quarta-feira, 26 de março de 2014

Glitter is a bitch's best friend

---------- Critical Writing about “Keep it real” by Pedro Costa --------- -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- A few months ago I saw the work "Keep it real" by artist Sergiu Matiș at the SODA Research Showings at Uferstudios in Berlin. I decided to write about his performance because it attracted my sense of desire and aroused my curiosity, jolting me from the passive position of audience member. The break with the conventional theatrical scene, where the "fourth wall" reigns, happens in the first interpellation from Matiș: "Welcome, bitches!". We, the audience, are clearly thrown into a non-passive game for the show. The artist makes of us a piece of the Miscegenation. He makes us his bitches. This is the purpose of "The Bitch Manifesto", as the work is also titled. He uses the word "bitch", which is loaded with abjections, to transform the world. Thus, he changes us into subjects, no longer submissive to a violent ideology, but instead, as politically empowered beings. I always considered of fundamental importance to know the life story of the artist, because I believe that critique and body are always connected in performance. The subject is implicated in the act, even in its own subtext, or its veiled biography. It is impossible to conceal one's biography in the choices of scenic elements. In this case, it is a work of power play. The subaltern speaks. Matiș is an artist from Romania, Eastern Europe. His geo-political biography points to a post-socialist artist. A queer and feminist artist. In order to build the dramaturgy in his work, he uses the essay "A Cyborg Manifesto: Science, Technology, and Socialist-Feminism in the Late Twentieth Century" by Donna Haraway. Thus, he presents us a fictional-political work, ironically composed to destabilize the capitalist system and a centralized art market. In his act, we find empowered bodies: a bio-female body, a post-socialist body, a black body, and cyborg bodies posed as a proposition of the anthropological conflict between "nature" and "culture." They are as satisfying and disturbing as the choreography itself. Cyborgs are put in a metaphysical field, in the power struggles and in the struggles to deconstruct patriarchal power. The cyborg body as transgressed boundary, possessing dangerous political possibilities. The bodies mingled with the use of media and contemporary dance. They utilized choreographed repetition of movement, as much as the repetition of video clips from MTV (Music Television), which contaminated a whole generation. In the choreography, reproduction and repetition were used in order to reach a technically perfect movement. A double critique was then revealed: of dance, and of industrial society. Or would be of a dance, whose structure is influenced by industrial society? The work is a fiction, and acts in this sphere. We are bitches, our pleasure. And a bitch worth his/her salt needs a moment of glamor. The glamor is power! Under the spotlight, throwing silver glitter against the ventilator fan, a parody is established with the merged scenes of Marilyn Monroe's skirt blowing in the wind in the film "The Seven Year Itch" (directed by Billy Wilder, 1955) and of a diamond being offered to her in the musical "Gentlemen Prefer Blondes" (directed by Howard Hawks, 1953). The glitter (or diamonds?) fly in the direction of the bitches in Matiș' act. It is an excess of glitter that contaminates everyone, including us and the performance space. At the end of the performance, as Matiș reads us a text, he reveals that silver glitter represented the transformation of bodies into cyborgs bodies. But according to Haraway’s text, the bodies would already be cyborgs in Matiș' choreographic propositions. To me, the glitter inferred a Camp aesthetic, and according to Gregory Woods, contemporary queer culture inherited the structures and strategies of Camp. It is indisputable however, that while immersed in the allure of glitter, Matiș' final choreography also proved extremely interesting: it created a likeness to worms crawling in glitter! Animalistic bodies, glamorous vermin, necessary to the capitalist system: the bitchies! In conclusion, I would like to note that I titled this text "Glitter is a bitch's best friend" as a parodia povera, free and politically engaged in relation to the phrase "Diamonds are a girl's best friend" to demonstrate the critique of capitalism that Matiș' work brings. Silver glitter sparkling like diamonds. Diamonds as the capitalist glamor, patriarchal and heteronormative. Silver glitter as trick, the glamour of the poor, anti-patriarchal, queer. The work is efficient at criticizing the glamorous character of the capitalist system via the use of irony as a strategy which Haraway uses in her text to destabilize the classic scenes of dance choreography and the comfortable and passive place of the audience. Nevertheless, the bodies in the performance are seemingly normative bodies. They function with the structure of classical ballet. But their subjectivities, biographies and fictions reveal another side! This dichotomy indicates the vertigo in post-humanism. These bodies reveal the mirage of translations, the noise of desires. After all, "Are my Adidas shoes going to walk me into trouble?" ----------------------- -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- “Keep it real”, with: Maria Walser, Corey Scott-Gilbert, Sergiu Matiș. Dramaturgy: Mila Pavicevic. Produced by: HZT/UDK Berlin, MA SODA & Uferstudios Berlin –-- Dezember 2013

