Chronicles of the onion flavour

supermodernism can be fun

2010-04-27T04:02:00.000-07:00

Lately, I have been working a lot. That is the reason why it seems this blog got stuck. But apparently, among the endless working hours, I find interesting things.

I found this comic when I was writing a small paper on the legacy of Supermodernism in Urbanism. Sterile? Do not tell me about it. But, surprisingly enough, there are people who can change almost surreal theoretical subjects into interesting and accessible information.

By the way, I cannot find its author. If anyone knows, please let me know!

2010-03-18T11:07:00.000-07:00

2010-03-18T06:14:00.000-07:00

Via 365blanc

2010-03-17T08:19:00.000-07:00

Your recently acquired fame precedes you. You are young and full of energy, more than you usually need. You appear on stage all dressed in silky white, wearing neither shoes, nor underwear. When you sing, you place yourself against the warm stage lights and your silhouette is redesigned under your clothes. Wind machines gradually loosen your hair, to the point it looks like dancing fire.

You brought your friends with you, whose names I cannot recall, except for Isabella, with her high heels, and Tom, with his magic harp. Together you slightly enchant the audience. We pounce on your loud and slurred rock, and cradle with your melancholic and absent ballads. You request our claps frequently and smile when we scream for your name. You like to be spoiled.

After a while you realize you are not acquainted with the scenario, so you gently ask us to come closer to the stage, in a warm embrace. But you do not allow us to touch you; music is the only connection available.

You smile, once again, as we sigh with your smell of fresh roses. You sing, you scream, you cry, you play, you run, and you dance. And then you go, after a sheepishly thank. You are the ultimate beauty, and that destroys me.

2010-03-17T06:41:00.000-07:00

Cabedelo Beach
Photos taken by TTC

2010-03-17T06:11:00.000-07:00

Florence and the Machine - Lungs

Cosmic Love

2010-03-12T08:58:00.000-08:00

There she was, nervous like when she just a little girl. Of course she was nervous; she hadn’t seen him in fifty years. His family had moved to her neighborhood when they were about fifteen years old and, from the moment she saw him, with his blond curly hair and his dark blue eyes, she knew what love was. At first he didn’t seem to notice her; in fact it was like if she was invisible. All he cared about was hanging out with the boys. Not until she turned eighteen, and her body developed turning her into a beautiful young woman, did he look at her. Yes, she had been beautiful once. But now she was old, with wrinkles all over her face, hiding her dark brown eyes.

There was a time when he fell in love for her. First he asked her to take her home from school and then he started carrying her bags. Eventually, he wrote her love letters. Everything was new, everything so magic.

But her older brothers noticed them and told her parents, and they forbade her from seeing him without further explanation. He was simply not good for her. She did not understand that and, what had been magical became secret. For the first time, she lied to her parents, which she did not regret, not even for a moment. He was the first boy ever to touch her, to kiss her, to hold her. Their love was intense yet quiet, strong yet smooth. Sometimes they went for a walk in the woods and they would talk for hours; other times conversation was not needed, as higher matters would arise.

Then, one day, his entirely family moved away. Just like that, without previous notice, without a last kiss, without long last promises of return. ‘They were bloody communists’, she listened her father saying. What were communists, daddy? ‘There is no need for you to know it. They are not good people, they are evil.’ But how could her lover, that gentle boy, be evil? That made no sense. She was grounded, when her parents discovered she had been lying. She was grounded for weeks, no months, but she did not mind. She cried, she cried a lot, but in silence. Her father would not let her suffer inside the house.

She did not know where he had gone. He had just vanished from the surface of the earth, so she started writing him letters. At first, she asked him for answers. Who was he? Who were they? Where did he go? What was communism? Then, as she grew up, she started to understand all those reasons. But there was one thing she did not understand: what did love had to do with such matters? She sent all the letters without a destination. The old post man always asked the same question, but she simply did not know the answer. She just had to send them; they were too heavy, and too dangerous, for her to keep them.

A few years later, she married a man who had business affairs with his father. Her parents thought it would be the best way for her to forget the despicable rat. She married a strong and very nice man, who treated her in the best way he could. He was a competent lover, and a loving father of four children: three boys and one girl. One of the boys died of tuberculosis when he was a child, and the rest of the children grew up.

They also got married with nice people and professional reasons made them change to other cities. The all family would get together for Christmas and, sometimes, summer vacations. The boys were loyal children, and turned out to be honest men. Real problems came when the girl grew up.

The girl considered herself to be an artist, and an artist could not develop her artistic skills among a wealthy middle class family. Her husband was shocked with those ideas and locked their daughter inside her room. So, she ran away. After several months, and one of the biggest police investigations in that region, they received a letter from her daughter saying that she was fascinated with communism, and that her intention was not to hurt them; she just had to live her life. And that was the last time they heard from her. Her husband did never recover from that loss. She was not family anymore and he forbade them to even mention the very existence of that ungrateful girl.

With her children abroad she started feeling very lonely in that old big house. Her husband was always working, but she knew what he was actually doing, perhaps with a younger, more beautiful woman. In the beginning, she suspected his secretary, but then, she realized he had several women following him. Yes, he was a handsome and successful middle aged man. She could easily understand his power over younger, ambitious women. But she was surprised when she was not jealous, not even sad. In fact, knowing it was a relief.

Not long ago her husband died. It was a heart stroke, and the doctors told her he did not feel any pain. He had died when he was leaving the house of a girl, with whom he had a professional meeting. Or so, that was what she was told. Was this man so powerful, that he even controlled the police? That did not matter. He was dead, and, for the first time in fifty years, she was free. And that made her afraid. What would she do with that unexpected freedom? She did have neither children nor grandchildren to take care of. She did not have friends, because her husband did not like her to leave home, except at Sundays, for Mass and an occasional tea at the Cafe Central.

(…)

On a winter rainy morning, several months after her husband’s death, she received a letter. ‘For you’ was the only written thing on the envelope. Reluctantly, she opened it and started reading. As she realized who the writer was, her heart beat faster, to the point she almost fainted. Her eyes became wet and her mouth very dry. Was he still alive? Yes, he was. Apparently, his family had been persecuted and, eventually, migrated. He was called for battle but he did not want to write about it. He was the father of two boys. There was not even one word about her wife. Was he married, or was he a widower like her? The letter ended with sincere condolences for the death of her husband, but how did he know? In a brief post scriptum he invited her for a coffee. If she were in agreement, then would meet precisely one month later at the Cafe Central, at 11 o’clock am.

Of course she wanted to see him. What would he look like, after all these years? Had time been pleasant with him, or had it been dreadful, like it had happened with her? Who was this young boy turned into an old man? After all these years could they be, once again, the young lovers they once had been?

(…)

One month after, she put on her best dress, a pair of pearl earrings from her mother and a black purse, almost empty. She looked tired, as she had not been sleeping for a month, so she was wearing subtle make-up.

She left the house, and calmly headed towards the place he had told her. She was forcing herself not to run, but she was anxious just like a passionate woman that is about to rediscover her sweetheart. She confirmed twice that the letter was in the purse. It had been at her bedside during all that time, and it had been read dozens, perhaps hundreds of times. She memorized the letter, its smell, his handwriting, and even the paper weight. She knew the verbs he used, the adjectives he preferred, and the sweet way he used to address her.

She entered the Cafe, sat in the corner table and asked for a green tea with herbs. She avoided the central tables, where she used to sit with her husband. He liked to be seen, to be the center and to tell jokes to all his friends, but she preferred to be discrete. Today she did not want to be seen, actually. She was feeling guilty, more like a guilty pleasure, like when she was forbid to date him.

After a couple of minutes a man passed through the heavy wooden door. It was him, she had no doubts. He was taller than she could remember, and stronger. It was him, she could easily see, but at the same time that old man could not be the little boy she was once in love with. She could not remember his face, or his smell.

He looked at her, recognized those dark brown eyes and immediately smiled at her. As he approached her, the anxiety increased. Her body was electric, more than ever, more than she could remember. And it was heavy; she could not move one single finger. She had the feeling that she was glued to that nineteenth century chair.

His voice was deep and the accent different from what it used to be, maybe because of the time he had been in exile. The expression in his eyes was liquid. He spoke in a calm, steady voice, as if he was tired of the world. She was not paying much attention to the words coming out of his wrinkled mouth; she just could not take her eyes out of him. Who was he, whom had he became? Time had treated him kindly, he was so lovely. She had an urgent will to kiss him, to feel his taste, to touch her body even over those heavy winter clothes.

‘I’ve noticed you are drinking tea already’ – he said playfully, just like he used to do when he talked about her hair. ‘I’m afraid I will have to order something as well. Where is that waitress?’ He called her, with his finger in the air, and she noticed his strong arm, full of scars. Perhaps he had been burned, or torn to the bone. She felt an incomprehensible desire to treat him, to give him comfort.

‘Hello miss, I want a glass of whisky, old and strong, just like this old man in front of you.’ He used an even deeper tone in his voice, making him more serious. ‘Oh and another tea like the one this lady is drinking please’. She thanked him, but she did not need another tea; the cup was still full. ‘It is not for you Brigitte, it is for my wife. She is outside, trying to park the car. Since my accident, the doctors say I am not able to drive a car, can you imagine? I wonder if they think I do not please my wife as well. But she insists on fulfilling the promise I made to the doctor, so she is in charge of that old machine now. I feel such a useless old man. She is also from near here, you know?’.

But her mind was thinking too quickly for that, almost exploding in fact. So, he was married. What was she doing there then? What did he want from her? As these questions arose inside her neurotic brain, she felt betrayed, lonely, pulled out of that body, like a soul when it leaves a dead corpse. And, above that, had he brought her wife to meet her? She could not say a word. ‘Has the cat got your tongue? We have not seen each other for fifty years, and now you do not speak?’

A woman entered the Cafe, but the sunlight was hiding her face. Apparently she was much younger than her, maybe blond. She was looking to the other part of the establishment.

‘Where are you looking at? Oh it is my wife! In here, just turn around and come meet this special lady.’

When the woman turned his face towards the voice of her husband, she felt her heart shatter, like a frozen glass thrown into a concrete wall. The woman standing in front of her was his daughter.

2010-03-09T07:45:00.000-08:00

2010-03-09T07:11:00.000-08:00

Creedance Clearwater Revival - Chronicle

Down on the corner

2010-02-15T08:45:00.001-08:00

How magic is the night?

