The kid

I didn’t see the sculpture I specifically remembered in the National Gallery and whose name and author I no longer recall and failed to note in my diaries. It was a beautiful bronze sculpture and used to be placed in the inside of the building, just by the entrance door. The figure of a young girl, head leaning over shoulder, bare skin, hands behind her back, embarrassed; and feet crossed, shy. Long hair that seemed to be thin and flowing although the reality of things as they are, that stiff and golden reality, would shoosh the bronze to remain still. The stillness in movement. It wasn’t there and I was too shy to ask the guards. So shy I almost put my hands behind my back and crossed my feet. The guard told me instead I did not need to put my purse in the locker since it was so small.

I remembered liking this gallery more, and certainly remembered it to be smaller in size and bigger in things, I mean, in my memory there were much more sculptures and much more paintings. And not as many people. Maybe it’s because it’s Saturday. And in my memory I was fifteen and it was a rainy day in October. I get a map.

I stand on room and as I’m looking at the pictures and writing my notes, in the first room I mean, a Japanese group that entered at the same time is already mingling at the door and following the blue flag, taking the last pictures and video shots and getting ready to part and visit maybe still another gallery or very possibly another country. I wonder if they think they are flies, the Japanese, for they rush through life as if their life were only 24 hours long.

In this room, number ten or eleven, ten I think, I remember of my visits to Uffizi in Florence and to Louvre in Paris and to other museums specially in Italy. Nothing seems to break through the roman baths and inspirations. And pastures.

There is although a sculpture … “De tre gratier lytter til amors sang”. I like this one. It doesn’t bring any new elements, and I have probably seen twenty like this. But I like the word “amor”, because that means “love” in portuguese, and I like the fact that Eros carries a lyre and it reminds me of my favourite lullaby story, the one about the birth of Hermes, and how he charmed the turtle the very day he was born – hungry and extraordinarily mature for his age, he meets a turtle on his way back from devouring the ox of the sun’s chariot and works his magic:

- Oh beautiful animal, graceful species, you with the voice so mild and so gentle tunes, you best singer of all, what are you doing here this late and why are you not singing, why are you not singing? What do you say? Can you whisper instead? Can you sing?

The turtle, more than confused, keeps staring and wondering what are the plans of the prodigious baby, who, without blinking twice, jumps and cuts the creature open and, using its shell to bring acoustics and its insides as the chords, creates the first musical instrument of all, the lyre, the methapore of inspiration and art itself. And what a wicked hungry smart little baby it took to create inspiration.

And that reminds me of my father and of the fact that I hadn’t heard of Little Red Hiding Hood until the age of six but way before that I knew more greek myths than many scholars. And could sing one or two hymns of Bacchus.

By the other paintings and sculptures I passed without much passion, writing down their characteristics, observing the contrasts and trying to read, as I was told an intellectual should, behind every strike of paintbrush, trying to find the genealogy of the thought and the dimensions and angles and what’s obvious and what’s not. Realistic paintings and naturalistic paintings. They have the same effect on me than realistic and naturalistic novels. Boredom. The way I see it art should go through, yes, but beyond reality. What good is there in seeing the thing on screen as you see it out of the screen, as seeing the portrait of a rock if there’s no more to the rock than rockness itself, if such a word should exist. I expect the plus to be in the painting. If nothing else, a wicked mirror.

The bait who got my eye was though “Natten”, by Peter Nicolai Arbo. It got my eye and my heart with its fairy tale traces and obscure motifs, with the horse and the pale lady riding the sky, and it reminded me of my cousin. She used to draw fantastic pale women so beautifully, and painted me a picture of a magic young with a purple cape, and that was just before she got blind and way before she stopped talking to me. Still, a beautiful night carrying a baby through the sky. The mystery in process.

I saw other paintings that would rather please my sister more, because she likes pictures of people. I don’t. I like movement and feelings, I like Munch’s Madonna for example. It’s many other things before it is a picture of a person.

Most of all I don’t like pictures of dismal ladies by the window looking out as if there was no hope left and yet hope is all that’s left, be it with the snow of sea or japanese lamp, or chin on the hand, I simply don’t like this position of the lady by the window passively waiting and waiting and waiting. My sister does, though. And she likes roman beauty standard lines and she likes ballet dancers and other sweet elements. Both of us hate clowns, at least.

I couldn’t stay much longer in Munch’s room, there were several teenagers there in an art class apparently and I don’t like noise when I’m looking at paintings. I think in many ways I’m a grumpy 80 years old lady.

I followed the laughter of two blonde girls in pony-tails and my soul was in peace. Oda Krohg’s “En abonnent på Aftenposten” on the wall, the picture of a small girl, also blond, with a pair of scissors cutting the newspapers. Simple ideas.

He third floor is closed and at the other half of the second the entrance is not for free. I browse the postcards in the museum store and I decide not to buy anything although posters and cards are on sale. I just walk out and see the sculptures in the brief garden. I just cross the street and think that official buildings are hardly very colorful and official art is hardly very happy. Everyone is trying to find the reasons and trying to find the answers and seeking the typical and the original and the essence. I prefer overflows – like cow and calf cut through half.

18.nov.2002

Common kitchen

So, ’panne’ means both
Forehead
And
Frying pan
As I could understand
From the hungry lady
with an empty food pack
cooking something that looks fresh
and that she claims is never enough food
only a pack

- The princess is sitting on the bench
And is very skeptical
Of the new information –

So I say
Beklager
(for it sounds more
hamletlistic
than unnskyld)
And ask again
If panne means both
Det – pointing at my forehead
Og det – frying pan

Ja, da.

