost unbearable. Not by excess of provocation — she never sought to seduce — but because she existed entirely. And it bothered. The women looked at her cautiously, the men

with a fear they didn't always understand. She crossed them all, never letting herself be caught. Very young, she understood that the world expected women to be silent with grace. She, she preferred full silences, those who look, those who undress. Antonella never spoke to fill. She let the words ripen in her mouth, offered them as one touches a foreign skin — slowly, boldly.. Her first love was an older, married man who was respected by the whole town. She loved him with a quiet fever, between the crumpled sheets of an apartment above a bookstore. He taught her poems and promises that don't hold, she taught her to tremble, to plead without saying a word. It was a brief, intense, almost mythical story. She never talked about it, but she carried the imprint in the hollow of her kidneys.

The years passed. She became a teacher, then a translator, then a waitress in a cabaret in Lisbon where she sometimes undressed in poetry, reciting Baudelaire naked under an open kimono. She didn't believe in linear progress. She liked to reinvent herself, like you change your skin after a stormy night. Antonella belonged to no one. Not to a man, not to a city, not to a cause. Yet she gave herself entirely to those she chose. She did not like with caution. She wanted the taste, the smell, the fault. She was looking for the trembling looks, the too long kisses, the endless nights where two bodies learn by losing themselves. She was not afraid to cum, nor to cry after.

She also loved women. One in particular, Isabella, who smoked long pipes while reading Marguerite Duras aloud. With her, Antonella knew the dangerous sweetness: that which asks nothing but takes everything. They fell in love in a small apartment in Madrid, between walls covered with black and white pictures and sheets smelling of musk.. One day, Isabella left. Antonella did not hold her back. She never held back anyone. She'd rather people pick her up every day, or they walk away. She wrote, always. Fragments, confessions, bodies in sentences. It was said that her notebooks were filled with scenes of love lived or dreamed, but she showed them to no one. « Some pleasures exist only in secrecy," she said.

She was never a mother, at least not in the biological sense. But she guided, comforted, awakened. Many young souls were built by her contact, not because she gave lessons, but because she burned slowly, and it made them want to live better.. She had wrinkles around her eyes, deep, drawn by the sun and laughter. His hands bore the marks of wine, books, and caresses too long. She grew older without shame, with a beauty that had nothing to prove. Her body no longer pleased everyone — and she didn't care. Elle disait: « Those who don't see the fire under my skin don't need to taste it. » Towards the end, she settled near the sea, in a white house open to the winds. She lived there naked most of the time, with silent cats and passing lovers. She asked nothing, offered everything. She cooked little, drank red, read a lot. We sometimes met her on the beach, her hair tangled, her breasts free, her gaze elsewhere. Children smiled at him without understanding, men avoided his eyes, women envied him without admitting it. She died as she had lived: silently, but not without a trace. The day she disappeared, a storm broke out on the coast, brutal, magnificent. In his room, a last notebook, open on a sentence scribbled in brown ink: "It is not the body that we regret. It's the burning. »