terça-feira, 4 de fevereiro de 2014

manifesto contra os desejos capitalistas

Você, que se esforça para ter um corpo esculpido como as estátuas gregas. Você, que acha lindo os homens de estereótipo macho, agressivo, jovem, perfumado e perfeito, e que ama o estereótipo branco, olhos claros e loiro... saiba, você não tem desejos próprios. Você é um boneco manipulado dos desejos capitalistas. Nós não desejamos vocês! Temos asco de sua presença! O armário só existe para vocês. Nós nunca soubemos o que é estar dentro do armário. Sempre estivemos fora dessas criações capitalistas e eurocêntricas de sobrevivência. Nós somos a guerrilha encarnada. Somos aquelxs que não temos medo, porque o medo também é uma criação capitalista. Somos aquelxs que não se denominam „ser humano“, porque esse termo é muito limitado e conformado para o que somos. Nós não buscamos a felicidade e tampouco somos depressivxs. Tudo isso também é criação capitalista de controle dos desejos. Nós temos todas essas informações, e explodimos com todas elas. Somos a urgência de conexão e quanto mais urgente, mais profundo é nossa conexão. Não somos a raiva encarnada, porque quando surgimos, isso não existia. Não somos nada do que você nos denomina, porque essas denominações fazem parte de um sistema o qual não fazemos parte. Podemos aparentar fazer parte, mas só externamente. Nossa imaginação e desejos são livres e anteriores. Nós somos muito antigxs, por isso mesmo, tão resistentes e atacadxs. Vocês pensam que somos sempre cooptadxs, mas vocês não entendem que a nossa estratégia é mais fatal que a sua. Atuamos de forma invisível. No campo em que trabalhamos, o seu sistema não consegue ver. O que fazemos é profundo e não há volta. Somos „invisíveis“ para o seu sistema, porque não deveria existir nada além da binaridade. Mas nos hipervisibilizamos para que sejas incomodado. Nós passamos, te enfrentamos, e ao final rimos de seu sistema falido. Não choramos, mas nos transbordamos de emoções. Quando um de nós é feridx, todos nós sentimos. Mas isso apenas fortalece o nosso trabalho, o de modificá-los. Essa é a única forma que pensas que nos modifica. Quanto mais nos violentam, mais de nós surge, porque atuamos em conexão, e vocês, em solidão. Você que se faz de contemporâneo, entendedor e compreensivo, nós sabemos que você atua na superficialidade. Pode estar entre nós, mas não é um de nós. Sua raiva é por sua limitação. Você não pode ver. E, se pudesse, seria um de nós. Nós nos reconhecemos quando nos encontramos e você nos desconhece quando nos vê. É tudo muito simples, mas você jamais entenderá. Em 3.2.14

