From weird guru in The Fly Guy (remember? post dated March 27th, 2003!):
“No bird soars too high, if he soars with his own wings”
This is supposed to be my personal motto next year....
sexta-feira, setembro 26, 2003
Caravaggiesca, do ateliê, tinha qualquer coisa de brejeira, meninice desinibida de roça. Isso quando não a estavam observando, quando estava assim, nos desafios e desentendimentos diários. Mas era só pedir-lhe para contar um caso/piada/fazer uma pose, e ela assumia a teatralidade das pinturas de Caravaggio, que ela transmitia da mesma forma para suas pinturas. O drama, o semi-gótico, restringia-o à pintura mesmo. Na vida, ela usava dessa teatralidade para ser absurdamente cômica. Daquele estilão pornochanchada. O epílogo de Caravaggiesca eram suas roupas. Vestia-se daquele jeito das garotas pós-feminismo de que falei: agressiva, longilínea, clubber. Atitude. Era tanta coisa junta...
Do caderno (Dream):
Vez por outra surgiam na minha vida personagens como Wildfire (uma das sete garotas do ateliê). Garotas que ao mesmo tempo fascinavam e davam medo. Por que não dizer garotas "sublimes"?Eram personagens pós-feminismo, belas mas ferozes, de selvageria desmedida que nçao diminuia a sedução, e aliás até aumentava. Mas eram garotas que, no ímpeto de se afirmarem mulheres, não se deixavam amar por alguns rapazes de bem (e não estou dizendo que eu seja um rapaz de bem...), afugentando-os. Elas mesma, lendo isto, argumentariam algo do tipo: "e por que eu tenho que 'me deixar amar'? Ele que me conquiste!". Obviamente dito de forma mais violenta... Suponho que elas me intimidavam por eu não me sentir confiante e capaz de conquistá-las. Garotas assim, para não me parecerem excessivamente brutais, tinham que ser como a Lioness ou Chebel. Apesar de se afirmarem mulheres modernas, pós-feminismo, com a sexualidade nas mãos e deusas de pequenos mundinhos próprios, ainda tinham uma meninice, um jeitinho que inspira cuidados, faz a gente querer pegar no colo e ninar.
Vez por outra surgiam na minha vida personagens como Wildfire (uma das sete garotas do ateliê). Garotas que ao mesmo tempo fascinavam e davam medo. Por que não dizer garotas "sublimes"?Eram personagens pós-feminismo, belas mas ferozes, de selvageria desmedida que nçao diminuia a sedução, e aliás até aumentava. Mas eram garotas que, no ímpeto de se afirmarem mulheres, não se deixavam amar por alguns rapazes de bem (e não estou dizendo que eu seja um rapaz de bem...), afugentando-os. Elas mesma, lendo isto, argumentariam algo do tipo: "e por que eu tenho que 'me deixar amar'? Ele que me conquiste!". Obviamente dito de forma mais violenta... Suponho que elas me intimidavam por eu não me sentir confiante e capaz de conquistá-las. Garotas assim, para não me parecerem excessivamente brutais, tinham que ser como a Lioness ou Chebel. Apesar de se afirmarem mulheres modernas, pós-feminismo, com a sexualidade nas mãos e deusas de pequenos mundinhos próprios, ainda tinham uma meninice, um jeitinho que inspira cuidados, faz a gente querer pegar no colo e ninar.
Spring finally came. And the cold of posts ago diminished. Walking to the girls' atelier has become unbareable in this heat. It seems surreal that only a week ago, the cold discouraged me to arise in the mornings. Now I welcome the chill in my bare arms as I walk to the university at night.
At nigh... This heat at progressed hours of the evening makes my body remember the feeling of summer vacations. And parties at the beach. Passions spawned in cities I only visited once and most likely will never return to, whispered to everyone by that nocturnal breese that blows from sea to land.
At nigh... This heat at progressed hours of the evening makes my body remember the feeling of summer vacations. And parties at the beach. Passions spawned in cities I only visited once and most likely will never return to, whispered to everyone by that nocturnal breese that blows from sea to land.
segunda-feira, setembro 22, 2003
Ever since August, I`ve returned to the gym at the club. I wasn`t getting enough of it at home. Down at the club, we get instructors to help us out, correct exercises and give us some tips.
And just as I do in the bus every day, I`ve payed attention to the people there. There`s this old man, probably in his sixties, who seems to be some sort of role model to the people there. Although his face and his hair (or the lack of it...) betray his age, his body remains big, muscled, "young".
To start the day at the gym is revigorating. Even though I get worn out for a couple of hours, my mood improves significantly. I ride to the foundation slightly more... alert. Fewer details evade my attention. I greet people by their names, I smile. There`s attitude in everything I do. There is, alas, less apathy.
