Saiu outra matéria no New York Times comentando sobre pais que cuidam do filhos. Desta vez, a matéria escrita por Katrin Bennhold comentava sobre a licença paternidade concedida aos homens na Suécia. Licenças relacionadas ao nascimento de bebês no país garantem a ambos os pais um total de 13 meses de dispensa paga, dentre os quais os homens podem tirar até dois meses para permanecer com o filhote enquanto a mãe trabalha e folga nos outros 11. Aliás, "podem tirar" é o termo incorreto: a pressão social dita que eles devem tirar esse tempo para cuidar dos filhos. Homens que descartam o benefício e continuam a trabalhar são vistos com muito maus olhos tanto pela sociedade como pela empresa, embora não haja sanções previstas a quem o faça.
A medida está tendo resultados benéficos por lá. Os salários das mulheres estão se igualando aos dos homens, já que elas não são vistas como as únicas que podem ficar um tempo afastadas da empresa por causa dos filhos, e o número de divórcios diminuiu depois que pais passaram a cuidar dos afazeres domésticos nesse período sabático.
O vice-premiê sueco, que introdduziu um primeiro mês de licença-paternidade em 1995, comentou que "muitos homens não querem mais ser identificados apenas por seus empregos", algo que está virando uma tendência entre homens da minha geração.
Aqui no país, infelizmente, a realidade ainda é a de sempre. Meu primo Renato, que recentemente virou pai e inaugurou a nova geração da família de minha mãe, trabalha com sistemas de informática. Desde o mês passado, quando seu filho nasceu, tirou pouco menos de duas semanas para passar com o filho. Descontadas de suas férias. Mas convenhamos, não dá pra esperar essas medidas vanguardistas em modorrentas carreiras empresariais nacionais por enquanto. Ainda é tudo muito conservador e eles só enxergam a lógica do tempo de serviço, e não o lado emocional do empregado.
Mas quem sabe um dia...
Não tenho certeza quanto ao âmbito médico do pós-parto para a mulher, quanto tempo ela precisa para se recuperar e poder voltar ao trabalho e etc. Mas exceto por qualquer eventual detalhe desse tipo, ainda espero ver uma licença-paternidade em igual proporção à concedida às mães. Quem sabe assim as próximas gerações voltem a ter homens com alguma referência do que é masculino.
terça-feira, junho 29, 2010
terça-feira, junho 22, 2010
Curar-se da arte
Em 2007, defendi minha monografia de graduação onde eu postulava que a arte era qualquer ato estético que não tivesse finalidade prática. A minha crença era de que era possível sim definir logicamente a arte e tirá-la desse âmbito dos assuntos místicos e sem inefáveis.
Um dos membros da banca, o professor Carlos Fajardo, praticamente deu uma aula durante a banca sobre a Brillo Box do Andy Warhol: uma caixa de sabão em pó comum que ganhanva um certo peso como obra de arte pelo simples fato de estar exposta em uma galeria. Apesar do professor concordar com a minha tese, ele defendia ainda que a intenção do artista também tinha peso em definir determinada coisa como arte. Sim, você também pode pregar a sua caixa de Omo na parede e dizer que é arte...
Há algumas semanas, lendo o Arte Conceitual de Paul Wood, soube do trabalho de Robert Morris que, em 1963, vendeu uma obra chamada Litanias a um certo Philip Johnsson, que atrasou o pagamento pela obra. Sabendo da teoria de Donald Judd de que a arte é tudo que o artista diz que é arte, Morris inverteu a estratégia e criou um documento (com firma reconhecida) onde ele escreveu:
O abaixo assinato, Robert Morris, no papel de construtor da estrutura de metal intitulada Litanias, descrita no Objeto Exposto A anexo, por meio desta revoga em relação à referida estrutura qualquer qualidade e conteúdo estéticos e declara que, a partir dessa data, a referida estrutura não tem mais tais qualidades e conteúdo. Datado 15 de Novembro de 1963.
Desta forma, comenta Paul Wood, Morris "inverteu a estratégia dechampiana de conferir um status de arte a objetos originalmente produzidos para outros fins". Ele tirou o status de arte de uma obra.
Há controvérsias. A obra de Morris é tida como conceitual por rir e debochar dessa frase do Donald Judd. Afinal, ao tentar "desvalorizar" artisticamente a sua obra, ele acabou conferindo-lhe ainda mais valor. Poxa, até eu adoraria ter esse documento e a obra em casa.