No, really, think about it for one moment. People are well dressed – in fact, they always use their best clothes – and most have good makeup. The light is just perfect, letting us all see only what the night allows. Most of them feel protected by the music, the alcohol and the occasional cigarette break, and usually they seek new experiences that contribute for the common sense of liberty. People go out for a great variety of reasons, but in the end, they always share a common will – to see and let be seen. They experience different night clubs and discos, but there is always the preferred one – where one feels at home, with the right kind of people, the right music and the right drinks.

And what about the urban tribes? There is the popular group, always surrounded by dozens of overwhelmed. There is the flirty group, always seeking new targets. There is the shy group, sitting in the dark and protected by a glass of alcohol, wishing they could only say a few words to the gorgeous person in the bar. There are the lonely runners, proud of their bravery of conquering alone their space. And then, there are the dancers, which never, ever, leave the dance floor.

A few nights ago I went to my own cathedral and, at a certain point during the night, a group of break dancers showed up in the dance floor. Among them, there was a regular boy, with a comfortable and thick wool sweater, dark jeans and a pair of used sneakers, which were once colorful. There was nothing particularly outstanding about him. He was not too tall, nor too gorgeous. He was not famous, nor especially nice. In fact he was not the best break dancer that disco had seen. But there was an unusual intensity in his look, some strange vibrations in his moves, which made people stare at him. The usual circle was created around him, and the disco almost stopped. It was like he was hypnotizing us all, by all the strong moves, the strange movement with his hips, or the amazing pirouettes without any kind of protection.

I didn’t know who that boy was, or how his life was going. I didn’t know what he did for a living, his hobbies or his desires. I didn’t even know if he spoke the same language than I. Was he dancing for himself, was he struggling in a battle that was just too great? Was he wishing to be accepted among his friends, or was he their leader? Was he showing off his dazzling break dance skills, or was he just a shy boy, exorcising his own fears?

I did not get all the answers for these questions. In fact, I didn’t think about these things at that moment. I was just looking at him with both allure and envy, like all the rest, occasionally making some comments about the spontaneous show. During the rest of the night, the boy flirted with two or three absolutely stunning girls, possibly more. Boys wanted to be him, girls wanted to be him, even I wanted to be him. In fact, that was his moment, and he just embraced it. And he was brave, oh yes, he was brave. That boy was missing an arm.

2010-02-09T09:45:00.000-08:00

2010-02-03T10:00:00.000-08:00

Vincent - Tim Burton's first short film (1982)

2010-02-01T09:53:00.000-08:00

Hello, my name is Grover, and I want to live forever. Or, at least, to become a good writer, which is, in fact, pretty much the same thing. I use words to catch the world in one frame, since the beginning of time, my time. Words are my wisdom, my question and my doubt. They are the most sincere way to describe myself, and to discover you. But what do I say when there is not a word to reveal this that I am feeling? How can I refer to the unpronounceable expression I read in your eyes? What does that subtle touch in your lips mean? What can I say when there is nothing to be said? Am I condemned to silence? I began to die since the day I was born. My body is bigger than before, and my eyes more tired than ever. But I know that the word is becoming stronger, sometimes even stronger than me.

2010-01-31T09:36:00.000-08:00

Hamba Nathi - Invictus Soundtrack
Overtone (With Yollandi Nortjie)

2010-01-26T08:55:00.000-08:00

Drawings from the book 'Perpectiva para arquitectos'

2010-01-26T08:51:00.001-08:00

Let there be wolf howls of the size of the Moon,

And the Silent grow in the drops of Shadow

Let the fire fight against the Great Darkness

Let there be Rain for ages,

Making us forget the heat of the Sun

Let there be stones broken from their bedrock,

Dragged into dust by wind and water of the Great River

Ask the disobedient Angel about the feeling of flying,

Or else make bonds with the White Unicorn.

Let the Nymph become a Butterfly,

And let the Butterfly be crushed by the hungry Tiger

Do not say a word to the old Carp in trance

Pass through the Swamps without pulling the roots of Mandrake,

They are the Semen, they are not the food.

Find the endless Lowland filled with nothing but melting Light

Reach the Mountain surrounded by the Emptiness,

And climb it as far as you can see

Find that sacred place where the Time stays still,

And the juicy fruits fall rotten to the ground

There is where I will be

There is where I will build my Empire.

2010-01-25T09:28:00.000-08:00

2010-01-25T09:19:00.000-08:00

That´s what people do. They fall and then, eventually, rise up, with the certainty that they will never fall for that trick again. And that is precisely when the illusion restarts. There is no magic in it, only illusion that may bring us comfort or even happiness, if we really start to believe in it.

There are certain things in life we grab with all our strength, desiring they will never end, wishing they fulfill our hope that forever actually exists. But the strength blinds us, precisely until the moment we realize they are not there anymore. In fact, we then understand they were not there in the first place. Was it a dream, a parallel world, where Alice fights against the Queen of Hearts? Is the pain of the discovery more real than the warm feeling we once had?

Maybe that is what faith it is all about. Maybe it is hope who orchestrates this illusion.

2010-01-25T09:09:00.000-08:00

Concept art by Peter Fischci & David Weiss
Musée d'Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris

2010-01-20T10:34:00.000-08:00

2010-01-19T08:47:00.000-08:00

These soldiers belong to my father since he was a child. They belonged to someone else , whom I cannot recall, and were offered to him when he was old enough to play with these little toys. They are old and full of scars, they have been kept in a shelter for ages, like if they belonged to a museum, but they are precious and have never been forgotten. At a certain point in life everybody wants to be an astronaut, a fireman, or a doctor. And, at a certain point in life, everybody has to fight, has to be a soldier.

2010-01-19T08:42:00.000-08:00

is that point in time that can't be measured
a mystical instant that doesn't really exist in this dimension

Massive Attack Paradise Circus from sabakan on Vimeo.

2010-01-19T08:33:00.001-08:00

I'm writing a small tale for children. I still don't know the title, but it will be about strange birds living in enchanted trees. These are the first sketches I made in my little MUJI notebook.

2010-01-18T10:17:00.000-08:00

In one of these random walks on the beach, I was photographed.

Thank you for these amazing photo, Tânia Espírito Santo.

2010-01-17T12:05:00.001-08:00

2010-01-17T11:54:00.000-08:00

2010-01-14T07:21:00.000-08:00

I may know nothing about photography, and even less about machines and their characteristics. But one thing I do know, and it is about fetishes. I only wish I had this machine.

I present to you the new LEICA M8.

2010-01-14T07:10:00.000-08:00

This wounded bird has reached a depth close to the unbearable, a depth in which is impossible to live. “Do not treat me like garbage”, he asks, without facing the inevitable: no one understands him, and that is the reason why he feels so lonely. “Do not love me for what I am, love me for what I was or else for the trust of what I’m expected to be”, he repeats to those who misjudge him. He does not believe in forever anymore. “Let it be eternal until it lasts” is his new motto, his only weapon to face the unknown. “It is hard to face the unknown, when you cannot find a meaning for the known, the achieved, the lived”, he thinks every night, in that endless moment before he falls asleep, wishing for that epiphany to occur in the short moment just before he wakes up. “Let it be dark until the end, let it be cold until my body freezes”, he asks to his silent, empty soul. “Is it possible to live without having the possibility to love again? Or is love an absolute truth, like the wind, the fire or the earth, which stays still for as long as it is asleep?” , he shouts to the rain that will not stop falling. He walks down the street without a destiny to fulfill, nor even a place to go. He is lost because he no longer seeks the center. His heart is empty, that center is gone. This wounded bird gets rid of his wings. He does not want to fly, he forgot how to go high, and therefore they are useless. Let them lie on the floor, cold and stiff, waiting for his resurrection.

2010-01-13T04:04:00.000-08:00

Those who were acquainted with my grandfather knew he was a hard person to deal with, and that he was even harder to please. He was demanding with himself and with others, and had a temper softened only, perhaps, by my grandmother. But those who knew him even better also recognized in him a person capable of rare moments of sensibility and good sense.

I remember that bench covered with tiles in the magic garden of his house. I remember to sit on his lap and, with him, look at those two trees. A plum tree and a pine tree. We used to sit in that bench very often. Sometimes cold, sometimes enjoying the cool shade of the trees on a hot summer afternoon. And we looked. We looked in the same direction, but we saw different things. Something called age, I happened to learn later. And what we saw changed from time to time. It changed with light, with temperature, with time, and with us. It changed throughout the day, throughout the year and over the years.

Two trees. Shady in summer and winter resistant. One of the trees would undress in winter, the other not. And I did not understand why the deciduous tree, decided to undress precisely when it was cooler. The other would not; she was evergreen, with leaves as needles, thin and stung, though it would lose them eventually, calmly, and throughout the year.

I remember another moment, some years later, when I lived in Berlin and he visited me. Sitting with him at that restaurant table, I felt closeness in the expression of his eyes, even difficult to explain.
Talking of those things in life that, because of their importance, one only talks about them in small, relaxed moments, my grandfather tells me, with that deep, calm voice:

I have never had that “me and my grandfather” kind of relationship, as most certainly did. But I shared important moments with him. Not many, but (or maybe because of that), very good.

2010-01-06T08:36:00.000-08:00

Her mother wanted her to become a doctor. Surgery like her grandfather, or Pediatrics. But her father pushed her to Law School. She could work with him, or fly even higher, and become a judge, a politian, or something else. After all, he thought, a lawyer is the right man for almost every job. In this case, the woman, her daughter. She was the best student in her class in high school, and repeated that success in college, one of the best in the world, or so they said. Whenever she came home, proudly with an A in her hand, her parents thanked cordially, but warned her that she did not fulfilled more than her duty. Her life was one large duty, and she fulfilled it perfectly, like a machine: without a soul, without a feeling, without tasting the winnings, and crying the losses. She had never lost, because one cannot lose if one loves not, one cannot be defeated if one does not participate in the war in the first place, and, eventually, she became one of the best lawyers ever to exist. But, apparently, never too good for her father. She was ruthless, daring and calculating, and she had never been caught off guard. After clearing entries and ruin families, she found Politics, just like her father had dreamt. It was a shiny world, full of people full of themselves, and she thought she truly belonged in that place. She discovered she could speak to the crowd, and that power made her horny. She became really powerful, almost like if she owned the impossible, or if she reached the stars. But what she didn’t realized is that it is impossible to reach the stars without dreaming of them long before. And she never stopped for one minute to answer the question her parents never asked her when they pulled her out of her enchanted world: that what she really wanted was to be a ballerina, like the ones she used to read in fairy tales, long before she knew what the Constitution was.

