Saturday, October 9, 2010

when I really search myself, it feels like I'm coming home (by Melinda)


Is it possible that a man—
cleaning the floor and dancing his pain
dressed in rag and submission
day by day timidly beckoning
those outside
rushing their wallets
up to the market
of their black-lie flights…
This man—
lost and promising
no variety of dress or ideas
solitaire in path of agony
with a dashing appearance
or whatever to the eyes of others
who parcel him out with care…
He, this deserted man—
with nothing to show
nor houses, nor lands
no fingertips in the end of his joust
exhausted
blind
covered with water
from his sorrowful overdue
no testament formally signed
as no bequeath to devise
and no one who cares…
This stranger—
in a world of strangers
and their blatant frauds
he, all by himself
no whim, a bad loan
bad manners learned every muggy trip
bound for downtown
and back to environs
the place he owns
without satisfaction
trembling voice, a faith in his hands
none but an ordinary person
who cleans the floor
keeping his comfortable position
in the dark
the only one up to him
when dawn breaks for him in hard…
That long-suffering peregrine—
with his long account to settle
living high upon a cliff
and falling prey to the ruin
he fit in with
planning and crying and moving his hands
frantically towards that filth
made by everyone who gets into
and out of the house
ignoring his presence
and leaving his forecast undone.
Does this man—
everyday-life losing esteem
by a rule of thumb
he has been told within
— have the same value
of a titled-triumphant acquirer vast?


Friday, October 8, 2010

Brazilian real(ilty)m through the lens of a major Brazilian photographer - an overview on EVANDRO TEIXEIRA

The poet Carlos Drummond de Andrade


1968: Brazil Under Dictatorship





In Front of the Pictures of Evandro Teixeira by CARLOS DRUMMOND DE ANDRADE



The person, the place, the object
are exposed and hidden
simultaneous under the light,
and two eyes are not enough
to capture what is hidden
in a quick gesture.
It is necessary that the magic lens
enrich the human vision
and the truth of each thing
a better and drier truth extracts
to allow us to penetrate deeply
into the pure enigma of the pictures.
Photography – is the codename
of the most acute perception
that keeps showing us ourselves
and of the evanescence of all,
builds a continuation,
it is crystal of time on paper.
Of the street fights in Rio
in 68, what is left
more positive, more ardent
than the prosecuting photos,
so alive today as then,
to remind us how to exorcise them?
Marks of flood and eviction,
of the unburied corpse,
the mattress tossed in the wind,
the muddy, rotten slum,
the beggar in New York,
the young girl in the Jockey Club,
Garrincha and Nureyev, dance
of two destinations, priestesses
on the beach temple of Ipanema,
a strange lady in Ouro Preto,
the pain of Latin America,
myths they are not, for they are photos.
Photography: weapon of love,
of justice and knowledge,
through the seven parts of the world
to travel, to surprise
the tormented life of a man
and the hope that sprouts from the ashes.




Diante das fotos de Evandro Teixeira, poema de Carlos Drummond de Andrade


A pessoa, o lugar, o objeto
estão expostos e escondidos
ao mesmo tempo sob a luz,
e dois olhos não são bastantes
para catar o que se oculta
no rápido florir de um gesto.
É preciso que a lente mágica
enriqueça a visão humana
e do real de cada coisa
um mais seco real extraia
para que penetremos fundo
no puro enigma das figuras.
A fotografia – é o codinome
da mais aguda percepção
que a nós mesmos nos vai mostrando
e da evanescência de tudo
edifica uma permanência,
cristal do tempo no papel.
Das lutas de rua no Rio
em 68, que nos resta
mais positivo , mais queimante
do que as fotos acusadoras,
tão vivas hoje como então,
a lembrar como a exorcizar?
Marcas da enchente e do despejo,
do cadáver insepultável o
colchão atirado ao vento,
a lodosa, podre favela,
o mendigo de Nova Iorque a
moça em flor no Jóquei Clube.
Garrincha e Nureyev, dança
de dois destinos, mães-de-santo
na praia-templo de Ipanema,
a dama estranha de Ouro Preto,
a dor da América Latina,
mitos não são, pois que são fotos.
Fotografia: arma de amor,
de justiça e conhecimento,
pelas sete partes do mundo
a viajar, a surpreender
a tormentosa vida do homem
e a esperança a brotar das cinzas.