===================
Recentemente li na Folha a iniciativa de dois alemães. Benjamin Blanke e Claudia Kapp fundaram uma espécie de centro de desintoxicação de artistas, galeristas e colecionadores em Berlim. Pelo que eu pude compreender, o Hotel Marienbad funcionava de duas formas: primeiro como um centro de desintoxicação (com verdadeiro acompanhamento médico) para profissionais das artes efetivamente viciados em drogas, mas também como um lugar para as pessoas se "desintoxicarem da arte", do frenesi das galerias e o stresso do mercado. Os pacientes do centro passam dez dias internados nele, praticando pintura, escultura e ginástica longe do ambiente pesado e viciante das galerias e do mercado de arte. A idéia é curar estas pessoas do stress, do pensamento estreito do mercado de arte, e reconectá-las com a arte em seu propósito mais puro: o fazer pela diversão e expressão, não para o mercado. Dizem que, curando esses desvios de propósito, a iniciativa já conseguiu prover alívio para críticos alcoólatras, artistas cocainômanos e outros males do espírito associados ao stress da carreira e que só têm um objetivo: produzir e vender mais e MAIS.
Detalhe: nada do que foi feito durante o tratamente deve ser exposto. Óbvio.
A idéia de se "desintoxicar" do mundo da arte me lembra um pouco a iniciativa do Joseph Beuys que, em determinado ponto de sua vida, decidiu simplesmente "deixar de ser artista". Frequentemente me pergunto se isso é possível. Sair de uma existência que gira em torno da atividade criativa, e onde até caixas de sabão em pó podem ser obras de arte, para voltar a uma existência mundana de pagar as contas sem poesia, pegar objetos sempre utilitários, fazer gestos mais eficientes. Francamente, eu não vejo como. A arte me parece uma espécie de doença rara, difícil de contraír, mas sem cura depois de adquirida.
Mas o fato é que eu estou na primeira fase de uma existência em três atos:
1) Você é nada e faz um esforço hercúleo para adquirir a status de artista. Tudo que você quer é ter seu lugar no mercado.
2) Você existe como artista até o corpo e mente não aguentarem mais a pressão do mercado. Então você começa a fazer um esforço ainda maior para "deixar de ser artista".
3) Você existe como uma pessoa simples e trivial, enquanto o seu nome e o seu trabalho existem em um plano mitológico dissociado de você. Os críticos e colecionadores brigam pela sua arte, mas de forma geral, te deixam mais em paz.
Eu ainda estou mendigando a atenção do mercado...
Um dos membros da banca, o professor Carlos Fajardo, praticamente deu uma aula durante a banca sobre a Brillo Box do Andy Warhol: uma caixa de sabão em pó comum que ganhanva um certo peso como obra de arte pelo simples fato de estar exposta em uma galeria. Apesar do professor concordar com a minha tese, ele defendia ainda que a intenção do artista também tinha peso em definir determinada coisa como arte. Sim, você também pode pregar a sua caixa de Omo na parede e dizer que é arte...
Há algumas semanas, lendo o Arte Conceitual de Paul Wood, soube do trabalho de Robert Morris que, em 1963, vendeu uma obra chamada Litanias a um certo Philip Johnsson, que atrasou o pagamento pela obra. Sabendo da teoria de Donald Judd de que a arte é tudo que o artista diz que é arte, Morris inverteu a estratégia e criou um documento (com firma reconhecida) onde ele escreveu:
O abaixo assinato, Robert Morris, no papel de construtor da estrutura de metal intitulada Litanias, descrita no Objeto Exposto A anexo, por meio desta revoga em relação à referida estrutura qualquer qualidade e conteúdo estéticos e declara que, a partir dessa data, a referida estrutura não tem mais tais qualidades e conteúdo. Datado 15 de Novembro de 1963.
Desta forma, comenta Paul Wood, Morris "inverteu a estratégia dechampiana de conferir um status de arte a objetos originalmente produzidos para outros fins". Ele tirou o status de arte de uma obra.
Há controvérsias. A obra de Morris é tida como conceitual por rir e debochar dessa frase do Donald Judd. Afinal, ao tentar "desvalorizar" artisticamente a sua obra, ele acabou conferindo-lhe ainda mais valor. Poxa, até eu adoraria ter esse documento e a obra em casa.