sexta-feira, 14 de dezembro de 2012

ghettodowntownghetto

Ghettodowntownghetto (writed by Pedro Cost and translated by Hugo Molina) "The ghetto people need no approval from the centers. All the copies made of the movements arisen in the big centers have become something else: neither what they were, nor what they have been. The transit between downtown and ghetto and the lack of resources to invest in ghetto products have made the creation underestimated. I defend that today what comes from the ghetto is new. Old is what lies downtown. New ghetto sound. The copy will never be a copy and much less the original. It is something else, it is another creation… but if we name everything differently, they will be infinite names, for infinite creative qualities that materialize as a product, art, a concept. Tired of being on the fringes, they make the fringes the center. And from the center, they make the center the fringes. A contrary motion? No. I believe that it is a movement for. For all of those who get tired of waiting. Leave Gigi and Gogo waiting for Godot. They, eternalized in the anguish of waiting, can have this role. And period! They’re enough. The policy of revolution is already. Now, present, not so smiling, but with effects which surpass the control and the censorship of the media, of the entertainment industry, of the great study centers. They flee because they do not need them to exist. Anguish, hunger, loneliness, abjection turned into creation, into music, into dance, into intervention. Perhaps we are too punk: in attitude. If we are slaves and landlords in the writing or of the language, let’s be in it and for it, contaminated by what is interesting. What is interesting is to make myself be heard by myself and distribute the so many voices I have heard and have been hearing for so long. Leaving the condition of victim and becoming the author of oneself, at the same time in which I can acknowledge the limit of the words and of the exposed cultural conditions that affect me directly, it is the work that is done in the language to find, maybe, a way out of it. If it is possible, it will exist. But, it’s by the ways that moments are built. It’s still not possible to be sure of the radical marginality of the language. To leave her, to plead ( in the sense of getting by and litigating), is a fact? For everything, it is necessary to acknowledge. The acknowledgement frees me of the heavy burden of providing ready answers to not-yet-known questions. It is a questioning, maybe one of the thousands more, with no obvious answers. Maybe I could answer circularly, but neither vertically nor horizontally. The need of answering a question is what makes many researchers lay their valuable lives to reach a satisfactory question. At my intent and at my taste, I admire things that go hand in hand with life, with the day-to-day, with the many invisible stories. And, by being invisible, something turns them into lives with that characteristic. A technology of thought (I listen to Foucault while I listen to Dead Things, by Philip Glass). But, if this technology wants them like this, it is because there is something not submissive, not inferior, of not-value. For, if so many apparatuses are created to hide, to kill, to repress the invisible ones, it might be so because they try to look beyond questions and answers. Maybe they create, and to create is to be! To create is like giving birth: something comes out of me, which is not yet and never was a copy. It is to create with what you have, with the conditions involved, with the dance of active Shiva (to destroy for constructing): to move, to play, to search, to perceive curiously, to be attentive. And out of so many verbs, and out of so many other ones, products are born, seductions are born. Product is not everything that is going to be consumed by the current market (capitalist, neo-liberal, globalized, exchange currencies…), but product as something that exists. It exists, created, with no conjugated values. And, the price of an idea does not exist. They stipulate, they auction, but concretely, there is none. Ideas find space beyond the prices, beyond the walls, beyond the centers. And so be it, a prayer, a purge, a caustic fever, for being an idea that does not stop. Stop! I’m not a diva, I’m a bitch! Who was wrong, raise your hand. Dressed like a diva to get the sex that is going to satisfy the whore who exists in me. This is interpellation: raising the hand comes loaded with a YES. A taste can also represent what Geertz develops in the encounter between culture and semiotics: every gesture, in each specific culture, has a meaning. Nothing is for nothing. Or is it? Although he might have been deceived by the natives, who discovered his game before he discovered the natives’ game (and who until today has not realized or admitted), he created his own theory, even so. Perhaps there was no meaning. Perhaps it was something invented in the moment and, with a twitch to deceive whoever wants to understand me, it earned a great explanatory representation of how the world of those people works. Lévi-Strauss could confirm that and, in fact, he did: the Nambiquaras wanted his power: the writing. It started then a process of literacy. They did not want to be illiterate anymore. And not because they catechized them, but because they realized, through the wickedness in their hearts (that they can name as the way of being and that has its positive value), that the pen and the notebook compose an intrinsic value of power, of differentiation and of command. To know something I do not know is power. It is to open the doors for negotiation. It is to say that there is a proposal of affinity, and of wanting to be what the other one is, but in my way. To be the other one like I am is revolutionary. It is not to lose what I have, and from me on, it is to have more: what is mine and what is the other one’s. To get to know is never too little and never too much. I will never be Judith Butler, but being closer to Nízia Floresta, I am satisfied with the cultural translation I can do from Butler and her theories, in a creative unfaithfulness that surprises me and creates something new. Maybe to be unfaithful is a strong character to be explored with more insistence. And from it, from the unfaithfulness, the representations pass through a vulgar, hypothetical filter, and which satisfies me. Because I have learned how to gain experience with spoken things that were bad, ugly, of low value. But, from this point I can speak and compensate: if you did not like it, swallow me! What would be made of me without the Rio funk, formulated and created so many times as the number of existing songs is. The lyrics of Rio funk break taboos and do not establish other ones. When you think that there is a new regulation being established, there comes the Rio funk and says that there are other moments and that the experimentation is far gone from the mark. It is like creating by what I live. Reproducing: sexisms, antagonisms, illegalities… but everything is a point of view: it depends on who speaks and who listens. It can be a law, too, but I believe that little works. What is the coercion of the law before the strength of desire? The law escapes from the mouths, as the faithful and absolute certainty of a perfect and democratic society. But life, mainly in the ghettos, has other flexibility, other compliance, other pitch of voice and of body structures. I lower my head and listen to what the lords of power say. But it is by lowering the head that I can look at the sound system on which I am going to play and to create the beats and, from there on, to change the look. It is a guerrilla that simmer philosophically in the dictatorship and which continues philosophical nowadays. To be direct or indirect is the same thing, the difference is that some understand because they live and others because they read. The risks are different, but the change that causes it is the same. Political attitude or acceptance of frustration is revolutionary. One because it goes and does and shouts and throws a tantrum and makes use of intellectual weapons or any other ones for such a thing. And the other one is because it does not meet the social civic duty to make a nation happy and stronger. I can not make a nation stronger if it is the first one to weaken me. So, my nation I recognize in my brother, in the ones who value me and who stimulate me and acknowledge me as a subject. Maybe the price of that is a death at twenty, an incurable disease at fifteen, an arrest at nineteen. Or maybe it is the ticket to have money, to construct with the same speech, the speech of valorization of beyond-expanded acknowledgement: to other worlds named countries." published in the artbook from Brazil: "perpendicular cenário#ambiente" Org. Wagner Rossi Campos Belo Horizonte: Instituto Cidades Criativas 2010 ISBN 978-85-61659-14-1