2009-12-29T11:45:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, she thinks about being a man. She always wanted to be a boy, but no one asked her about her desires. She tries to hide her perfect breasts, but it is very hard. It’s hard to hide who you really are. She thinks about her blond and curly hair. Maybe she will shave it, just like boys do, when they go to the army. Her mother taught her how to make up, which she does perfectly. Her soft skin disturbs her, when she thinks about those big, dry, rough hands of her father, back to the times when they lived in the farm. She loved that harsh man, though he was not her real father. She usually stared at him for hours, watching him cut firewood. She followed him to the barn, and helped him take care of the animals. Two cows, three sheep and a white horse called Starlight. She waited for the big man, as he washed his sweaty body, filled with strong muscles. His arms were darker than the rest of the hairy body. Usually he spoke very rarely, preferring the silence, and she accepted it. But sometimes, when the day had been good, he would look at her, a small girl, happy as the free wind, with a strange, yet intense look. Some years before, her mother had fallen from the old well by the river, and her spine had broken like a dead leaf when it is bruised. Since then, she had spent all her days in bed, like a forgotten vegetable, till it rots. She was a rotten woman. So, when the man looked at her, he would see a poor girl, similar to her rotten mother. The hair was similar, so were the eyes and the mouth. Even the voice reminded him of her. He was getting old, but still felt the strength in that forbidden zone, below the navel. And there she was: always curious, always smiling, and always happy. He was kind to her, like a father cares about a daughter. She didn’t know that his warm body against her had a name. She didn’t know that his male breath, a mixture of grass and chewing tobacco, was forbidden. She didn’t know that there were names for all those things he taught her, for the world she discovered in him. Not until someone saw them, and called him a rapist. Not until her neighbors called her witch, and accused her of enchant that poor man. Not until the policemen took her, and that old judge forced her to live in an orphanage, as if she were alone in the world. The old nuns accused her of witchcraft and wanted to purify her. They beat her with strong wooden sticks, leaving scars of the size of snakes. They said that girls should not show up like that, that women are sin. All that she wanted was to be a boy, free like those boys which swan naked in the river, on those hot summer afternoons. Now, the boys say she is like Norma Jean, when she became Marilyn. And that is painful to her. Sometimes she thinks what it would be like to have been born a man. All that she wanted was to be a boy.

2009-12-29T09:08:00.000-08:00

- Where do you come from, you old angel?
- Don't call me that. I'm no angel.
- How come? You have wings. All men with wings are angels.
- You are not an angel, if you have lost the ability to fly. Just let me think, just let me cry.

WHEN SALVADOR DALI MET WALT DISNEY...

2009-12-29T07:58:00.000-08:00

DESTINO was born

THE RICH, THE POOR, AND EVERYONE ELSE

2009-12-28T09:28:00.000-08:00

This post could also be called Happiness, Sadness, and everything in between. Or White, Black and all the Grey tones.

I have been told, several times, that money doesn’t buy happiness, but that it helps. My experience tells me that the two things may not be related, or that they may be like flesh and bone.

Some days ago I saw these photos by Jim Goldberg, in Magnum’s archive. The album is called Rich and Poor, and it shows us real stories of American people in the late 70’s and 80’s. In each Polaroid, Jim asked the models to write about their lives, or simply about their thoughts at the time they were seeing the photo.

The photos are naked. And naked are the thoughts.

Jim Goldberg, 'Rich and Poor', USA

The complete album here:

> http://www.magnumphotos.com

I FEEL BUTTERFLIES

2009-12-22T12:30:00.001-08:00

Today I saw two butterflies flirting.
They were so absorbed in those aerobatics that they didn’t notice I was there.
They even landed on my leg, without even noticing the danger that gesture might offer.

That’s what happens with the first passion.

Is their love strong, because they were never hurt before?
Have they tasted rejection, have they felt the emptiness of goodbye?
Have they known they were once scary nymphs?
Do they understand the meaning of the word metamorphosis?

Has someone told them that they should not fly in this rainy, cold, Winter day?
That their love is supposed to bloom in Spring?

I didn’t give up on love.
I just need to dance.
I just need to breathe.

2009-12-22T12:28:00.001-08:00

YOUTH IS FREEDOM WHICH, MOST OF TIMES, COMES WITH AGE

2009-12-22T11:13:00.000-08:00

Let me discover you.

These photos belong to Ryan Mcginley

> http://www.ryanmcginley.com/

THESE ARE THE COLORS (SS 2010)

2009-12-16T04:20:00.000-08:00

So, apparently, these are the colors we're all gonna wear this coming season. For all who wear black, just face this!

THE PAST PERFECT, THE PRESENT CONTINUOUS AND THE NEVER WANTED FUTURE

2009-12-15T09:16:00.000-08:00

How did you get here? You come every night, without previous notice, without even permission, and you enter. You wait until I’m alone in my bed, my eyes closed and my mind opened, and you stay.

Who are you? Are you my nightmares? Aren’t we supposed to be afraid of them? You come naked, faceless, all covered in smoke and dust. Are you some strange gods, I don’t believe in? Are you the monsters of my past, of the places I have not been yet? Or are you coming to talk about the present, this insensitive vacuum, which is everything that I feel? Even though, I’m not afraid.

What do you want? You don’t speak and it seems you have nothing to say. Do you think I find the silence awkward? Believe me, it is better this way.

Are you those strange creatures, full of habits I do not know, that I like to call myself? Are you my alter-egos, the supreme condemnation of what I believe in? Are you my fears, human specters with no name, no soul and no spirit?

Oh please, do come in! Welcome.

> These photos are part of the work Dust, made by Olivier Valsecchi (http://www.bdejanted.com).

THOSE DARK EYES OF YOURS

2009-12-09T08:42:00.000-08:00

This lady was a dancer. That’s what she had been doing for all her life. That and smoking Cuban cigars, Double Maduros as she did in Cuba, back to the time when she was just a small kid.

The first time I saw her was in a Latin club in Berlin. It was Tuesday, the Rumba night, and some of my Colombian friends wanted to teach me las danzas mas calientes. Apparently, Rumba was one of them.

There are many Latin clubs in Berlin, hot spots in the cold immensity of that flat city: the Salsa club, the Forró club, the Tango club, the Merengue club, well there is one for each dance. And when one enters one of this clubs, it is like entering in another world, full of exotic people dancing in such a way, that one finds it impossible among the typical German’s frigidity.

And among all those dancers, there she was. Small, yet dominant, like if all the lights were pointing at her. The skin was dark and wrinkled, but the expression in her eyes was intense, perhaps even intimidating. She was dancing smoothly, but in a very safe way, like if those steps had been born inside her. I was staring at her, and, suddenly, she was alone on the dance floor. There were just the two of us, and I was feeling like a small child looking directly to a giant. It was like she was commanding the great orchestra, ordering the notes of that melody from his feet.

The music stopped without even noticing it. The couples separated, and the dance floor became empty. I followed her with my eyes, as she went graciously to the bar. She whispered to the bartender something I didn’t understand, and he served her a glass full of rum.

“It’s our turn. Let’s move guys!” I was nervous, though my date was an amazing dancer. “Don’t be nervous. Usually the man leads, but this time I will lead you, so just follow my moves.” The music began and it was so much more difficult than I thought. The dance floor became almost instantly over-crowded and we had to dance really close. Those two or three minutes of synchronized movements became painful, and especially embarrassing. Eventually the girl decided I was a lost case and lost the interest. The Latin-American girls chose their men by the quality of the dance. And my feet were made of heavy steel.

The music finally reached its end and I kindly refused another one, so I dropped out of the spotlight and went to the bar, in the shadows. And at that very moment I felt a strong hand holding mine.

“Do you dance, mister?” The voice was deep, almost masculine, but with a sensual warm touch. The accent was far from perfect, but something told me that was her intention. I turned my head and there she was. Even smaller than I thought, older than she seemed initially. The eyes were so dark and so strong that they made it difficult to look directly. I apologized for my lack of skills and, with a defeated look in my face, told her I intended to go to the bar.

“Are you a quitter, young man?” That old woman was challenging me! What could I say? That I wanted to find a hole so that I could hide myself, or at least, that I wanted to go out of there, as quick as possible?

“There’s no way you can hide from me here. I know this place like the palm of my old hand.” She was reading my mind. Who was this woman, smiling at me as if she had known the whole world? “Do you know what your problem is? You think too much. Do not think, just feel.” As she said this, she put her strong harm around my waist and dragged me back to the dance floor.
“I’m sorry madam, but I don’t think I can dance. That girl over there tried hard, but it didn’t work. I think I have a lack of coordination.” I was trying to be polite, as the delicate situation demanded. Her body was warm, and it reminded me of the cosy lap of my grandmother.

“You have a very nice voice, young man. But right now, just shut up!” Her eyes were amazing, two black spheres full of energy. She closed them and let herself go with the flow. Her body was strong, as her voice suggested from the beginning. And then, I too closed my eyes and let me go. I'm not sure what actually happened to me, because, at the moment after, the music had already stopped. I opened my eyes, and she was looking at me, with a big smile in her face.

“See? Just feel it, and you will dance.” She left me and walked away, towards an old and dusty couch. She sat down heavily, as if she had never rested in her life, and lit the cigar already in her mouth. I wanted to know everything about her, her name, her age, where she was coming from, what she was doing there.

“Can I sit here, next to you?” She didn’t answer, as she was more concerned with cigar smoking. I sat.

“I’m Cuban, and do not ask my age. I’ve been living here since I was twenty. Why? Well, my dear, for the reason we all come here in the first place: naïve passion.” So, what had happened to that passionate love? “The passion became love, the love became violence, and so one night I just ran away. I didn’t want to go back to my village. That’s no place for a fugitive girl. And even if I wanted, I didn’t have enough money. So I decided to stay here. I cried for hours, days, even months, until one hot summer day, when there were no more tears in my eyes. That’s why they are so dark, and that’s why I have so many wrinkles around them. They are dry eyes.

“They seem nice to me. I’ve always liked dark eyes. And they are truly intense.” I didn’t know when to stop. I just wanted to say I was fascinated.

“Oh, that’s because I’m very strong, I’ve inherited it from my mother’s side. Here they call me la mujer de fuego. Do you know what that means?” I told her I was Portuguese, and all the Portuguese understand Spanish.

“Are you Portuguese? So you certainly know other strong women, right?” I do, in fact. They have always amazed me, though our relations have not always been peaceful. She laughed.

“Of course not. A strong woman usually is a problem for a man. Because men think they have the power to lead, and they forget the reason why they lead. It’s like the Rumba. When you were with that beautiful girl over there, your problem was that you thought you had to lead her. But if you understand that she is your support, then everything will be fine. In real life it is exactly the same, no matter what.”

And that’s how I learned the Rumba, in that cold winter evening.