Recentemente li na Folha a iniciativa de dois alemães. Benjamin Blanke e Claudia Kapp fundaram uma espécie de centro de desintoxicação de artistas, galeristas e colecionadores em Berlim. Pelo que eu pude compreender, o Hotel Marienbad funcionava de duas formas: primeiro como um centro de desintoxicação (com verdadeiro acompanhamento médico) para profissionais das artes efetivamente viciados em drogas, mas também como um lugar para as pessoas se "desintoxicarem da arte", do frenesi das galerias e o stresso do mercado. Os pacientes do centro passam dez dias internados nele, praticando pintura, escultura e ginástica longe do ambiente pesado e viciante das galerias e do mercado de arte. A idéia é curar estas pessoas do stress, do pensamento estreito do mercado de arte, e reconectá-las com a arte em seu propósito mais puro: o fazer pela diversão e expressão, não para o mercado. Dizem que, curando esses desvios de propósito, a iniciativa já conseguiu prover alívio para críticos alcoólatras, artistas cocainômanos e outros males do espírito associados ao stress da carreira e que só têm um objetivo: produzir e vender mais e MAIS.
Detalhe: nada do que foi feito durante o tratamente deve ser exposto. Óbvio.
A idéia de se "desintoxicar" do mundo da arte me lembra um pouco a iniciativa do Joseph Beuys que, em determinado ponto de sua vida, decidiu simplesmente "deixar de ser artista". Frequentemente me pergunto se isso é possível. Sair de uma existência que gira em torno da atividade criativa, e onde até caixas de sabão em pó podem ser obras de arte, para voltar a uma existência mundana de pagar as contas sem poesia, pegar objetos sempre utilitários, fazer gestos mais eficientes. Francamente, eu não vejo como. A arte me parece uma espécie de doença rara, difícil de contraír, mas sem cura depois de adquirida.
Mas o fato é que eu estou na primeira fase de uma existência em três atos:
1) Você é nada e faz um esforço hercúleo para adquirir a status de artista. Tudo que você quer é ter seu lugar no mercado.
2) Você existe como artista até o corpo e mente não aguentarem mais a pressão do mercado. Então você começa a fazer um esforço ainda maior para "deixar de ser artista".
3) Você existe como uma pessoa simples e trivial, enquanto o seu nome e o seu trabalho existem em um plano mitológico dissociado de você. Os críticos e colecionadores brigam pela sua arte, mas de forma geral, te deixam mais em paz.
Eu ainda estou mendigando a atenção do mercado...
sexta-feira, junho 04, 2010
Dream [nightmare, actually...]
I love dreams about flying. I love the sensation I get of just rising into the air out of my own will.
In this dream, I vaguely remember a launch somewhere. Like a rocket or jet plane launch. But somewhere along the way, I lost the plane and was flying through the air by myself. Above the clouds, in the direction of a tiny pale moon on the horizon. I wasn't actually alone: Lexy was flying with me. We were going east, over the ocean, towards Africa. Angola, to be precise. For some reason, we had decided we were going to get out friend BBK out of the country and bring him home.
On the air, we debated whether we should head to Africa, or if he would be in Europe by then. But from the schedule he had given us, we decided he was still in Angola. We descended slowly, as the sea ended and gave way to a sandy shore. It had dawned by then, as we flew under the cover of some trees and then upward, carefully dodging electrical power cables. Lexy landed on what seemed to be a freeway, and I told her to stay there for a minute while I ascended to get a better view of the landscape from above. I could see small houses everywhere, and a place with tall buildings I decided was the commercial district. 'That's where he is', I thought. I landed next to Lexy, giving my first actual steps on this dream. From here on, we seemed to forget how to fly for the rest of the dream, since we never used the ability again, even when in trouble.
It seemed the freeway was actually the runnway of a small airport. I pointed the way, and we left on foot. She wore shoes, but I was barefooted. And I regreted not bringing any shoes when the asphalt gave way to a dirt road littered with shards of glass. I walked among them, and never once stepped on a shard, but I felt I wasn't walking with ease.
As people began to appear, I remembered BBK telling me that in Africa, we were the racial minority, the one people shunned. I told Lexy to be aware of that, to bare it as well as she could and not to provoke anyone. The people in my dream's Angola weren't exactly black. They were tanned, like the denizens of Caribbean coastal towns. Still, Lexy's fair skin was strikingly different, and people couldn't help but stare at her. I could feel the tension rise as we made our way through the locals. She pretended to speak to me in a foreign language and I told her not to bother: they wouldn't understand Portuguese.
At a point in the road, we came accross a group of young teenagers playing on the street. When a young girl in the group saw us walking with an arm around each other's waist, she came close, put her arm around Lexy's waist and playfully pretended we were a trio instead of a couple. I felt some of that was mockery: she was making fun of the white couple somehow. I whispered to Lexy to play along and not show any sign of discomfort. Until one of the boys, probably a jealous brother or boyfriend, yanked the girl from us and threw her to the ground, grumbling something about how he'd show her what a real man was, as he unbuttoned his pants.
