It was a rather grey Monday in March, and I was on my way back from a little trek up the El Fuerte. The weather hadn’t caused the dismal mood I was in, but the two certainly reflected each other. I was therefore rather startled when an unknown man—Dr. Peter Peeters, as I was soon to learn—called out to offer me some avocados as I was passing the Molino. A gift wasn’t what I expected from the world.
I was invited to sit down on the veranda for a little chat with Peter and his wife Claire, during which my mood shifted. I left carrying not only a book, avocados, lemons, and a postcard, but also a more serene mind and body than I had arrived with. During my trek, I’d noticed that I was closed off even to the beauty of nature, which is usually a comfort to me. But the short encounter with Claire and Peter opened a small gap that allowed me to feel appreciation again. I was met with unearned kindness and generosity, and it made me feel kind and generous toward the world.
During the last few years, most of my time has been devoted to research on the representation of nonhuman animals in literature. I scrutinize how mechanically literary animals are often interpreted by human readers, which has generated readings that are dogmatic rather than sensitive to the singularity of animals and of texts. It’s rather theoretical work, and its implications often seem to have small bearing on life. But the meeting with Peter and Claire reminded me of why I think it’s important.
What I’m proposing as an alternative to mechanical interpretations is responsive readings: readings that respond to the otherness of artworks as intriguing, unknowable strangers whose forms and meanings cannot be prescribed, must always be left open yet welcomed. The same way that I, an unknowable stranger, was welcomed into the Molino. And I believe how we relate to artworks affects and is affected by how we relate to other things as well, be it humans, other animals, or natural phenomena. We’re required to always try to respond responsibly and responsively, taking the question asked by the strangeness of the other into consideration and adjusting to the relationality that’s a condition of existence.
To urge myself to not only write about, but to also try to live this, I keep a postcard painted by Claire above my desk. It’s a reminder to do my best to follow her and Peter’s example, showing hospitality to the stranger and listening attentively to the questions of the other.
Maria Trejling