ISTANBUL IS COOL

2009-12-03T15:29:00.000-08:00

I’ve been away from these pages for the last few days, but I have a very good reason, which is called Istanbul. So the best way to start this text would be:

Merhaba!

Last week I went there for the first time in my life. The trip was an excuse to visit a dear friend of mine, who is studying there and, of course, to know what is to be considered one of the greatest cities from the ancient times still alive. And believe me when I say that Istanbul is alive. Statistics say that it has a growing population of 12.6 millions, but Turkey is the first to recognize that there are approximately 20 million people living in the great metropolis. Twenty million. It is twice the Portuguese population!

Everyone knows that Istanbul is a great city, that it stands in Bosphorus like a door that separates East from West and that it has been called Bizatium before Rome and Constantinople after the Emperor Constantine I. Right now the Turkish call it Istanbul, which means, among other things, “in the city”. I find it very accurate: when you are in Istanbul, you truly feel it.

First of all, let me tell you about the Turkish people. When I was in Berlin, the second city in the world with more Turks (after Istanbul), I found them completely different from European people, practical and very close to the Arabs. After this week I consider them one of the nicest, most hospitable and helpful people I've ever had the privilege of knowing. They are not European at all, but they are not Arabs as well. They are Turkish, and they are so proud of it.

When I refer to their kindness I’m not talking about those guys working in touristic areas, which constantly invite us to drink tea inside their shops, in order to convince us to buy something we actually don’t need. I’m talking about all the people I’ve met, at least when I was there.

Once I read in some touristic magazine that Istanbul was the city of a thousand mosques. Well, to me it seemed the city of a million mosques. There are mosques everywhere: they have the biggest mosque and the smallest one, the most ancient mosque and the most sacred one, the one where is said that one of the disciples of Prophet Muhammad has been, the one that gave birth to the Bizatium’s ecclesiastic style and the one that was transformed by the Ottoman Empire. They have Hagia Sofia, one the biggest medieval monuments I’ve ever seen, and the famous Blue Mosque. In fact, they have so many mosques that the skyline is like one of those beautiful prophetic pictures one sees in Star Wars (a brief geek moment, I’m afraid).

I had the chance of entering in some mosques and it was a tremendous experience. Those rooms, without any furniture, celebrate the emptiness in such richness that is the most comfortable experience ever. Someone told me that those are the places where one is closer to God, and maybe it’s true.

A few years ago I learned that in Marrakesch everything is for trade, even my sister apparently. One thousand camels. That would be enough for my family to live in the desert like kings! In Istanbul everything is for sale, except that which is not. Everything is negotiable until you reach the point which is not. Everything, except their honor.

They also have Atatürk. For those, like me, who didn’t know who (Mustafa Kemal) Atatürk was, let me tell you that once you put a foot on Istanbul, you feel the most ignorant being on Earth. Atatürk, which means “Father of the Turks”, was the father of the modern Turkey, and for them, he is like the king of all kings, a modern hero, or a long-lost father. There are pictures of him in every single place you can imagine. The young Atatürk, the old and wise Atatürk, the brave general Atatürk, the political standard Atatürk, or simply the best-selling poster in Turkey. Before writing these words, I was thinking about someone with such a political influence in the daily-basis as he does but we, in Europe, don’t have one. We have people we admire and respect, but we don’t have an Atatürk.

And one should never forget the food. Oh my god, the food! Turkish food entered directly to my top-three best kinds of food ever, being the first place occupied by the Portuguese, of course. Every restaurant you go, you can enjoy the best meal in the world, there concentrated in three or four amazing dishes. And above all, the food is very cheap! Fabulous bread, astonishing Turkish pizzas, the meat is always tasty and the fish always fresh, not to mention the most beautiful pastries I’ve ever seen (Vienna and Paris, I’m so sorry). The food is going to be something to remember…

I had heard Istanbul is famous for the bazaars, and that was true. First one has the Grand Bazaar, which is like an entire neighborhood transformed into a market, with its complex structure of streets and the incomparable vaulted ceilings. Then one has the Spicy Bazaar, smaller, yet magnificent. The Fish bazaar, the Carpet bazaar, The Do-it-yourself bazaar and all the markets one can think of. Everything is meticulously organized and ready to jump to our backpacks.

The prices are made for tourists, but one can twist the end of the negotiation, especially if one knows how to say the magic words: “We are not tourists. Please make us a student’s price”. In Turkish of course. Or, if one is the best negotiator ever, like my sister for instance, one can say all the words you know in Turkish, then make a big smile and, finally, be severe in the negotiation part. That has worked for me, as well.

There was still time to go to a Turkish bath. An Italian friend recommended us one old bath, which was more than 400 years old. He also told us that no swimsuits were allowed, so we were a little bit curious to see what would happen inside. Men for one side, women for another. Separated rooms, separated baths. One strong soap massage made by an old and hairy Turk, inside a marble room with 40 degrees and steam, full of other men and treatments with hot and cold water. We were well treated and it’s an experience to repeat.

When I came back yesterday, all of my friends wanted to know everything about all the things I had done, which is impossible. So I’ve decided to write about some of the most intense experiences, one of them simply being there, among those people. I hope this gives all the interested a small idea of what I lived during the past few days. And, for photographs, they are with my sister, who is still there, that lucky girl. But they will also be published here. Some of them at least. What happened in Istanbul stays in Istanbul.

My fascination with this city began one night during a good conversation with a German friend. When I told her I didn’t know much about the city she told me: “Istanbul ist cool mann!” Und das stimmt. Istanbul is cool.

More photos here:

> ISTANBUL IS COOL

These photos are property of Mary Torres Campos. All rights reserved.

MY HEART IS BEATING LIKE A JUNGLE DRUM

2009-11-26T05:42:00.001-08:00

THE WOMAN NEXT TO ME

2009-11-25T11:38:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I met one of the most interesting women I've ever had the privilege of knowing. One of those people we only see in the cinema, but yesterday she magically appeared before me.

I was sitting at a table in one of those typical cafés of Lisbon, lost in all the excitement characteristic of a late afternoon and completely absorbed in a piece of paper, in which I was writing something. Suddenly, and without noticing it, an eighty-year old woman sat at the table next to me.

“Do you usually write in cafés, young man?” I was confused. Not only because that’s not something I usually do, but also because I didn’t look at what I was doing as true writing. Just a few random thoughts, disjointed and impulsive.

“I did that for many years. Right now I don’t need paper anymore, I keep all inside here.” She took her hand to the forehead. In front of her was a small cup with black coffee and a small cake of puff pastry.

“Can I ask your age, young man?” I’ve just turned twenty-seven, I answered. I never liked this question. For some people I’m too young, for others, just too old. And on top of that, I did not feel free to satisfy my curiosity in this case.

“You look younger, I’m telling you.” This was the first compliment of the conversation. I like to be praised, and this one was particularly good, coming from an old being, yet very decent. She seemed wise.

“During my life I wrote a lot, and especially a lot of crap. More in German than in Portuguese, I think." Okay, I admit, I was extremely curious. I asked her why.

“Oh, I thought you would never ask!”, she says proudly. “I’m half German, half Portuguese.” I then revealed her I also had lived in Berlin for one year. I never liked to end in second place, when it comes to self-praise.

“I know it very well. It is an ugly city, even aggressive, but still wonderful. And, above all, very rich, all sewn.” I wouldn’t have said it better. Who knows Berlin has a relationship between love and hate, although it might be rare to happen between people and cities.

“I love the Germans, so spiritual, introspective and philosophical. Do you know any German philosophers? Are you familiar with Kant, Nietzche, Heidegger?” I’ve studied the last one, I answer timidly. “Oh so you know Heidegger? How come? Do not tell me you are an Architect!” I chose to be honest, and I told her that was true, even when I wasn’t having the best feeling.

“I know plenty of them. Strange people, very charming though. And very sensitive. Are you sensitive?” I didn’t know what to respond, I even blushed. She understood the red tone of my skin, as she changed the subject.

“So young, yet already graduated. I have three degrees, you know: the first one was in Advanced Studies in English and German, of course. I traveled extensively throughout Europe to complete my studies. I know French as well, but that’s another story, much more interesting!” My spontaneous laugh made her look directly to me. Behind the lens of the glasses, her blue eyes revealed the complicity of being understood.

“Well, after that I took Economics and Finance. I always thought that if we know Economics, we are able to help the World. And finally I attended Law School, because I was tired of being cheated. I finished it last year” She passed her all life studying, I thought out loud. “Not all my life son. Just until today!” I became bothered by my reflection.

“But I worked a lot, as well. In big corporations, in Public institutions and I was a teacher for eighteen years.” I noticed teaching was important for her. Once more, her eyes were sincere.

“You know, as teacher I was able to understand that we should not require more from people than what they can give us. But we can always demand more from us to help those people.” I did not understand what she meant, but she carried on. “For instance, once I told my students Hitler had socialist ideas. Some people were very disturbed. Later, I discovered that two girls from that class were orphans from the Great War.” I finally understood what was going on there. I too, met some of the sons and daughters of Germany. Not from the War, but from the Separation. Some of them saw an orange for the first time when they were eighteen years old.

“But you know that the political party led by Hitler, the Nationalsozialismus, was concerned to rescue Germany from misery! I have never understood how, in the midst of such people as the Germans, was hidden a man with that ferocity and meanness.” I tell her that the main problem about the Germans, are themselves. I read this in some book, though I do not admit that. I wanted to seem smarter.

“That’s true, young man! The German people are odd, armor-plated. They never treat us as a friend, but an acquaintance. Das ist nicht mein Freund, das ist mein Bekannte. But if we break the armor, there stands a friend for life." I recognized that. It took me time to make friends in Berlin. But I eventually succeeded.

“The Germans have difficulty in being happy. They are a restless people. Are you happy, young man?" There it was, the question about happiness. It stalks me like a vulture, ready to devour my stomach to the minimum setback. I told her that I have moments of happiness.

“Well, of course. Did you think happiness was a continuous line? It’s a line, of course, but dashed. Do you know my trick to be happy? Finding the pleasure among small things. Forget the great idealisms, they are cumbersome and lead to frustration. We cannot change the World all at once. But we can have little pleasures every day.” My eyes glazed in hers, and that should have bothered her. She stood still and looked at me. Then, smiled.

“I like talking with you. You don’t talk much, but you seem to understand what I’ve been telling you. What’s your name?” I answered. “You are named after a Saint, you knew that?” I said I did. “You are a Catholic as well?” I said I had been. “But you have got faith, that I can tell. Religion does not matter. What matters is believing, which sometimes becomes really hard.” I know that well, thank you. I know that well.