And just as I do in the bus every day, I`ve payed attention to the people there. There`s this old man, probably in his sixties, who seems to be some sort of role model to the people there. Although his face and his hair (or the lack of it...) betray his age, his body remains big, muscled, "young".
To start the day at the gym is revigorating. Even though I get worn out for a couple of hours, my mood improves significantly. I ride to the foundation slightly more... alert. Fewer details evade my attention. I greet people by their names, I smile. There`s attitude in everything I do. There is, alas, less apathy.
Happy B-day, Big Mamma!!
And we were at a bar yesterday to celebrate. A part of the gang was there. Sis was also there and that reminded me that she can no longer be called Sis. They broke up a couple of weeks ago. I`m not going to give much details since it`s obviously none of my business. I talked a lot with my brother after it happened and I understood and agreed with him. And so, brother sat at one end of the table, along with me, Tink and a few others of the gang; and she sat at the other end, along with some two or three boys that I had never seen before but who seemed all too close to her. Brother tried to have fun but couldn`t ignore that. He was bothered. For the record, he broke up with her. But since some of my rationalist bullsh*t from the previous post applies, his behaviour is comprehensible. His former girlfriend was also there. They engaged in some brief chat. Little Wonder was also there. But Alex didn`t show up. And I was noticing once again how this gang was worn out. Each and every one of us had some grudge towards someone else. Scars of long ago love affairs. After all, we had been teenage boys and girls. Put those toghether and mayhem ensues... Even though most of it all was long healed, we`d still get slightly giddy with certain presences. And it would be too hard to have fun once again without meddling with past wounds.
And we were at a bar yesterday to celebrate. A part of the gang was there. Sis was also there and that reminded me that she can no longer be called Sis. They broke up a couple of weeks ago. I`m not going to give much details since it`s obviously none of my business. I talked a lot with my brother after it happened and I understood and agreed with him. And so, brother sat at one end of the table, along with me, Tink and a few others of the gang; and she sat at the other end, along with some two or three boys that I had never seen before but who seemed all too close to her. Brother tried to have fun but couldn`t ignore that. He was bothered. For the record, he broke up with her. But since some of my rationalist bullsh*t from the previous post applies, his behaviour is comprehensible. His former girlfriend was also there. They engaged in some brief chat. Little Wonder was also there. But Alex didn`t show up. And I was noticing once again how this gang was worn out. Each and every one of us had some grudge towards someone else. Scars of long ago love affairs. After all, we had been teenage boys and girls. Put those toghether and mayhem ensues... Even though most of it all was long healed, we`d still get slightly giddy with certain presences. And it would be too hard to have fun once again without meddling with past wounds.
quinta-feira, setembro 11, 2003
I was immersed in painting the background for Makel's portrait when my phone rang: it was her. Without much delay, she dropped the bomb.
"I'm engaged!"
How is a man supposed to react, or what is he expected to feel, when a former lover who has remained a good friend says she is getting married? I felt bothered. Something that reflected on my painting as hastiness. But I couldn't understand why did it bother me so. I didn't despair enough for it to be love. In fact, Makel had ceased to be the meaning of my existence for years. Others came and took her role, just as someone had taken mine. The natural order of things. Then perhaps it was the male animal instinct to be bothered by the fact that another male was banging a female that once belonged to me and that now I would no longer have access to her. Yes, I know you can't accept this simplistic, gross point of view. Perhaps then it was the feeling of loosing a perfect mother for my children. I used to believe that. But nowadays I have doubts as to her maternal abilities. Plainly speaking, I felt bothered because I no longer had her. Or even the slightest possibility of having her again. Ever. Whatever her importance in my life should be.
I obviously didn't tell her any of this. I wouldn't give her the pleasure of my discomfort. And besides, we hadn't spoken truthfully to each other for quite some time. I only brought up a silly promise we made when we broke up to get toghether again if after seven years we were still alone. That's the end of that...
She asked me to be the best man. It seemed fitting: the last good-bye to a teenage passion. But two other thoughts came to mind. On one hand, this was some cruel last revenge of hers. To hurt me definitely and say "I want you to be there so you can see what you missed!". If so, her fianceé knew it. That is why he agreed in bringing a nemesis so close. On the other hand, I supposed I was the only person she could call. Her only close friend. I spent two years with her and got to know her well. Including the fact that she likes isolation. She trusts no one, hence she cannot nurture a deep friendship. We fought constantly over this. If the world should end, leaving her and her lover as the only survivors, it would be enough for her.