I told Lexy to keep walking and don't look back. But as I glanced over my shoulder, I could see the girl alone back there. The boy had vanished. I gently pushed Lexy away from me and told her to get ready. I bent my legs in an attack stance and waited. He would come. From somewhere.
A second later I saw him, coming from the trees on the side of the road, stark-naked and with a small sharp piece of metal in his fingers. With a quick move, I took him down and disarmed him, but he wouldn't give up. He threw rocks at me and tried to get his cutting tool back. When I could finally hold him down, I started reasoning with him. I could see he didn't want to kill me, but for some cultural reason like honour, he had to. It took much bargaining, pleading to him, telling him to think of the girl and what this would do to their relationship. We spoke in English, but he addressed the girl in a strange form of French I couldn't understand. In the end, he let us go.
As the sun was setting again, we still walked the dirt roads. We came upon a police station on the side of the road and I decided we would be safer with the authorities. Walking at night after what had happened was out of the question.
The officer at the station was a fat, bald, Indian-looking guy with a mustache. He welcomed us in as I asked him in English where the airport was (as if we weren't trying to go to the commercial district anymore). But the combined confusion of his accent, his strangely grave tone of voice and his inability to give coherent directions in English made his answers incomprehensible. We were lost and hopeless.
I decided we would wait for the dawn before walking any further. But Lexy was beginning to get impatient, as she would in these situations. She sat on one of the plastic chairs in the station and told me she was thirsty. As I promptly reached for a glass in the makeshift kitchen the officer had in there and started pouring water from a jug in the corner, he told us he had a last bottle of cold water somewhere. It hit me rather too late, after I had taken a first sip of water, that we were in Africa: rumor had it that non-bottled water there would make you sick. I threw the rest of the water away before Lexy could reach for it, all the while thinking I had drunk from it and would certainly fall ill in a few hours. As the officer gave her what little water he had left, I sat next to her and pressed her against me. How had I dragged her into all this? What was I thinking? I wouldn't mind doing this alone, but bringing her was just too irresponsible.
Waking up was a great relief. I suppose it's one of the best parts of having nightmares: the relief of reality.
Later I would think about the references that brought me this dream. BBK is indeed stationed in Angola for a few months, and we've heard of local unrest out there. The rest of the dream bears such prejudiced notions of what Africa is, that I feel ashamed of myself. Starting with the location of Angola: we were flying closer to Sierra Leone or Guinnea-Bissau. The official language there is Portuguese due to their colonization, and people have a fairly darker skin than Caribbean denizens. As for the racial issues and violence, I have no information about that.
But I suppose, in a way, the dream was actually more about London. Strange, isn't it? As things stand, I will probably land on my beloved city in October 1st, for the one-year MA course. Lexy is making plans to come and visit me in November, during my birthday. And I know I'm mixing into the dream the complete failure that was Tink's visit back in 2006: I had been stressed and disorganized and wasn't able to host her propperly. She had been so scared out there. I somehow feel it put a definitive end to our relationship. The dream shows me I'm affraid it will happen with Lexy as well.
I was actually thinking the night before about useful sentences Lexy could master before going. She does speak English, and faily well, but she lacks confidence to just go ahead and start a conversation with the brits. And one of the things I though of was, if she got lost, she could ask people how to get to the airport and I would meet her there. Sort of like I asked the officer in the dream. It's not a very practical strategy, since the airport is way out of town, and I gave up on that idea, but it remained in the dream.
In this dream, I vaguely remember a launch somewhere. Like a rocket or jet plane launch. But somewhere along the way, I lost the plane and was flying through the air by myself. Above the clouds, in the direction of a tiny pale moon on the horizon. I wasn't actually alone: Lexy was flying with me. We were going east, over the ocean, towards Africa. Angola, to be precise. For some reason, we had decided we were going to get out friend BBK out of the country and bring him home.
On the air, we debated whether we should head to Africa, or if he would be in Europe by then. But from the schedule he had given us, we decided he was still in Angola. We descended slowly, as the sea ended and gave way to a sandy shore. It had dawned by then, as we flew under the cover of some trees and then upward, carefully dodging electrical power cables. Lexy landed on what seemed to be a freeway, and I told her to stay there for a minute while I ascended to get a better view of the landscape from above. I could see small houses everywhere, and a place with tall buildings I decided was the commercial district. 'That's where he is', I thought. I landed next to Lexy, giving my first actual steps on this dream. From here on, we seemed to forget how to fly for the rest of the dream, since we never used the ability again, even when in trouble.