Thursday, October 7, 2010

Brazilian top literature: short fiction "Betsy" by RUBEM FONSECA



Betsy waited for the man to return to die.
Before the trip he had noticed that Betsy was hungry. Then other symptoms emerged: excessive drinking of water, urinary incontinence. Betsy’s only problem till then was the cataract in one of her eyes. She didn’t like to go out, but before the trip she had unexpectedly come into the elevator with and the two of them had strolled along the sidewalk by the beach, something she had never done. The day the man arrived Betsy had the hemorrhage and didn’t eat. Twenty days without eating, lying on the bed with the man. The specialists he consulted said that there was nothing to be done. Betsy only left the bed to drink some water.
The man stayed in bed with Betsy throughout her agony, caressing her body, feeling said at the thinness of her hips. On the last day, Betsy, very quiet, her blue eyes open, stared at the man with the same gaze as ever, which indicated the comfort and pleasure produced by his presence and his affection. She began to tremble, and he hugged her more tightly. Feeling that her limbs were cold, the man arranged a comfortable position for Betsy on the bed. Then she extended her body, appearing to stretch, and turned her head away wearily. Then she stretched her body even more and sighed, a powerful exhalation. The man thought Betsy had died.
But a few seconds later she emitted another sigh. Horrified but his meticulous attention, the man counted each of Betsy’s sighs one by one. She exhaled nine identical sighs, her tongue hanging outside her mouth. Then she began to beat her stomach with her legs, as she would occasionally do, only more violently. Immediately afterward, she became immobile. The man ran his hand lightly over Betsy’s body. She stretched and extended her limbs for the last time. She was dead. Now, the man knew, she was dead.
The man spent the entire night awake at Betsy’s side, lightly and silently caressing her, not knowing what to say. They had lived together for eighteen years.
In the morning, he left her on the bed and went to the kitchen to make coffee. He drank the coffee in the living room. The house had never been so empty and sad.
Fortunately, the man had not thrown out the cardboard box from the blender. He returned to the bedroom. He carefully placed Betsy’s body in the box. With the box under his arm, he went to the door. Before opening it and going out, he wiped his eyes. He didn’t want to be seen like that.
Translated into English by Clifford Landers. Rubem Fonseca’s The Taker and Other Stories. New York: Rochester, 2008.



no que há de melhor em letras nossas: conto "Besty", de Rubem Fonseca


Betsy esperou a volta do homem para morrer.
Antes da viagem ele notara que Betsy mostrava um apetite incomum. Depois surgiram outros sintomas, ingestão excessiva de água, incontinência urinária. O único problema de Betsy até então era a catarata numa das vistas. Ela não gostava de sair, mas antes da viagem entrara inesperadamente com ele no elevador e os dois passearam no calçadão da praia, algo que ela nunca fizera. No dia em que o homem chegou, Betsy teve o derrame e ficou sem comer. Vinte dias sem comer, deitada na cama com o homem. Os especialistas consultados disseram que não havia nada a fazer. Betsy só saia da cama para beber água.
O homem permaneceu com Betsy na cama durante toda a sua agonia, acariciando seu corpo, sentindo com tristeza a magreza de suas ancas. No último dia, Betsy, muito quieta, os olhos azuis abertos, fitou o homem com o mesmo olhar de sempre, que indicava o conforto e o prazer produzidos pela presença e pelos carinhos dele. Começou a tremer e ele a abraçou com mais força. Sentindo que os membros dela estavam frios, o homem arranjou para Betsy uma posição confortável na cama. Então ela estendeu o corpo, parecendo se espreguiçar, e virou a cabeça para trás, num gesto cheio de langor. Depois esticou o corpo ainda mais e suspirou, uma exalação forte. O homem pensou que Betsy havia morrido.
Mas alguns segundos depois ela emitiu novo suspiro. Horrorizado com sua meticulosa atenção o homem contou, um a um, todos os suspiros de Betsy. Com o intervalo de alguns segundos ela exalou nove suspiros iguais, a língua para fora, pendendo do lado da boca. Logo ela passou a golpear a barriga com os dois pés juntos, como fazia ocasionalmente, apenas com mais violência. Em seguida, ficou imóvel. O homem passou a mão de leve no corpo de Betsy. Ela se espreguiçou e alongou os membros pela última vez. Estava morta. Agora, o homem sabia, ela estava morta.
A noite inteira o homem passou acordado ao lado de Betsy, afagando-a de leve, em silêncio, sem saber o que dizer. Eles haviam vivido juntos dezoito anos.
De manhã, ele a deixou na cama e foi até a cozinha e preparou um café puro. Foi tomar o café na sala. A casa nunca estivera tão vazia e triste.
Felizmente o homem não jogara fora a caixa de papelão do liquidificador. Voltou para o quarto. Cuidadosamente, colocou o corpo de Betsy dentro da caixa. Com a caixa debaixo do braço caminhou para a porta. Antes de abri-la e sair, enxugou os olhos. Não queria que o vissem assim.
Este e outros contos de Rubem Fonseca estão disponíveis no site do Releituras: http://www.releituras.com/i_natalia_rfonseca_imp.asp