“Well, young Tiago, I’m going home now. Bach expects me. I come here everyday, at this time. This is the time of doom.” She laughs and approaches to whisper: "You know that this cafe is the cheapest in the neighborhood? I have already compared the prices of everything. The cakes are also smaller, though." I see the whisper as a secret, and I decide not to comment.

“Please do comeback one of these days. We have a lot to talk about.” She looked to the old mirror and fixed her hat, with a colored feather on top. Then, she left.

I didn’t have time to answer that I wanted to come back. Maybe I will.

AND NOW SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL

2009-11-25T06:44:00.001-08:00

WE ARE ALL ALONE

2009-11-24T07:06:00.000-08:00

Last week I attended a workshop on "How to improve in Architecture.” A tough one, I might say. Besides having realized that the path will be difficult in every possible way, I had an epiphany at the time of the lecture on Communication Skills.

At the beginning of the lecture I was introduced to the fabulous world of the Laws of Communication, created by a Finnish gentleman who goes by the name Wiio (not to be confused with WII). And what does this researcher of human communication, a specialist in communication skills in business, tells us? Well, basically informs us that we are completely alone, and, as much as we try, we'll always be frustrated in the approach.

This is, indeed, cruel, and it had already crossed my mind. But, when this comes out of an absolutely beautiful woman’s mouth, it leaves us all sadder. At least, I am.

Wiio presents us with seven Laws of Communication, similar in every single way to Murphy’s famous laws:

1 Communication usually fails, except by accident.

1.1 If communication can fail, it will.
1.2 If communication cannot fail, it still most usually fails.
1.3 If communication seems to succeed in the intended way, there’s a misunderstanding.
1.4 If you are content with your message, communication certainly fails.

(As I said, basically we are all alone, which does not surprise me at all. And if you think you are being understood, make no mistake: you are not.)

2 If a message can be interpreted in several ways, it will be interpreted in a manner that maximizes the damage.

(As my grandmother used to say, silence is golden. My japonese friend Mikuri, on the other hand, would say: “If you have nothing good to say, the best thing is to keep your mouth shut.” Where are you Miko?)

3 There is always someone who knows better than you what you meant with your message.

(This is kind of offensive, though I remember it well, when someone once told me “if you don’t see anyone more stupid than you in a room, then you are the dumbest of all. Been there, done that.

4 The more we communicate, the worse communication succeeds.

(I’m perfectly aware that this gentleman is talking about business corporations. But I’m starting to suspect that he might be talking about personal relationships. Be afraid, be very afraid.)

5 In mass communication, the important thing is not how things are but how they seem to be.

(See girl? The looks are all that counts in the middle of a large mass.)

6 The importance of a news item is inversely proportional to the square of the distance.

(Now I finally understand how the media work! Who cares about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, when you can see Cristiano’s new hair-style? Just solve your little problem, enough is enough.)

7 The more important the situation is, the more probably you forget an essential thing that you remembered a moment ago.

(Like, for instance, when you forgot to tell me that you were going to get married, the day after I slept in your bed. Small detail.)

Well, my friends, do not worry, that's not all that bad. We are alone, all right. Probably we will never make us understand, not even with our closest friends. Not to mention our family, those people will never understand us for sure. But, hey, cheer up! If we are alone inside an isolated capsule, we’re free to do whatever we desire: burp in the middle of the street, farting wherever we want, walking naked on the street, on those really hot Summer days or simply not show up for work. We are alone, aren’t we? So who dares to criticize us?

By some strange coincidence, or not, some days ago a friend of mine told me about SIGNS, a short-film, a Lion winner at Cannes 2009, directed by Patrick Hughes. A fabulous essay about loneliness, caused by the lack of communication skills. A comic adventure between two losers who, within their bubble, find a fabulous form of dialogue. Thrilling.

I would love this would happen to me. Some day. Fuck Wiio, that's not even a name.

MY YELLOW BOOK

2009-11-23T15:58:00.000-08:00

You come late. You recognize this as a fact, so natural to you, with the occasional laugh that melts me. You don’t apologize, mostly because you know I hate the concept. You came because I asked you; you came like you always do when I ask you.

You are all dressed up, as usual, but with that small detail in disarray that makes you so unique. You start talking almost instantly. About you, your week, about bad things and better ones. You always talk too much, and always too fast. Some might not like that in you, but it distracts me, it carries me to your special world, so much richer than mine. You talk too much, without even noticing I’ve been crying. Or, if you have, you choose not to comment.

You ask me if I’m happy. You are always direct and that intimidates me. I don’t like to talk about me. You decide to change the question, and ask me how I am. I shrug my shoulders. You don’t seem to be affected by my silence and carry on. I light a cigarette, just to listen carefully to your monologue. You forgot to ask for the coffee and I do it for you. The cup must be filled and the coffee very hot, I know that well.

“Do you like my hair?” I respond with a yes, though I have not noticed yet. It’s shorter, fresher. You smell good. Cinammon mixed with fresh flowers. The coffee arrives and you steal me one cigarette. You smoke whenever you drink coffee, while insisting that you stop smoking. I think you shouldn’t, you are so attractive when you do it.

You notice my black moleskine, under my wrists. I think you had noticed it before, right when you sat in front of me. You catch me distracted and you grab it. You browse it like a magazine, without looking at me, knowing I’m nervous whenever you do that. But curiosity gets the better.

You make small talk about some random thoughts, but you get no answer back. I have no answers to give you. Answers require decisions and, at this moment, I’m not able to do that.

You reach the last page and close the notebook. You return it to me and, for the first time, look into my eyes. You ask, without previous notice: “Have you lost the will to live?” I answer it negatively. Well, actually I don’t know what to answer.

You grab your wallet, always full, and start searching for something. “This is my yellow book”. I grab it, mixing reluctance with profound curiosity. I open it, and realize you too write for a deposit, hoping to have something to grab to. I digress for a while just to watch your handwriting carefully, always inclined to the left side. I read some sentences, focusing on the music in some of the words. “It is my exorcism. I dump it, without even thinking about the content. I imprison the words, without even trying to give them a meaning. Also you should try."

You go as fast as you came. You never stay longer than needed, just the necessary to turn my life upside down. I stand there, lonely, feeling homesick. That yellow little book of yours disturbed me. Its power of absorption, like a sponge over your concealed suffering. I want to have one, as well.

I get home and turn on the computer. I’m ready to write this story. What happened to me, what binds me to your flesh, intrinsically, the words that came out of your mouth. I love your mouth. I enter my blog, without even noticing. It has become a habit.

I read my last posts, without paying attention. I don’t consider them extremely good, but they’re not bad as well. They represent me. My blog is, in fact, my exorcism, my much-needed process of catharsis. My yellow book.

TINKERBELL AND THE NINJA

2009-11-22T14:33:00.000-08:00

Last night I watched Massive Attack's concert, here in Lisbon. It was the second time I had the chance of seeing them performing on stage and, once more, I confirmed that this music is not made by enchanted elfs, living in some northern forest, but by real people. Semi-divine beings producing good music to us all, mortals.

For the show, I have no words to describe all that density. From my seat I could see, on several occasions, the trance in which thousands of people came, snaking from one side to the other in a clear line.

But what amazed me even more was the opening of the concert. I arrived late, which is not surprising for those who know me well, and find a good place was not easy. When I finally sat down, I looked at the stage and saw two strange figures. Sitting on my left, my cousin asked me: "Who are them? Tinkerbell and the Ninja?" The Ninja was on the drums and at the microphone, Tinkerbell with a red dress.

The song was ending and the strong applause warned me that there was, standing in front of me, someone valuable. Although initially I did not realize who she was, I was immediately mesmerized by the swing, the rhythm and, above all, the voice. That voice. A warm voice, that stood out the raw and sincere music.

Later, I realized that Tinkerbell was nothing more nothing less than Martina Topleybird, the young sensation in the world of underground London scene of Trip Hop. Having featured several times with Tricky and Massive Attack, she was given the rare honor to tour with the band. To the delight of all present, including me.

Yesterday, Massive Attack gave me some rare moments of excellent music. Were numerous and intense. And today, as I am in Karma Koma, I leave you with the impressive video.

PLANET EARTH IS JUST FINE, WE'RE THE ONES WHO ARE FUCKED UP

2009-11-17T03:52:00.000-08:00

Sustainability put up to the test
Part II

THE GOOD, THE BAD AND THE REST OF US

2009-11-11T10:04:00.000-08:00

Those who watched, and let themselves be enchanted by the animation movies of the fabulous world of Disney, divided, at some stage in their lives, the world in two parts: the good and the bad. I was one of them.

The greatest achievement of Disney has been precisely it: to simplify our World, and, at some point, our very own existence. Throughout our childhood, and, above all, when we become adults.

Who has not cried when Bambi's mother dies? Or when little Simba is expelled from the Kingdom? Or when Dumbo is separated from its mother? Who has never felt hate when the wicked queen poisons Snow White with that apple with a delightful aspect? Or when Cinderella’s stepmom locks her in her room? Well, who ever felt it, had a childhood as filled as mine.

I’ve always loved stories, and during most part of my childhood, I’ve always wanted to believe they were true. That it was possible to give life to a boy made of wood. That rats, cats, dogs and foxes were speaking beings. Or even that mermaids lived in some kingdom, lost in the ocean.

But there is always a time when we start to see the world in different ways, with more (or less) colors than those belonging to good and evil. With no apparent reason, we begin to understand that world is not just those enchanted stories and, due to that fact, some of us simply stop watching Disney movies. However, that has not happened to me, yet. I have never stopped watching those movies, and I’ve never stopped feeling something special after watching them for the 134th time. I can still remember parts of the dialogs, not to mention the soundtracks. Some of them are, even today, included in the playlists on my mp3 player. And I think that happens with a good deal of people out there.

When I grew up (a difficult process I must add), I began to understand the movies from different perspectives. Suddenly I could no longer identify myself with the good fellows, and I could understand some of the bad ones too, somehow. I started getting angry at the perfect world of heroes and to have compassion for the miserable world of evil.

Maybe, I thought, maybe Snow White’s evil queen is just an old lady who does not accept her age, having been deeply depressed when a little, insignificant, princess usurped her kingdom. Someone younger and, imagine that, prettier than herself!

Perhaps Cinderella’s stepsisters, uglier, fatter, shorter and dumber than she, have all the right to be jealous with her true love with that insipid prince, with a crystal shoe fetish (also no one has yet explored the many fetishes that Disney has been encouraging since the beginning!)

And what about Captain Hook, who sees his plans constantly devastated by a bunch of rude kids, with no manners and no parents to punish them, from time to time? Who never lost control with a naughty kid, please throw the first stone to Hook.