I guess it makes sense
You can also feed from thoughts
And get a hot head from overthinking

What about a thoughtful meal
Or forvirret noodles

The hungry lady leaves the common kitchen
Before I gather courage to ask
If her panne has
A bestemt flertall.

oslo
11.11.02
(originalmente escrito em ingles)

..........................................

cozinha comum

entao, 'panne' significa tanto
testa
quanto
panela
pelo que pude entender
da moca com fome
com um pacote vazio de comida
cozinhando uma coisa que parece fresca
e que ela alega nao ser nunca suficiente
so um pacote

- a princesa esta sentada no balcao
e esta muito desconfiada
da nova informacao -

entao eu digo
Beklager
(porque eh mais
hamletlistico
que unnskyld)
E pergunto mais uma vez
se panne significa tanto
Det - apontando pra minha testa
Og det - panela

Ja, da.

Acho que faz sentido
Tambem se pode alimentar de pensamentos
E esquentar a cabeca por pensar demais

Que tal uma refeicao ponderada
Ou macarrao forvirret

A moca com fome sai da cozinha comum
Antes que eu tenha coragem de perguntar
Se a panne dela tem
Um bestemt flertall.

[beklager = desculpe]
[unnskyld = desculpe]
[det = isso]
[og = e]
[ja, da = sim, decerto]
[forvirret = confuso]
[bestemt flertall = plural definido]

pra viagem

voce passa com a bandeja
(e nela os trocos furados
do bolso da minha famina)

ha velas e flores e mulheres de meia
uma duzia de bracos e focos de brasa
mas ai
voce passa com uma bandeja
o ar se tresgelatina
vore retira o prato
voce limpa a mesa

eu, fodida, salpico
as migalhas do meu esofago
meu olhar ensopado pra dois
quase nada, este olhar de truta
eu aqui de acompanhamento
(o arroz no cantinho do prato)

eu decoro o seu trajeto
de modo que poderia desenhar
os seus passos no assoalho
igual aos tapetes que ensinam
os passos de uma danca de salao
no desenho do pateta

voce recolhe a prataria
- eu que mordia a colher! -
me traz mais um copo d'agua...
me tras uma salada grega...
me traz sobremesa de amora...
e aquele amor?

conta, agora.

31.08

En kaffe til

o bar se chama botica - botica! - e eh aqui
que venho tomar meu cafezinho
de vez em quando.

trago aas vezes um livro
mas o que sigo lendo
eh o verso no cotovelo
de cada pessoa.

ha uma flor em cada mesa
mobilia de tronco escuro
um espelho na outra sala
um balcao
e cem garrafas estrangeiras.

nos lustres adaptados
minha alma se pendura
pelas suas mercurias
pernas de alma.

o meu folego e bom senso
eu os penduro no cabide
e uso palavras estranhas
e lambo a borda da xicara...

no som ambiente uma flauta

afunda rasa memoria

convalesco da tua falta.

bar apotheket,
31.08.02

foxx


e dizer o que? o bar tem um aspecto limpo e cursivo como um bom site da internet. na geladeira industrial, sanduiches e garrafas de suco de laranja intercalados simetrica e ainda dinamicamente. tons de azul e cinza, uma musica eletronica sussurra. a moca de cabelo liso e longo atras do balcao eh tambem plana e harmoniosa: polo cinza, avental mais cinza ainda. no bar, copos disponiveis, duas jarras d’agua. eu estou no outro canto, atras de uma das mesas de madeira clara, sentada no sofa sem encosto revestido de veludo escuro – muito muito preto. limpo, como dizia. do lado de fora cai uma chuva cheia de ma vontade, pingos grossos de mercurio, um frio de afogar a alma. eh cedo. no canto de la do outro lado vejo, detras do meu livro ja tatuado pela piloto vermelha (sublinhas e ”ilha”, ”ilha vocab” e palavras circuladas esperando julgamento do webster) , uma moca de cabelo muito claro e uma presilha no cabelo em forma de uma exuberante flor azul. ela titonteia o rabo de cavalo para livrar-se da echarpe, e a echarpe e a flor sao da cor da parede aa sua frente, dois tons menos azuis que os pequenos azulejos corredios. no desfile horizontal das palavras impressas no papel jornal do livro de bolso, kerouac e sua viagem ao oeste. recorto algumas passagens e me divirto com o zumbizar do garcon que recolhe xicaras e cinzeiros. ah. e quarenta paginas se vao assim, dois cafes, duas aguas. se pudesse tirar uma foto do tempo, eu penso. este eh o tempo que imagino o mais moderno de todos os tempos, e se alguem pudesse tirar uma foto do tempo inteiro deste tempo seria esta cena: os cabelos das mocas, a flor, a parede, as cores, a cara de pagina que tem este lugar. o banheiro pleno de design e invencionices, a chuva grossa, a suspeita de desespero, o cheiro de confianca na ignorancia do futuro. mas nao tera sido assim em outros tempos? outros cafes e bares e outras ultimas musicas e outras fotos preparadas quando ja ainda nao existia essa coisa de fotos. e como sequestrar todos esses nós numa dez por quinze. seria preciso incluir a musica, a moca, o garcon, o azulejo, a almofada, o cheiro, a pagina trinta e dois do on the road, a manchete das criancas assassinadas, a nova grande descoberta. me intrigo. pelo descanso na porta passa o vento a lembrar-se na lista. por o vento na foto! e enquanto queimam assim meus cabaites escapei seis paginas ilesa, palavras refogam aa baila e alem do entendo. retorno ao papel e aa piloto. e penso agora que talvez more nesta ultima o recurso pra minha foto do tempo.

m,m

cafe foxx, oslo, 01.10.02