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

Nobel Prize in Literature: let us honor a neighbor of us - Vargas Llosa


By Julie Bosman, The New York Times (October 7, 2010)

The Peruvian writer Mario Vargas Llosa, whose deeply political work vividly examines the perils of power and corruption in Latin America, won the 2010 Nobel Prize in Literature on Thursday.
Announcing the award in Stockholm, the Swedish Academy praised Mr. Vargas Llosa “for his cartography of the structures of power and his trenchant images of the individual’s resistance, revolt and defeat.”
Mr. Vargas Llosa, 74, is one of the most celebrated writers of the Spanish-speaking world, frequently mentioned with his contemporary Gabríel Garcia Márquez, who won the literature Nobel in 1982, the last South American to do so. He has written more than 30 novels, plays and essays, including “The Feast of the Goat” and “The War of the End of the World.”
In selecting Mr. Vargas Llosa, the Swedish Academy has once again made a choice that is infused with politics. In 1990, he ran for the presidency of Peru and has been an outspoken activist in his native country.
In an interview with The Times in 2002, Mr. Vargas Llosa said that it was the novelist’s obligation to question real life. “I don’t think there is a great fiction that is not an essential contradiction of the world as it is,” he said. “The Inquisition forbade the novel for 300 years in Latin America. I think they understood very well the seditious consequence that fiction can have on the human spirit.’”
Since 1901, 102 Nobel Prizes in literature have been awarded. The last American to win the prize was Toni Morrison, in 1993.
The awards ceremony is planned for Dec. 10 in Stockholm. As the winner, Mr. Vargas Llosa will receive 10 million kronor, or about $1.5 million.
Mr. Vargas Llosa is currently spending the semester teaching Latin American studies at Princeton University.

Tuesday, October 5, 2010

TRIPLE SERIES: Pictures of Garbage by Vik Muniz (2008)

(Atlas) Carlão


(Marat) Sebastião


(Woman Ironing) Isis



Pictures of Junk (2006) by Vik Muniz

Atalanta and Hippomenes, after Guido Reni


Narcissus, after Caravaggio



Saturn devouring one of his Sons, 
after Francisco de Goya Y Lucientes



Venus and Cupid, after Correggio



Pictures of Paper (2008) by Vik Muniz

 Dallas Mill, Huntsville: 1910, after Lewis Hine


Public Park, Ann Arbor, Michigan, after Robert Frank


Woods in November, after Albert Renger-Patzsch


Monday, October 4, 2010

1,99 - A Supermarket That Sells Words

1,99 - A Supermarket That Sells Words



Original Title: 1,99 – Um supermercado que vende palavras
Written and Directed by: Marcelo Masagão
Produced by: Clarissa Knoll and Gustavo Steinberg
Executive Producer: Gustavo Steinberg
Original Music: Wim Mertens
Director of Photography: Helcio A. Naganine
Brazil, 2003, 72 min.

Different variety of person(a)s shop in a supermarket that sells words and ideas!
Marcelo Masagão’s brilliant film revolves around a complete-white supermarket where people are filling their charts and cannot leave. Much more preponderant: they are not drowning by trends, but captivated in imprinted messages the goods diffuse through. That's what reaches the costumers' minds...
The main characters are not these consumers, but desire, anguish, and a compulsion for buying. It is, indeed, a cloistered environment, somewhat similar in deep-down climate and somewhat different in context to that created by Buñel in The Exterminating Angel. But the outside world also appears: always mediated by computer-like machines, cameras, and telephones…
1,99 – A Supermarket That Sells Words can be read as a tale of shopping and consumerism where the characters never speak to each other, but the goods do. The catchy messages written on the boxes can be translated into inciting fetish: just do it, no limits, you are just unique, abuse and use, being intelligent is fancy, pick your debt, think different, think deceitfully, be yourself, do what you want to do, you are great, you know and you trust, you need to rush, everything as you like, where do you want to go today?, and so forth.
These powerful and “attractive” messages contrast sharply with the shoppers themselves, whose robotic expressions show they’re totally co-opted by marketing.
Just a wonderful film – I strongly indicate it!