I don’t consider myself to be an especially good person. Nor an especially mean one. Not even someone with specifically elaborated fetishes, though I might have some. Having that in mind, in which enchanted story do I fit in? Am I the blond, good looking, tall and naïve Hercules? I’m not blond, nor tall and, least of all, naïve. Ok, I’m not a bad looking guy, but I’m not the teen star kind of guy.

Perhaps I’m more like the monster who holds the Beauty within the castle. Well, he’s more like one of those guys hiding inside its shell, having been hurt throughout his life. But I've never been so lost in my life, and not even as psychotic as he is.

Maybe I'm just like Wall-e, some strange being alone in the planet, without having any clue about my role here.

As I was thinking about this and other things, I realized that Disney created a world that is so precious, exactly because it simplifies us, without necessarily reducing us. No one is as perfect as Sleeping Beauty, nor as fearless as Pocahontas, nor as stupid as Goofy, nor as boring as Mickey Mouse (well, actually I know a couple of guys as boring as Mickey, but let's not deepen the subject). We are just imperfect sequels of all these stories. Like Alladin 3 and a half, in which the character has already won new addictions due to the new position acquired by marriage and the Genius of the lamp is even fatter and grumpier. Or like Lion King 10, in which Simba is already a grandparent, smokes, is a recovering alcoholic, has a carload of children who just want to usurp the throne and only thinks of girls younger than Nala.

Well yes my friends, we are the rest, we are those that Disney never wanted to portray in its stories. We are the lost boys of Disney.

THE MASKS WE ALL WEAR

2009-11-04T10:01:00.000-08:00

Is still to come the day when I present myself to someone new without wearing any masks. “It would be tremendously uninteresting”, someone tells me. Maybe, but I think we are increasingly moving away from each other, due to the masks we insist on putting. To become more interesting than we actually are, prettier than we actually believe, and more unachievable than we actually want.

I confess that I'm a bit tired to see masks in others and, above all, that they can understand mine. Sometimes it all seems a big lie.

Last weekend I went to a party where I didn’t know almost anyone. That situation allowed me to put something up to the test: I would not put any mask at the time I knew someone, or, at least, I would try hard. The consequences have been pleasantly surprising. And the most curious thing is that this was the night of all masks: Halloween!

These images belong to the project 'The other mask of clothing'
in USELOOS

GODS AND MONSTERS

2009-10-18T07:11:00.001-07:00

This weekend became one huge turn point in my life.

I’ve learnt that there are many people just like me, and so many others completely different. And that was good.

I’ve been to places I’d never imagined they even existed, and I’ve been to places I’d never had the courage to visit. And that made me feel good.

I’ve lost dear things, and I’ve gained wonderful new ones. I’ve discovered new qualities in old friends, and old interests in new ones. I’ve met some really interesting people, and some not so interesting.

I’ve confirmed that there’s no safer place like friendship, and that there are days to win and days to loose. And we just have to accept it.

I’ve learnt a little bit more about my fears, and, above all, I’ve understood that it’s ok to be afraid.

Long live the weekend.

I CAN SEE WINTER NOW (FW 2009/10)

2009-10-07T02:52:00.000-07:00

After asking some of my friends on Facebook about what they would wear this winter, here are some of the strongest tendencies, of the season Fall/Winter 09/10, by the hand of Mary, my little sister.

KATE, THE REBEL . CARLA, THE CHARMER

2009-09-29T09:41:00.001-07:00

KATE MOSS

When I was a kid I was so shy. I didn't say anything until I was like 13, when i started rebelling.
I started kicking doors down and yelling: 'i'm going out!'.

CARLA BRUNI

I'm easily bored with monogamy.
Love lasts a long time, but burning desire — two to three weeks.

Learn more about KATE here.

Learn more about CARLA here.

Kate's photos from PaperMode

SEX IS NOT LOVE . LOVE IS NOT SEX

2009-09-22T07:29:00.000-07:00

When I saw the recent photo shoot that Lady Gaga was in for Vogue Hommes Japan, I almost instantly remembered Madonna. I thought: “Are we creating a new Madonna?” But then I answered myself: “Of course not. Yet. These photos are only a small part of Madonna, as Lady Gaga is.”

When I was young, Madonna frightened me. When I saw her performances, her photos, her dates, or anything else, I just felt uncomfortable, even without knowing why.

When I turned 10 years old, my father came home with the new photo-book Madonna had done, simply called SEX. The photos shocked the world and, above all, they shocked my world.

For some time I knew the book existed (my father never hid it from me), but I didn’t know how what it was like. The first time I saw it, it had to be secretly, as it was not suitable for my age. I could not get past the first pages. That was something I never imagined could be done! But a few days later I had recovered from the shock, and I saw it for a second time…and for a third time…and then a weird feeling of discovery took over me. Yes, I had discovered something new, bizarre, and, therefore, interesting.

As time went by, Madonna and all those people in the book did not frighten me any longer. They even began to create in me a strong curiosity. I started to relive all those images inside my head, and I became a voyeur of those strange beings. And I was afraid someone might notice it. Would I be sadomasochistic if those images were appealing to me? Would I be a homosexual if I wasn’t disgusted to see those men and women kissing each other? Could I ever look at Madonna, Naomi Campbell and Isabella Rossellini in the same ever again?

“This book is about sex. Sex is not love. Love is not sex. But the best of both worlds is created when they come together.” This is how the book begins. And I would add: our main problem is that we don’t know how to deal with them, precisely when they come together.

I do not consider myself an expert in sexology. I leave that to Freud. But I do know how to talk about myself. And I know the mess I made for years, between sex and love. And I fell in love with people I could not have sex with, and I had sex with people I could not fall in love with. And sometimes it was good, and others not so much.

I think the greatest confusion arises by the lack of honesty. “A lot of people are afraid of what they want. That’s why they don’t get what they want. I could not say it better.

When we like someone we cannot be honest regarding our true sexuality, as to what we actually like. We are afraid that other people might find us weird. And we are honest only to those we don’t feel so close to, because we are not afraid of what they might think of us.

This is the reason why we develop a profound and, therefore, intense admiration, for people who can express themselves sexually, with an open mind. We find it strange, but, with time, we get used to it. We despise, but secretly become fascinated. They set us free, in an act of exorcism.

Madonna has been testing us since she appeared, sometimes in a bizarre, almost forbidden way. That’s why we like her. And that’s why Lady Gaga posed for Vogue.

The complete book is here .

MY DEAREST PANDA BEAR,

2009-09-10T07:29:00.000-07:00

I don’t remember the day you came into my view. It wasn’t possible. You entered the moment I was born, maybe even before I got home. You were brought to me by my grandfather, from some exotic place.

You were just about my size, maybe even a bit bigger, stronger, and hairier. You were warm. You were alive.

I called you Bear. My Bear. But you didn’t like, you said you were a Panda Bear. So I started calling you Panda Bear. My Panda Bear. And you liked being mine.

My mother told me we looked at each other just like two friends do, over some endless conversation. We talked about everything, even before I learned to speak. Wherever I was, you were there with me. You had an opinion about everything, and, to be honest with you, that annoyed me a bit.

I was angry with my mom when she told us you had to take a bath. You came out of the water empty, dead? But my mom brought you back to life and better than ever! It was such a happy day! I promised I would never let you go.

But I didn’t keep the promise. I discharged you, abandoned you, replaced you. I grew up and found you ridiculous, old and ugly. I thought you were no longer part of my life, and moved you away. I actually wanted to set myself free and give you to some pathetic kid, who wanted someone like you in his life. But my mom didn’t let me, and just kept you. I didn’t want to hear more from you. You embarrassed me.

I grew up and you stood there, at the end of the large closet. You got scared of me, but never abandoned me. You started living in the closet, without natural light, along with other discharged bears.

I never embarrassed you, not even for a moment, not even for a tiny portion of a second. Not even when my beard grew, my voice got lower, or when I fell in love with other people. You were always there, even if not showing yourself.

Some days ago, I found some old pictures of us and I missed you. I looked for you in the closet and I found you. You started talking to me immediately, as if we had never stopped doing it, not even for a second. We talked for a moment, which seemed short to me. Short for all the things that had happened, all the things you were aware of.

I asked some of my friends where their buddies were and almost everyone still had them. A duck, a doll, Snoopy and dog with a colorful t-shirt. A rabbit, a lamb and a she-bear. All of them existed and were still there. And I didn’t feel so alone. Some of the boys were reluctant to admit their friendship, but not the girls. A friend told me you were my father’s substitute, but my father is not you. You have always been you, and still are.

You were kept again, but with respect now. You were cleaned up and you received a new place of yours, prettier. I know you won’t let me go.

I was very glad to see you were in good shape, and that you kept the youth I also had when I was just a boy. I envy that boyish world of yours, where you can keep yourself, even after everything you went through. Even after everything we went through.

GOLDEN DUST IN OUR EYES

2009-08-31T11:26:00.000-07:00

From my village I see as much of the earth as can be seen in the Universe …
That's why my village is as big as any other place on earth
Because I am the size of what I see
And not the measure of my height …

In Keeper of Sheep, from Alberto Caeiro
(Fernando Pessoa)

When we talk about luxury, what is the first image that comes to our mind? This was the question I asked my friends on Facebook a few days ago.

As I suspected, the answers were as many as the number of people that answered. Why? Because luxury lives in our emotion e the emotions we project on what surrounds us. This is the only way it makes sense and becomes what it should have been in the first place: genuine.

Cars, Champagne jewels and shoes. Status. Houses, vacations on some paradise destiny, private islands and to not have to work. A luxury in the present days. Caviar and white wine, on some beach terrace. Comfort, health and friends. Love. Silence….one actually says it is golden. Is there a more luxurious comparison than to gold?

What is luxury then? Or even better, where is luxury today? Let’s see how one can answer this…

Luxury, as society’s referential system, lives in the opposite side of what we can call vulgarity.

Hypothesis

Imagine a long corridor, where luxury is its ceiling and vulgarity its floor. Now, admit that in the end of this corridor there is a wide window.

Thesis

The wider our referential is, the farther the ceiling is from the floor, the higher the corridor of our existence is, and therefore, the wider the window from where we see the world.

To lose luxury as a referential is to lose part of our culture. And if we lose that legacy, we’re losing a piece of our Humanity.

Putting vulgarity and luxury at opposite ends of the same reality, is to admit that the first one is close to bestiality, that is, to physiological behavior which brings us close to animals, and the second one is seen as something intellectualized and culturally assimilated.

The fascination by luxury comes from human self-pity. By not being divine, we try desperately to rise above vulgarity, as a way to become unique.

The big mistake

Left: Daphne Guinness on a photo shoot for Italian vogue. Right: Becoming a Haute-couture's icon.

