Before getting into bed, removing her from the danger of living she had crossed love and its hell.
"What happened?" she cried out loud.
But life made her shiver...like the cold of the winter. She's now always constant and distant. Her small hands near her pathetic face, with an expression of exhaustion.
"I don't want anything ever to happen to you" he said.
She can't prevent the feeling of sadness. She remained in his arms. The afternoon passed by and she remained untouched. She remained in bed with the sound of the rain by her window amusing her tranquil monotony. In the house everything struck a tragicomic note. She's being intensively submitted to the challenge of love. And it's not her capacity of loving, but her capacity of not being loved that had exploded. Without any word for the moment in her heart, her compassion had spent itself, she had blessed the day, the night and the day that follows....with a prayer.
Humiliated, she knew that the blind man had preferred a poorer love. And, trembling, she also knew why. But she loved the blind man.
Her expressionless led to a newer feeling. Of not belonging there. Of horror. All around there was a silent..insistent life that she no longer proclaimed. The life that she no longer desired.
Being sad was easier. She possessed the missing butterflies, the cold, the ego that brakes and nothing else mattered. Later, when he left her...she laughed. Between her tiny hands...looking at the mirror, she experienced love.
"it's nothing" she said
She blew out that day's tiny flame and it was too late.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Portrait of Time
- "I can't help it"
"I don't really know yet" - she said.
"I miss you".
I feel nostalgic. It may not be a good time to feel it either. This is with no doubt the weirdest mood I've ever had. I lost sense of time. Of past, present and future. I left my paintings on the side to dedicate my time on the fashion business. It's painful. It's sad. I should make time for it. Forget to sleep and just make time for it.
I had a conversation with Bella the other day about time. How much longer time will take me away. She said she didn't know. I said I didn't either. We have no control of time. All I know is that old people talk about the past. Young people talk about the future. But sometimes the future is just the immediate future. But what's that anyway?. What does time mean? We can no longer really know what time it is because we're caught in between many layers of future, present and past. In a continuous and perpetual loop.
I never knew how to portrait time. It seems to me that we can never really understand it. You have an appointment at 2pm. You know that is something that's fixed, in some sense, but we don't really have an idea of that time itself.
That brings my passion for photographs. A photo is always of a moment that no longer exists, and at the same time, that moment continues to exist...eternally. Art, on the other hand, is a moment inside ourselves. That exists eternally. And continues to exist and surround us eternally in our canvas. Wall. Body. Soul. That's the only difference of time that I've found..and know of. Time inside our chaotic minds and time of the world outside. They never harmonize. But if you can live in harmony with both times...if you believe you can...you should do it.
Perhaps, but if anyone's smart enough to pull it off, it's not me.
"I don't really know yet" - she said.
"I miss you".
I feel nostalgic. It may not be a good time to feel it either. This is with no doubt the weirdest mood I've ever had. I lost sense of time. Of past, present and future. I left my paintings on the side to dedicate my time on the fashion business. It's painful. It's sad. I should make time for it. Forget to sleep and just make time for it.
I had a conversation with Bella the other day about time. How much longer time will take me away. She said she didn't know. I said I didn't either. We have no control of time. All I know is that old people talk about the past. Young people talk about the future. But sometimes the future is just the immediate future. But what's that anyway?. What does time mean? We can no longer really know what time it is because we're caught in between many layers of future, present and past. In a continuous and perpetual loop.
I never knew how to portrait time. It seems to me that we can never really understand it. You have an appointment at 2pm. You know that is something that's fixed, in some sense, but we don't really have an idea of that time itself.
That brings my passion for photographs. A photo is always of a moment that no longer exists, and at the same time, that moment continues to exist...eternally. Art, on the other hand, is a moment inside ourselves. That exists eternally. And continues to exist and surround us eternally in our canvas. Wall. Body. Soul. That's the only difference of time that I've found..and know of. Time inside our chaotic minds and time of the world outside. They never harmonize. But if you can live in harmony with both times...if you believe you can...you should do it.
Perhaps, but if anyone's smart enough to pull it off, it's not me.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Humans and Fantasmas
"Where would she learn to hate so as to die of love?"
I wanted to write about humanity. And I know I'm not a scholar or any sort of philosopher freak. But hey, I am a freak. I may confuse myself even more than usual, I may confuse you reader, or confuse all at once. Suddenly conscious of an absolute freedom, my character here present is unable either to ignore or to transcend this condition.
Memory and Family are the central themes of humanity. Or at least they should be. Even then, they remain selective, incomplete, and around major passages - birth, death, marriage. And other transitional moments. The artist infuses its work with the same human passages. And it's all in one. One piece.