quarta-feira, 10 de outubro de 2012

troco

(na palavra, uso. no corpo, troco)

domingo, 7 de outubro de 2012

Cadê?

Cadê o desejo de fuder, o desejo de conquistar, o desejo de ter, o desejo, cadê? Cadê a inspiração, a suspiração, a contaminação? Mais uma vez a desesperança é a tônica. Um campo estéril, de quilômetros, quilômetros e quilômetros se estende. Não. Não há horizonte, só campo. Os vírus, as bactérias, povoam. As dores expandem, dilatam. O contato com as pessoas destrói. Suas felicidades alheias são suficientes para elas. Há um ser indiferente aqui. Dormir, comer, não cabe. Só o suficientemente necessário. E o vômito. A descarga. A fraqueza. A falta. Last night I dreamt that you loved me. Who are you?

sexta-feira, 24 de setembro de 2010

kaputt

já me quebrei em mil caquinhos, pequeninos...

já me colei todas as vezes, eu sei...

mas sempre uns caquinhos se perderam no caminho...

e eu com eles, um pouquinho...

quinta-feira, 23 de setembro de 2010

hoje eu sofri...

hoje eu sofri...
como um adolescente, sem saber o que fazer, ao se deparar com o amor a frente...
sofri, porque sabia o que fazer, mas nao o fiz...
nao sabia falar...
nao sabia expressar em nenhuma língua, só em portugues...
e meus olhos se enxeram de lágrimas...
mas nao cairam.
talvez eu entenda. talvez eu ache que sou louco, realmente.
de novo, já sabes, a mesma coisa.
pedro ja cansou.
ja cansou de saber e nao mudar.
digo a mim: nao era o seu amor.
digo a mim: a carencia era maior.
digo a mim: quero repartir o inverno contigo.
nao disse. pensei.
tenho todo o cheiro de perfume e lubrificante em minhas maos.
nao quero.
deixei para trás uma meia.
como cinderela.
nao me procuraras. nao te procurarei.
isso machucou a ele. isso machucou a mim.
nao sei...
ele nao sabe...
mais um choque...
pq é tao ruim?
pq me machuca tanto?
pq nao sei como lidar?
em que feridas abertas essa mosca pousa?
em que podridao esqueci-me?
pq nao busquei-me e refiz-me?
poderia ter sido diferente...
mas nao foi...