Some time ago I saw a TV programme about the Haute-couture phenomenon. For about an hour, the journalist took us through her last year, telling us the stories behind the selective world of fashion as a work of art, as a unique piece.

When asked about one thing truly luxurious for her, the socialite Daphne Guinness told that it would be “something rather unique, because from the moment I see it on someone else, I stop desiring it.”

A presumptuous idea, but when analyzed with care, full of substance. It is an intuitive summary, coming from a person whose life has been as good as it gets, but that actually makes us see what luxury is all about: the search for an almost divine status, associated to the will of possessing unique features.

It is wrong to think that luxury is a new product from Mankind. It is wrong to think it is a product at all. Throughout History, certain features have always been associated to it, such as domain, power and uniqueness. In tribal societies, the leader had to have the best furs. In the first urban settlements, the leader, and usually the richest man, had his house placed in the highest point, considered the most secure place to be. Pharaohs raised funeral monuments, so that they could be buried among their most precious treasures. And Louis XIV demonstrated how it was possible to use ostentation as an intelligent means to govern.

Golden details from Versailles. The decoration is full of symbols of supreme power.

There are many stories about the court of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette, where clothing rules were so strict that noble families went bankrupt, due to the famous Rose Bertin’s suits’ exorbitant prices. They cost as much as a house.

Luxury is undoubtedly associated to economic power, but it is also a matter of choice. According to legend, when the sultan of Brunei gets tired of his Rolls Royce cars, he fills them with cement and sinks them in the China Sea. Fact or reality? One could not tell, but this creates a certain kind of sensation, be it good or bad.

Nevertheless, throughout the 20th century, something quite specific took place: the birth of the bourgeois society rose from the end of the Second World War. The bourgeoisie, the middle class, is undoubtedly associated with commerce. And in fact, this became the great power of the post-war emerging countries.

Man has never been richer. Bill Gates was considered the richest man ever to walk the Earth. So, what happened to luxury?

Connected to the complex commercial network, we began to assume that luxury had something to do with financial capacity. The American dream has whispered into our ears that the largest houses and the fastest cars were attainable, with hard work, and, of course, some luck. Everything became possible and was for sale.

This was when one had committed the original sin of luxury.

The price of everything and the value of nothing

Today one can apply, more than ever, one the famous Oscar Wilde’s quotes: “These days man knows the price of everything, but the value of nothing.” Price and value, herein lays the difference. Subtle, but strong.

Labels were associated to mass production and to an increasing societies’ buying power. They began producing the so called self-named luxury, that is, the luxury available in every single corner of the world. From NYC to Shanghai, we’re suffocated in Louis Vuitton’s bags, Don Pérignon’s bottles of Champagne, Bulgari’s precious stones, and Ferrari’s super sports cars.

But it happens that luxury lives from thought emotions, from the consciousness of the pleasure we get from something. That’s what luxury is, pleasure. Pleasure at the end of a research process.

I don’t blame us for what’s happening. It’s easy to understand the glamour coming from a Louboutin’s pair of shoes. They’re exquisite, beautiful and tremendously expensive. It is harder to apprehend, though, the value of a Chinese table from the Ming Dinasty, full of dust and cracks. But in fact, the shoes are one store away from us, or even one click away from us, as they can be bought in the Internet. But the table will always be one of a kind. There might even exist some Chinese tables like this out there, but one can easily enumerate them. And people who have one, must understand the emotion of possessing something that rare.

Left: Dior Spring 09 collection shoes. With the woman figure on the heel, the shoes became an instant object of pleasure. Right: Louboutin's interpretation of Marie Antoinette's universe.

That’s what any Haute-couture suit’s owner feels. To have something that no one else in the world has. And this is why Haute-couture’s companies do not turn over the big money. They’re just not supposed to. They represent an endless research for the unknown, for the best raw-materials, for the newest techniques and, in the end, for perfection. They are not centered in the turn over, or at least, that’s not their purpose.

Haute-couture has always recreated fashion as art objects.

Today one faces luxury, as something rare and exquisite, coming from exclusive sources, to luxury as a mass production. The luxury exhibited by Angelina Jolie, Oprah Winfrey or Puff Daddy. But the so called luxury labels have been throwing dirt in our eyes. Golden dust, in fact. They’ve been selling us luxury as something to be sold in a flea market, and because of that, they’re not far from retail stores such as Zara. They’re not even far from Banana Republic or Bloomingdale’s.

To accept luxury is, above all, luxurious. To distinguish, accept, and live among luxury implicates an education, hard study and research process, which is not, I’m afraid to say, within everyone’s reach.

As one of my friends would say, a fur coat by Fendi is luxurious. They are actually great fur manufacturers, and the materials they use are impeccable. Even though it isn’t so difficult to get one. Money is all it takes.

But above a Fendi’s fur coat, there is a fur coat specifically designed for, let’s say, Daphne Guinness. This is the ultimate-luxury, or über-luxury, the term used to re-designate what should be called luxury in the first place. These are the luxury’s degrees, subjected to different cognitive values.

And if one wants to raise the standards, one can always think about Shahtoosh shawls. The Persian word literally means “Pleasure of Kings”, and these shawls are woven with the down hair of the Chiru (a tibetan antelope which lives in the Himalayas, at over 5.000 meters of altitude), by the weavers of Kashmir. The delicate hair was so difficult to weave that these shawls became one-of-a-kind pieces. It is told that an average sized shawl is so thin and smooth that it can be passed through a ring. This is also the difference between a pearl necklace and a pearl necklace belonging to Marie Antoinette (let’s face it; I almost transformed the first necklace into something a little bit ordinary, didn’t I?).

If we want to go a little further into this thought, we might say that luxury has little to do with expensive objects. They are expensive indeed, but because they are rare, and not because they are labeled with a price one hundred times higher than their value.

Left: Horse figure from Ming Dinasty and golden Scythian Necklace. Right: Dress and necklace belonging to Marie Antoinette.

Yves Saint Laurent died a few months ago. He had what was then considered to be the last eclectic collection of luxury. It was estimated in over 700 million dollars. Those were the objects he collected throughout his life, creating the sense of belonging around him. These objects bore a sense of comfort, of pleasure. They represented him. And beyond that, they represented the French spirit. And that’s why I will never understand how the French state let this collection be torn apart after his death.

Luxury is to acquire a piece with a soul inside. Within resides its true value.

Yves Saint Laurent's universe of comfort and pleasure.

TO BE ANTI-ECOLOGICAL OR NOT TO BE?

2009-08-17T09:23:00.000-07:00

Sustainability put up to the test
Part I

This article was first published in Territorius, on July of 2008.

Those were times when I was much involved in the sustainability issues. I still worry about the paths we are all walking down, towards utopian eco-friendly solutions. I just don’t believe in them as much now.

I’m publishing this text once again, this time in English, as a warming up exercise for some convictions on sustainability, ecology and environmental protection, I will write about here.

But for now, just read the text having in mind the fact that the way people understand sustainability can be compared to an elephant inside a crystal ware store.

And that’s why I’ve decided to give this chronicle a sub-title:

Anti-ecological - Choice or fatality?

Today, being anti-ecological is a pure act of madness, some might say. A suicidal act, others would add. But to be ecological is like being a sheep in a herd, as large and hysterical, as it is stupid. That’s why, I believe in the first choice.

Just by admitting this, I might be killed the next time I leave the house. Maybe I’ll be expelled from the professional Association of Landscape Architects, to which I belong only because I was forced to. Perhaps I’ll be forbidden to run for some important election, which is, in fact a positive thing.

Or maybe you’ll not read this text until the end. Probably that’s the best thing to do.

First of all, what does it mean to be anti-ecological? Above all, it is everything an ecological person is not, that is a person who admits that the craziness our world lives in today is beyond any acceptable, credible and even healthy parameters. From the point of view of any other inhabited plane), Earth would be seen as an eco-fanatic planet, completely unaware of what’s really happening.

I’ve successfully become anti-ecological, even without realizing it. But I became aware of it, after having read about some ecological resort which is suggesting the construction of hundreds of mushroom-like houses, in a sacred place in the outskirts of Lisbon, the Atlantic wood. Hurray! Let’s all be ecological and buy an ecological house in this fabulous Eden, full of asphalt and stupid neighbors! Nevertheless, this event is irrelevant, when facing the global diarrhea, known as the Environmental Defense Movements.

The world has never faced such a global hysterical phenomenon. To be ecological can be slightly compared to what the word cool has come to mean, among the mid-90’s teenagers (I’ve never fully understood the concept behind the “cool banana” gum’s flavor. It Might as well be a “cool onion” gum’s flavor!) We can also compare the phenomenon to the magical properties of the Aloe Vera syrup. From yogurts to shampoos, from juices to lotions, anti-depressives, and, most probably condom flavors.

Will someone explain to me why I have to wake up to Leo di Caprio’s amazing face, saying some Al-Gorian’s profanities, about some themes that are completely abstract to him? Or to know that Christian Bale is vegetarian (don’t they have anything better to say about his carreer? And since when, is to be a vegetarian the same as to be ecological?). Or even that Chris Martin is considered to be one of the hottest vegetarians in the world?

Some days ago I made a research about the most influential people in the world in the areas of the environmental and ecological protection. Suddenly I saw a list entitled “Top 10 Green Celebrities”, composed by these people:

1. Al Gore
2. Leonardo di Caprio
3. Natalie Portman
4. Brad Pitt
5. Ed Begley, Jr. (if anyone knows who this is, please explain to me)
6. Hayden Panettiere
7. Scarlett Johansson
8. Chris Martin
9. Heather Mills
10. Tobey Maguire

First question that occurred to me: Is this a joke?
Answer: I don’t think so, because this list was published everywhere, and it sounds like something truly important.

Second question: Is this a joke? I couldn’t believe it. But where are the names such as Wangari Maathai, Rachel Carson or Farley Mowat?

I understand why these people are not famous to most of us, especially because the first two ladies weren’t part of the cast of some Hollywood movie, like an intergalactic saga, or a crazy speed racing war-like movie, with astonishing fake boobs. And when referring to the last one, what is the interest of knowing who this bearded, out-of-fashion man, who can’t even wear an Armani blazer to receive some hideous prize is?

Well, but we can all know that Wangari Maathai is a Kenyan lady, an environmental activist who is promoting the sustainable development along the African territory, and the first African woman to achieve the Nobel Peace Prize. We can also recognize that Rachel Carson, born 100 years ago, was responsible for the birth of the existing ecological and environmental conscience, facing the ultra-powerful American pesticide’s production lobby, shortly after the end of the Second World War. And we can finally learn that Farley Mowat is an environmental defense icon, whose work has influenced millions of people in the defense of what the really believe in.