Being raised catholic by the parents I devote my eternal love has changed a lot of my "character" along the latest years - I would say "non-chatolic" (according to my old church's doctrines). My non-troubled period of adolescence (a short adolescence) has brought me to a state of troubled maturity. I can't decide either to be a 22 years old normal young girl or become the super-strong woman I've been trying to reach. I found a conflict between my interior and external world (perhaps if I could at least get drunk when this conflicts appear, but here's something you should know...I cannot get drunk like a normal human being. I can't afford a liquor store).
My vision of humanity and reality gives me identity and need to speak of that which obliges us to be silent. But I'm just a Brazilian girl that hardly understands her own country...that even worse understands America. That cannot understand democracy. That cannot understand her own failures.
I learned that human condition is limited and the narrow divides us between success and failure, the mental and physical by which we struggle toward reality (reality is not always how it seems)...and our vulnerable states. Honestly, I was revealed with a terrible freakness: our insatiable hunger to possess and to be possessed. And it's all behind our masks. That society obliges us to wear. Society.... a blind man has drawn me to the worst. What makes me happy is that I'm with people that were drowned with me. Drowned to the world where right and wrong no longer matters. And if it does, who cares?. We're humans, with failures...a lot of failures, but one thing we can do right to succeed. Never allow ourselves to be tempted by perfection. Know how to accept, how to resign itself, how to ask pardon, how to pardon, and how to love, love, love.
Most people accept religion as the savior, or the solution for all our problems. Religion is the place to find peace and be closer to our spiritual needs. It's not savior. There's no savior. There's life and death, good and bad, like good songs and bad songs. It's like searching in the blindness of its hunger for it's mother's breast. We don't know what's after death...maybe it's just death...maybe spiritual life, maybe life. We don't know anything. How can they be so sure? How can the Islam say that Allah is telling them to hate westerners? No, Islam is lost in their own beliefs. But they're also alone in all this. Cause we ("westerners") all we do is say they're wrong. We're not right. That's for sure. They're not either. So who's right? Who's good and who's bad? We're all good, and we're all bad....we're humans. And as humans, we choose. We choose to live our lives according to our beliefs. We choose to fail. We choose to succeed. We choose to take off our masks. We choose to accept. We choose to possess.
As long as humanity exists, problems will exist, war, good and bad, suffering, poverty, injustice, memories.
It was always like this, not worse nor better....the same humanity failures and success. So, we should just stop asking why and accept our choices.
a.m.a.
I wanted to write about humanity. And I know I'm not a scholar or any sort of philosopher freak. But hey, I am a freak. I may confuse myself even more than usual, I may confuse you reader, or confuse all at once. Suddenly conscious of an absolute freedom, my character here present is unable either to ignore or to transcend this condition.
Memory and Family are the central themes of humanity. Or at least they should be. Even then, they remain selective, incomplete, and around major passages - birth, death, marriage. And other transitional moments. The artist infuses its work with the same human passages. And it's all in one. One piece.
Being raised catholic by the parents I devote my eternal love has changed a lot of my "character" along the latest years - I would say "non-chatolic" (according to my old church's doctrines). My non-troubled period of adolescence (a short adolescence) has brought me to a state of troubled maturity. I can't decide either to be a 22 years old normal young girl or become the super-strong woman I've been trying to reach. I found a conflict between my interior and external world (perhaps if I could at least get drunk when this conflicts appear, but here's something you should know...I cannot get drunk like a normal human being. I can't afford a liquor store).
My vision of humanity and reality gives me identity and need to speak of that which obliges us to be silent. But I'm just a Brazilian girl that hardly understands her own country...that even worse understands America. That cannot understand democracy. That cannot understand her own failures.
I learned that human condition is limited and the narrow divides us between success and failure, the mental and physical by which we struggle toward reality (reality is not always how it seems)...and our vulnerable states. Honestly, I was revealed with a terrible freakness: our insatiable hunger to possess and to be possessed. And it's all behind our masks. That society obliges us to wear. Society.... a blind man has drawn me to the worst. What makes me happy is that I'm with people that were drowned with me. Drowned to the world where right and wrong no longer matters. And if it does, who cares?. We're humans, with failures...a lot of failures, but one thing we can do right to succeed. Never allow ourselves to be tempted by perfection. Know how to accept, how to resign itself, how to ask pardon, how to pardon, and how to love, love, love.