When I hung up the phone, I noticed grimly that the day was September 11th. And in a short epiphany, I realized that in a way, a tragedy just as big as the towers had happened in my little world. Some sort of symbolic thing had died. There was a side of it that said "what a sad day..." But another side said "you asked for it!" Of course, in the bigger scheme of things, this symbolic thing was no longer relevant. And just as the towers, this event would change a few things, but eventually it's impact would be absorbed, making it just a footnote in the hopefully long history of my life.
"I'm engaged!"
How is a man supposed to react, or what is he expected to feel, when a former lover who has remained a good friend says she is getting married? I felt bothered. Something that reflected on my painting as hastiness. But I couldn't understand why did it bother me so. I didn't despair enough for it to be love. In fact, Makel had ceased to be the meaning of my existence for years. Others came and took her role, just as someone had taken mine. The natural order of things. Then perhaps it was the male animal instinct to be bothered by the fact that another male was banging a female that once belonged to me and that now I would no longer have access to her. Yes, I know you can't accept this simplistic, gross point of view. Perhaps then it was the feeling of loosing a perfect mother for my children. I used to believe that. But nowadays I have doubts as to her maternal abilities. Plainly speaking, I felt bothered because I no longer had her. Or even the slightest possibility of having her again. Ever. Whatever her importance in my life should be.
I obviously didn't tell her any of this. I wouldn't give her the pleasure of my discomfort. And besides, we hadn't spoken truthfully to each other for quite some time. I only brought up a silly promise we made when we broke up to get toghether again if after seven years we were still alone. That's the end of that...
She asked me to be the best man. It seemed fitting: the last good-bye to a teenage passion. But two other thoughts came to mind. On one hand, this was some cruel last revenge of hers. To hurt me definitely and say "I want you to be there so you can see what you missed!". If so, her fianceé knew it. That is why he agreed in bringing a nemesis so close. On the other hand, I supposed I was the only person she could call. Her only close friend. I spent two years with her and got to know her well. Including the fact that she likes isolation. She trusts no one, hence she cannot nurture a deep friendship. We fought constantly over this. If the world should end, leaving her and her lover as the only survivors, it would be enough for her.
When I hung up the phone, I noticed grimly that the day was September 11th. And in a short epiphany, I realized that in a way, a tragedy just as big as the towers had happened in my little world. Some sort of symbolic thing had died. There was a side of it that said "what a sad day..." But another side said "you asked for it!" Of course, in the bigger scheme of things, this symbolic thing was no longer relevant. And just as the towers, this event would change a few things, but eventually it's impact would be absorbed, making it just a footnote in the hopefully long history of my life.
Aqui começa a história
Desde Junho passado, algumas das garotas da fundação resolveram se juntar para abrir um ateliê. Passaram algum tempo procurando o lugar ideal, e em Agosto abriram um lugar lá perto da fundação mesmo, na sobreloja de uma revendedora de tintas. Foram bem recebidas pelo pessoal do bairro, que tratou este grupo de sete garotas muito bem.
Demorei um pouco para ir visitar o lugar (eu e a minha preguiça...). Mas depois de passar algumas horas e conversar com elas, resolvi trazer algumas coisas minhas para fazer lá. Os dias que tenho passado lá, pintando, foram maravilhosos. Tomado de um impulso estranho, eu faço três coisas ao mesmo tempo todo dia. Imagine que comecei e terminei um retrato (coming soon!) em uma semana! Um recorde para mim. Discutimos os trabalhos entre nós e nos incentivamos mutuamente. É tudo ótimo. Dá aquela sensação de grupo de arte, sabe? De movimentos que estarão nos livros de história da arte daqui a anos. Sei que provavelmente nada vai acontencer. Mas é um enorme incentivo.
Dentre as meninas, estão a Methodless, que vocês já conhecem, e uma garota maluquinha que eu vou apelidar de Spot (múltiplas pintas pelo corpo...). Spot faz objetos naquele estilo de estética da decomposição (ainda preciso explicar isso...). Se eu sou o cúmulo da organização, ela é o cúmulo do caos. Nada dela é organizado. Às vezes, mal consegue articular as palavras para comunicar a idéia que quer passar. Isso sem falar em comentários meio sem-noção no meio das aulas. É uma graça. E nos damos muito bem. Ela é quem mais tem comparecido ao ateliê, onde passa grande parte do tempo fazendo suas coisas e imersa em divagações éticas do mundo da arte. Nos damos muito bem: ordem e caos.
Recentemente, tenho dado a ela algumas dicas de pintura, a pedido dela. E ela tem tentado fazer com que eu pegue mais leve nas besteiras formalistas.
Saldo do ateliê:
O retrato da Methodless está concluído (coming soon!)
A cópia da Tink também
O retrato da Makel está em processo
Há um boneco de papel machê em andamento (Solitaire)
Há um retrato complicado demais para explicar agora em andamento. Retratado ainda indefinido...