I’m tired of all these festivals in favor of the world’s peace and regeneration. I find it useless to know that Camilla Parker Bowles has celebrated her 61st birthday in some organic garden. And I find it especially disgusting that those large construction companies, that use the sustainability label just to purge their consciences of the crimes they insist on committing. And if this article seems the bitter consequence of a frustrated guy’s life complaint, I want you to know that you’re not far from it. But before reaching this conclusion, please take a look at these ecology’s monuments called Ecorazzi.

Having said this, I just feel like spiting on every eco-friendly companie, throw papers on the floor, get all rebel and not separate the garbage. And above all, energetically contribute to the Earth’s poles’ melting.

But I won’t do all that. Because I am anti-ecological.

> On the left, Wangari Maathai, 2004 Nobel Peace Prize, Kenyan important spokesperson.
On the right, Chris Martin, a famous vegetarian and music star.

> On the left, Christian Bale, another famous vegetarian, as well as Hollywood super-star.
On the right, Rachel Carson, the first person ever to face a powerful lobby in favor of the birth of the existing ecological conscience.

> On the left, Leo di Caprio, needs no presentation, famous Hollywood star, one of the most famous Al Gore followers.
On the right, Farley Mowat, cientist, and an activist icon. Inspirational for millions of people today.

Despite some of the above mentioned are already dead, who do you think will be the winner of the 2009 Eco-masters fighting championship?

BAUHAUS IS ALIVE

2009-08-12T12:47:00.000-07:00

A few days ago I read an article entitled “Bauhaus is 90 years old and is alive”.

As I was reading it, a strange feeling came over me. I had studied Bauhaus at University, and so I knew most of the things I was reading about. So what was it then? I closed my eyes and suddenly a fast, yet very clear image appeared in my head. My dad explaining to me why that chair was different form all the others we had. To me it was just a chair, but apparently that one had a mysterious value.

Before I continue, I must say that my father is what we can call the ultimate collector. Since he was little, he has made so many different collections, that most of them I can’t now recall. So, just like an arrogant 9 or 10 year old boy can be, I thought, “well it’s just a black chair, and it is the perfect launch pad for my hot wheels!”. The chair was indeed a Wassily chair, designed by Marcel Breuer, a fact only perceived by me a few years later, when my fascination for the artistic world had finally developed.

> Marcel Breuer's Wassily chair. My favorite launch pad.

I have a strange relationship with the Bauhaus school. Strange not because I’ve developed some strange fetish, but because I understood its philosophy over the years, in the most empirical way possible. And it was marked by three important moments.

1. When I was a little boy

The first moment I heard about the importance of this school was at home, when I was just a little boy. When you have two architects at home, both my parents in my case, there are some things you just absorb osmotically. You hear them, you see them, and many times you just feel them. They are not alien to you because they were already there, most of the times even before you were.

2. When I was an illiterate student

A few years later, I intensified my relationship with Bauhaus, as my art history professor was explaining us the importance of this early 20th century school of design. At this time I was a young fashion-victim, not like one of those which find in the fashion world the origin of life, but still influenced enough to look at those Bauhaus objects as something obsolete that my grandparents could have at home. I slowly started to decode the backstage of this strange movement. So it was the “house for all”, or “the furniture available to all”. But I still couldn’t understand what this ruckus was all about.

3. My journey to the North

My third Bauhaus moment came when I lived in Berlin for one year, as an Erasmus student. Berlin transformed me in many ways. I learned, for instance, that the Latin-American people weren’t actually “discovered” by the Portuguese, as they were already there; that the German students don’t learn about most of the Second World War period at school; that you can’t write something against one influent Jew, or any Jew at all, because you most probably would lose your job; and that some of my German friends, coming from East Germany, had never seen an orange before the fall of the Wall.

> Marcel Breuer's Cesca chair. My grandparents' dinner chairs at our family's summer house.

I also learned that history can be alive within the city walls. I come from an ancient city, Lisbon, rich in History, but in Berlin the urban needlework is still visible. You can still see the signs left by decades of segregation. And you can still hear the voices within the buildings.

Only there could I understand what was behind Mies van der Rohe’s glass walls, in a way that I never could in Barcelona. Those transparencies weren’t just an aesthetic achievement; they were, above all, a new way to build.

As every student abroad probably knows, one of the main issues of living in a foreign city with with little more than pocket-money is the comfort of your home. Usually you live with other students, in the University campus or in a rented house. The first thing one usually does, after finding a place to stay, is to embark on a search for cheap and comfortable furniture. In some cities that could be a problem. But not in Berlin, as I was about to discover in that slow Fall of 2003.

Berlin was becoming the new Mecca for creativity. Everyone that wanted to be a credited creator was going there. The new Punk-electronic movement was being polished with a vintage atmosphere, and wrapped in the decadent, but increasingly fashionable, East Germany buildings, legacy from the Soviet domain. The “stock markets”, every Sunday mornings, are the fastest way to get unique objects and clothing, but they are not cheap. You cannot decorate your entire house with those kinds of things.

> Le Corbusier's Chaise Longue. Where I used to read my comic books of "Les Aventures de Tintin".

On a sunny Sunday morning, as I was discussing the high prices of such objects with some of my new friends there, one of the German girls that was showing us around told us, in the calm tone that only the Germans can use: “Why don’t you guys go to IKEA?”.

In the year of 2003, there wasn’t an IKEA in Portugal, so that word didn’t mean a thing to me. In fact, those letters put together weren’t a word at all. I ended up going there, more than once, and this became the third, and up until now, the last, Bauhaus moment of my life.

“The house for all”

Suddenly this famous school, apparently killed by the Nazi, was alive. The IKEA mega-stores, with hundreds, or thousands of square meters of endless home styles, were the living proof that the “house for all” was more than alive. It actually was becoming even stronger.

IKEA is now a legend and the similarities with the Bauhaus movement do not end with those nearly Spartan design-influences. With that avant-garde system of do it yourself packages, IKEA could sell cheaper furniture, therefore representing the true spirit of the “house for all”.

Even though people might not notice it, it fights for the democratization of furniture. It is the opposite of the luxury tendencies, coming from the 18th century, which persisted throughout the 19th and most of the 20th centuries. So far so good.

Bauhaus survival was made possible because it was not only about the design. It was about a lifestyle, which is becoming more and more suited to the so-called “disposable” generation.

> Ikea's Fusion Dining Table and Chairs. One of my favourite pieces ever.

THE IDEA

2009-08-11T09:19:00.001-07:00

On the origin of the onion flavour

Since Mankind appeared, Man has covered himself with layers. In fact, those layers are so important that, without them, there wouldn’t be societies, politics, cultures, art, or even sexuality, feelings, or intelligence. Each one of us lives within those layers, like an onion. The closer we are to another being, the more layers we peel off. The more comfortable we become, the less we need to wrap ourselves in those filters.

On the one hand the onion is important, because it gives us protection, intimacy, and the ability to blend in. But on the other hand, the onion in each one of us can become a problem, because of its complexity. Lies, conflicts and wars, are among the consequences of Mankind’s onion flavour.

The onion flavour is something of great importance but unfortunately, I believe we have only been tasting the outside layers of the onion, the dryer, older, and less tasty layers. For an uncertain number of reasons, we are not making an accurate analysis of what surrounds us. But I don’t blame us for that. In a world where we have to work 8 hours a day, five times a week, 50 or 60 years of our lives, not to mention our family, friends and not so close friends, traveling, television, the internet and everything else, how can we see anything with an accurate depth? How can we see anything at all?

Even though I now belong to that working force, I’ve decided that tasting the onion flavour is important. At least my own onion, and, whether it’s possible, to taste other onion flavours too.

Me, myself and my blog

When I started blogging, two years ago, I wasn’t quite sure of what I was actually blogging about. I knew, of course, that a blog was like a deposit, where you leave all the interesting things you find on your way, and allow other people to see them, as well as discuss them. But there are as many ways to have a blog as the outrageous number of blogs that exist today.
My fascination for the editorial world of books, magazines, catalogues and monographs and tons and tons of images, lead me to a process in which my first blog, Territorius (written in Portuguese, my mother language) started looking like an image orgy of news from the arts’ world. The activity of giving my view to the world soon became an endless and quite suffocating search for the new, the fresh and the unseen.

I’m a very competitive person. Everything I do must be good, efficient and, especially, new. This characteristic caused me a progressive frustration, as I realized that there would always be a better, newer, funnier or more complete blog than my own. It’s a fact that there is always someone doing what you do in a better, faster and stronger way.

I then entered a period I now like to call the Rethinking period. That was indeed the last post of my first and only personal blog. I took some time to think about what I wanted to do with it. After all, 2 years and more than 600 posts isn’t something you dare to throw to waste easily. But it was time to change myself and to rearrange my onion layers.

I knew I didn’t want to stop blogging, because that’s something I really like to do, so I started thinking which changes I needed to make, in order to achieve a more personal and more satisfactory blog.

The fact is that today, the vast majority of blogs are simply a copy of others, in an endless and vicious cycle, where a few create and the rest of us copy. So, what if I joined the group of those few that actually give a personal perspective of the world we live in? This was when I realized that there was something I could do better than anyone else in the world. Why not write about what I feel? If I’m the only one who feels that way, than I’m the best suited person to write about it. If it’s about my feelings for Architecture and Territory (my professional area) so be it. If it’s about my interests, such as Art, Dance, Photography, Design, Fashion…why not? And if it’s just something about the way I’m feeling, there is no reason to be embarrassed, is there?

The enormous amounts of images we are presented with today are blocking us from saying what we feel about the reality. Most of the times, the images we see in Architecture, for example, are not real. And they don’t even pretend to simulate reality, but to create a fake world instead, utopian images never to be constructed. This made me feel increasingly bored about my job and I suddenly realized I didn’t feel that much of anything anymore. Those images are quite appealing, I must admit, but they were not fulfilling me.

I’m usually a very introversive person, when it comes to revealing my emotions. But the truth is that my architectural beliefs, as well as all the others, come from what I am, from my memories and my values, and not so much from what I see or don’t see in the cover of a magazine. This also influences me, of course, but only when related to what I really believe in.

Chronicles of the onion flavour

I chose to use the term chronicle because, from now on, I intend to write about what I really am, what I believe in, and the new things I discover along my path, which truthfully add something positive to my previous position.

I don’t know if I’ll write a lot, or just a few texts. I’ll write whenever I want to, and about what moves me. And if anyone has a new, stronger or simply different position than the ones I present here, feel free to discuss it.