Most people accept religion as the savior, or the solution for all our problems. Religion is the place to find peace and be closer to our spiritual needs. It's not savior. There's no savior. There's life and death, good and bad, like good songs and bad songs. It's like searching in the blindness of its hunger for it's mother's breast. We don't know what's after death...maybe it's just death...maybe spiritual life, maybe life. We don't know anything. How can they be so sure? How can the Islam say that Allah is telling them to hate westerners? No, Islam is lost in their own beliefs. But they're also alone in all this. Cause we ("westerners") all we do is say they're wrong. We're not right. That's for sure. They're not either. So who's right? Who's good and who's bad? We're all good, and we're all bad....we're humans. And as humans, we choose. We choose to live our lives according to our beliefs. We choose to fail. We choose to succeed. We choose to take off our masks. We choose to accept. We choose to possess.
As long as humanity exists, problems will exist, war, good and bad, suffering, poverty, injustice, memories.
It was always like this, not worse nor better....the same humanity failures and success. So, we should just stop asking why and accept our choices.
a.m.a.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Letter to Bella XIV - Heroism
Hi my dear,
First of all, I’ve been admitted. In the fashionland of my mocking dreams...I’ve been admitted. If we take into account that I’m a foreigner, that I started the course early, that I had no connections at all...we can be satisfied. But does not mean much, cause now it’s the most rigorous part. I feel like I’ve been working my butt off for the past two years but now I’ll need two more butts to work it off. I became more aware of the process when I began my research and if I wasn’t sure about my passion and acknowledge of all this I’d have given up. I have several reasons however to be very happy with the results.
Thanks again for your post card from Buenos Aires, just recently I wrote a text about Argentine artist Guillermo Kuitca, I was impressed by his work, an insistent denunciation of any political implications, families trees of all sorts and maps...yes painted maps. It’s quite amusing.
Anyway, I miss you a lot. I want you to play me some Mazzaropi’s tales. Which, sometimes I think I feel the same path on my tale. Bright isolation. Temperament is also my worst temptation. A weakness. You can well remember. The bad side of my heroic moments. And remember when I fell at the stairs when I was 5? Well, I did it again. But this time wasn’t my foot...was my back that felt ill. I need a new one. I might need a butt too. I forced myself in my heroism to try to understand and be strong. I wish I had become a superhuman. But at this point it’s impossible to remove myself from the danger living. So I’ll laugh at everything, just like you...yourself can do better than me, with warmth and humanity.
The Summer is next... that means some sun to warm this expressionless’s faces in Gringolandia. And to my legs, that oh Bella...I’m horrified. The only bad side of Summer time is sweat trickling between our breasts. And the heat burning our eyes. And Boston will burn heroic sweats of work.
What is heroism for you Bella?! I can’t stop thinking about it. Because after all this time, I feel like my parents want me to be some sort of heroic representation of a Brazilian chick. Write me. Tell me. I know you understand them better than myself. Because right now all I want is that each day should smoothly succeed the previous one, And a Blind man chewing gum destroying all this.much lov for my chica.
First of all, I’ve been admitted. In the fashionland of my mocking dreams...I’ve been admitted. If we take into account that I’m a foreigner, that I started the course early, that I had no connections at all...we can be satisfied. But does not mean much, cause now it’s the most rigorous part. I feel like I’ve been working my butt off for the past two years but now I’ll need two more butts to work it off. I became more aware of the process when I began my research and if I wasn’t sure about my passion and acknowledge of all this I’d have given up. I have several reasons however to be very happy with the results.
Thanks again for your post card from Buenos Aires, just recently I wrote a text about Argentine artist Guillermo Kuitca, I was impressed by his work, an insistent denunciation of any political implications, families trees of all sorts and maps...yes painted maps. It’s quite amusing.
Anyway, I miss you a lot. I want you to play me some Mazzaropi’s tales. Which, sometimes I think I feel the same path on my tale. Bright isolation. Temperament is also my worst temptation. A weakness. You can well remember. The bad side of my heroic moments. And remember when I fell at the stairs when I was 5? Well, I did it again. But this time wasn’t my foot...was my back that felt ill. I need a new one. I might need a butt too. I forced myself in my heroism to try to understand and be strong. I wish I had become a superhuman. But at this point it’s impossible to remove myself from the danger living. So I’ll laugh at everything, just like you...yourself can do better than me, with warmth and humanity.
The Summer is next... that means some sun to warm this expressionless’s faces in Gringolandia. And to my legs, that oh Bella...I’m horrified. The only bad side of Summer time is sweat trickling between our breasts. And the heat burning our eyes. And Boston will burn heroic sweats of work.
What is heroism for you Bella?! I can’t stop thinking about it. Because after all this time, I feel like my parents want me to be some sort of heroic representation of a Brazilian chick. Write me. Tell me. I know you understand them better than myself. Because right now all I want is that each day should smoothly succeed the previous one, And a Blind man chewing gum destroying all this.much lov for my chica.
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