It seemed the freeway was actually the runnway of a small airport. I pointed the way, and we left on foot. She wore shoes, but I was barefooted. And I regreted not bringing any shoes when the asphalt gave way to a dirt road littered with shards of glass. I walked among them, and never once stepped on a shard, but I felt I wasn't walking with ease.
As people began to appear, I remembered BBK telling me that in Africa, we were the racial minority, the one people shunned. I told Lexy to be aware of that, to bare it as well as she could and not to provoke anyone. The people in my dream's Angola weren't exactly black. They were tanned, like the denizens of Caribbean coastal towns. Still, Lexy's fair skin was strikingly different, and people couldn't help but stare at her. I could feel the tension rise as we made our way through the locals. She pretended to speak to me in a foreign language and I told her not to bother: they wouldn't understand Portuguese.
At a point in the road, we came accross a group of young teenagers playing on the street. When a young girl in the group saw us walking with an arm around each other's waist, she came close, put her arm around Lexy's waist and playfully pretended we were a trio instead of a couple. I felt some of that was mockery: she was making fun of the white couple somehow. I whispered to Lexy to play along and not show any sign of discomfort. Until one of the boys, probably a jealous brother or boyfriend, yanked the girl from us and threw her to the ground, grumbling something about how he'd show her what a real man was, as he unbuttoned his pants.
I told Lexy to keep walking and don't look back. But as I glanced over my shoulder, I could see the girl alone back there. The boy had vanished. I gently pushed Lexy away from me and told her to get ready. I bent my legs in an attack stance and waited. He would come. From somewhere.
A second later I saw him, coming from the trees on the side of the road, stark-naked and with a small sharp piece of metal in his fingers. With a quick move, I took him down and disarmed him, but he wouldn't give up. He threw rocks at me and tried to get his cutting tool back. When I could finally hold him down, I started reasoning with him. I could see he didn't want to kill me, but for some cultural reason like honour, he had to. It took much bargaining, pleading to him, telling him to think of the girl and what this would do to their relationship. We spoke in English, but he addressed the girl in a strange form of French I couldn't understand. In the end, he let us go.
As the sun was setting again, we still walked the dirt roads. We came upon a police station on the side of the road and I decided we would be safer with the authorities. Walking at night after what had happened was out of the question.
The officer at the station was a fat, bald, Indian-looking guy with a mustache. He welcomed us in as I asked him in English where the airport was (as if we weren't trying to go to the commercial district anymore). But the combined confusion of his accent, his strangely grave tone of voice and his inability to give coherent directions in English made his answers incomprehensible. We were lost and hopeless.
I decided we would wait for the dawn before walking any further. But Lexy was beginning to get impatient, as she would in these situations. She sat on one of the plastic chairs in the station and told me she was thirsty. As I promptly reached for a glass in the makeshift kitchen the officer had in there and started pouring water from a jug in the corner, he told us he had a last bottle of cold water somewhere. It hit me rather too late, after I had taken a first sip of water, that we were in Africa: rumor had it that non-bottled water there would make you sick. I threw the rest of the water away before Lexy could reach for it, all the while thinking I had drunk from it and would certainly fall ill in a few hours. As the officer gave her what little water he had left, I sat next to her and pressed her against me. How had I dragged her into all this? What was I thinking? I wouldn't mind doing this alone, but bringing her was just too irresponsible.
Waking up was a great relief. I suppose it's one of the best parts of having nightmares: the relief of reality.
Later I would think about the references that brought me this dream. BBK is indeed stationed in Angola for a few months, and we've heard of local unrest out there. The rest of the dream bears such prejudiced notions of what Africa is, that I feel ashamed of myself. Starting with the location of Angola: we were flying closer to Sierra Leone or Guinnea-Bissau. The official language there is Portuguese due to their colonization, and people have a fairly darker skin than Caribbean denizens. As for the racial issues and violence, I have no information about that.
But I suppose, in a way, the dream was actually more about London. Strange, isn't it? As things stand, I will probably land on my beloved city in October 1st, for the one-year MA course. Lexy is making plans to come and visit me in November, during my birthday. And I know I'm mixing into the dream the complete failure that was Tink's visit back in 2006: I had been stressed and disorganized and wasn't able to host her propperly. She had been so scared out there. I somehow feel it put a definitive end to our relationship. The dream shows me I'm affraid it will happen with Lexy as well.
I was actually thinking the night before about useful sentences Lexy could master before going. She does speak English, and faily well, but she lacks confidence to just go ahead and start a conversation with the brits. And one of the things I though of was, if she got lost, she could ask people how to get to the airport and I would meet her there. Sort of like I asked the officer in the dream. It's not a very practical strategy, since the airport is way out of town, and I gave up on that idea, but it remained in the dream.
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