Desde Junho passado, algumas das garotas da fundação resolveram se juntar para abrir um ateliê. Passaram algum tempo procurando o lugar ideal, e em Agosto abriram um lugar lá perto da fundação mesmo, na sobreloja de uma revendedora de tintas. Foram bem recebidas pelo pessoal do bairro, que tratou este grupo de sete garotas muito bem.
Demorei um pouco para ir visitar o lugar (eu e a minha preguiça...). Mas depois de passar algumas horas e conversar com elas, resolvi trazer algumas coisas minhas para fazer lá. Os dias que tenho passado lá, pintando, foram maravilhosos. Tomado de um impulso estranho, eu faço três coisas ao mesmo tempo todo dia. Imagine que comecei e terminei um retrato (coming soon!) em uma semana! Um recorde para mim. Discutimos os trabalhos entre nós e nos incentivamos mutuamente. É tudo ótimo. Dá aquela sensação de grupo de arte, sabe? De movimentos que estarão nos livros de história da arte daqui a anos. Sei que provavelmente nada vai acontencer. Mas é um enorme incentivo.
Dentre as meninas, estão a Methodless, que vocês já conhecem, e uma garota maluquinha que eu vou apelidar de Spot (múltiplas pintas pelo corpo...). Spot faz objetos naquele estilo de estética da decomposição (ainda preciso explicar isso...). Se eu sou o cúmulo da organização, ela é o cúmulo do caos. Nada dela é organizado. Às vezes, mal consegue articular as palavras para comunicar a idéia que quer passar. Isso sem falar em comentários meio sem-noção no meio das aulas. É uma graça. E nos damos muito bem. Ela é quem mais tem comparecido ao ateliê, onde passa grande parte do tempo fazendo suas coisas e imersa em divagações éticas do mundo da arte. Nos damos muito bem: ordem e caos.
Recentemente, tenho dado a ela algumas dicas de pintura, a pedido dela. E ela tem tentado fazer com que eu pegue mais leve nas besteiras formalistas.
Saldo do ateliê:
O retrato da Methodless está concluído (coming soon!)
A cópia da Tink também
O retrato da Makel está em processo
Há um boneco de papel machê em andamento (Solitaire)
Há um retrato complicado demais para explicar agora em andamento. Retratado ainda indefinido...
terça-feira, setembro 09, 2003
Random literature...
The passanger seat in my car is a little corner of the world that she makes her own. There's a whole memorabilia of things she casually leaves there. From name tags from the places she no longer works on to origami made from appartment ads handed out to her on the street. Her tube of glitter (pixiedust...) rolls around somewhere when I take a hard right. There have been unbrellas forgotten on the floor for over a month. Or magazines with theatre schedules fluttering with the wind of an open window. And when noon paints the city golden, I can see strands of her hair that are brighter and more golden than the sun lying around.
The passanger seat in my car is a little corner of the world that she makes her own. There's a whole memorabilia of things she casually leaves there. From name tags from the places she no longer works on to origami made from appartment ads handed out to her on the street. Her tube of glitter (pixiedust...) rolls around somewhere when I take a hard right. There have been unbrellas forgotten on the floor for over a month. Or magazines with theatre schedules fluttering with the wind of an open window. And when noon paints the city golden, I can see strands of her hair that are brighter and more golden than the sun lying around.
domingo, setembro 07, 2003
Afraid, by David Bowie
I wish I was smarter
I got so lost on the shore
I wish I was taller
Things really matter to me
But I put my face in tomorrow
I believe we're not alone
I believe in Beatles
I believe my little soul has grown
And I'm still so afraid
Yes, I'm still so afraid
Yea, I'm still so afraid on my own
On my own
What made my life so wonderful?
What made me feel so bad?
I used to wake up the ocean
I used to walk on clouds
If I put faith in medication
If I can smile a crooked smile
If I can talk on television
If I can walk an empty mile
Then I won't feel afraid
No, I won't feel afraid
I won't be Be afraid
Anymore
Anymore
Anymore
I wish I was smarter
I got so lost on the shore
I wish I was taller
Things really matter to me
But I put my face in tomorrow
I believe we're not alone
I believe in Beatles
I believe my little soul has grown
And I'm still so afraid
Yes, I'm still so afraid
Yea, I'm still so afraid on my own
On my own
What made my life so wonderful?
What made me feel so bad?
I used to wake up the ocean
I used to walk on clouds
If I put faith in medication
If I can smile a crooked smile
If I can talk on television
If I can walk an empty mile
Then I won't feel afraid
No, I won't feel afraid
I won't be Be afraid
Anymore
Anymore
Anymore
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