Sunday, October 3, 2010

Ernersto Neto: an overview


I'm always obsessing over those Brazilian artists who are not under the spotlight over here... No red carpets for them to walk on. How luckily for them, I append. No nutty fans entreating autographs or pictures with them. No massive recognition for their tantalizing artwork. There will be, at most, some proparoxytone-moonstruck piercing the dawn "in company with…any taciturnity, or turmoil inside" while hallucinating, rambling on/away, loving, and drawing, deliciously drawing upon these artists' works to uninvent themselves… ha, as lunatics? – it is what it is!
To make myself eventually clearer, and descending into this or that "spectacular-looking" detail, these artists – that's what I was saying – often walk down Brazilian streets without raising any frenzy acclaim, even if achieving international acclaim for their talent, their master pieces, their sensibility to encapsulate and depict and plunge into and enthrall life's motion so tuned to fine, or just non-adjusted forms, sounds, images, shades, words, silence(s), style(s), tones and tunes – ah, the tum-tums – and whatever. 
The major audience (oh, how I loathe this verbiage, "major audience") need to turn their attention to something else. They need to divert their attention from important questions or deep thoughts on reality (which are strongly sparked by reasonable and wise art) because they are not supposed to pay attention to what is really going on around them... That's a way to keep them distracted and controlled, after all, and once and for all... So that… kaboom! They (will…always?) vibrate with the meaningless, clown-hackneyed, dunderhead music, literature, cinema, photography, and paintings, books, songs, plays, not to mention those horrid everyday-broadcasting soap operas, and TV shows (which have become more and more popular over the years)...
Of course there's a logic behind it. "There's even a compelling moral principle behind it!" A specialized class in Brazil (according to the terms of Noam Chomsky) is allowed to say to the major audience, "We want to be your leader," "You, the general public, are only supposed to become spectators in action, but not participants…" There's no secret that… Ok, no secret, let's just slip away from other clichés…
The compelling moral principle behind this strategic-smarmy, hideous logic? Well, the mass of the public who access the means of communication everyday-blatant "trickfrauds" concerning art, culture, politics, social environment and so forth, or those just getting hold of these frauds from the yellow press in Brazil are just too stupid to (be able to) understand things, so they are told to go with the flow... Ha! What a discourse, I am profoundly touched! Ideologies being instilled in people's mind, is it just simple like that? Ah, of course…the "flow" so stands for – and even encompasses with much enthusiasm – what the means of communication want to diffuse through – that's the spectacle we unfortunately are indoctrinated in… Voilà la carte, que voulez-vous?  
Private interest pays for... Media distort, we abide! Much more than a strategy to attune life's motion to this or that ideological guideline, it's, moreover, a powerful way to make people pulse in synchrony clap-clap, tick-tack, clap-tack, tock-tock, and once more, uuuhhhhuuuu! – as though they always share the same beliefs or have the same interests...
This logic has ever spread throughout my country long ago. And I know, you know, we all know that it has reverberated all over the world... 
But let us try, at least for a moment (and as far as we get)… what, get out of this game? Let us look around… irrespective of how difficult or far away it may be? Ha, I can no longer know how further…how longer…how-how-how! Oh, before you, reader, think I'm exasperating myself, or some kind, let me just insert a rueful smile herein… Iconoclast perhaps, but I'm not that relentless in my penchant for…whatever, whatever…
What I really mean is but a dream within a dream: there are so, and so, and so many Brazilian artists who are really doing a great work... Oh-oh… I'm being over-eloquent! Sorry? Trite-trite-trite, poor trite words of mine… Ok. This space is just to spark the interest of others with no presumptuously myopia-self-conceit... Wow! I'm now more-than-over whatever… Ok. To get to the point of something better, this is a blog to provoke, suggest, point out, like and dislike, river things in and out, shrug off, bring out, stumble into a myriads of nonsensical frames that may have any sense, exchange, whatsoever… regarding a less hackneyed, at least, standpoint... Why am I saying that? If is it to flatter myself, or you that we are this, we are that…spectacular? No-nã-nã, I promise! I was just honestly wondering about a conversation I had with a fine scholar last week… I mean, with the very finest scholar! Which, "the conversation itself," has dazzled me with a very strong will to re-read all my Benjamin, Jameson, Said, and of course, Chomsky's books… For nothing, perhaps… Or for the most enthralling reason-everything! Who knows… I do, I do, I do…
Ok. So, let us just… experiment with another great Brazilian artist? Much seriously now, truly, ERNESTO NETO's works are a great delight. And in the best significance for this word, "delight". He is sensitive, an experimentalist artist; he inquirers (into and after), he explores new materials and techniques; also, he is into a vast range of subjects, he interacts with other language-speeches... The most important thing: he does not lead the audience to ready-made view vision(s)...
The post below: an interview with this artist. 
Art & Chaos, everybody-you! And thanks (for evermore and evermore): your coming-over, and reading, and commenting, and being-here with are much appreciated, always!
Tim-tim!


Ernesto Neto being interviewed: The Edges of the World