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Uma pagina da minha autobiografia (apropos do massacre da Florida), Feb14, 2018

From “Entre Duas Fileiras” minha Autobio

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The United States of the (mind) :(

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February 16, 2018 · 3:04 pm

Florida 17 School kids DEAD – and what do we do? What do we SAY ?

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The FANTASTIC world of Beatrice Scaccia !!!

I Told Her the Kitten Was Just Asleep: Interview with Beatrice Scaccia

By Caroline Corbetta

Caroline Corbetta: How would you define, very briefly, what you are and what do you do?

Bea Scaccia: Very briefly? Then I’ll try with one word: I’m an author, meaning that I’m the cause and origin of what I do. That’s the dictionary definition at least. As an author, I always try to keep in mind David Mamet’s quote: “The conscious mind cannot create art.”

CC: The term “author” refers to an intellectual practice in some way split from “making”, while your works are (also) the result of an intense and accurate manual work. There is a craftsmanship in your practice, accomplished using traditional materials such as gesso and wax, which you employ in a rather original way. That’s not the case with many artists today. How do you reconcile these two aspects, the intellectual and the manual one?

BS: You’re right, maybe the term “author” should be revised. What I meant to say is that I feel like a creator and performer. These two roles belong to two very different parts of the process. When I think of the images I want to make, I experience intense moments of pure enthusiasm, of profound reflection, and of few, very few, limits. I imagine characters that are confused, annihilated, and playful. And I think they are always new and, at the same time, also identical to the ones I already created.

This first stage, one of quick sketches and notes, is then followed by the actual “making.” This second part of the process opens a different moment, sometimes a frustrating one. The hand has its own memory, different from the cerebral one. The images I produce in the studio are always quite “far away” from those I wanted to produce. They always take me to another place and this pushes me to repeat the same process, continuously. Luckily, I am very fast so the frustration of realizing a work coincides with the initial phase of the process. I switch from big to small sizes, from pencils to paint, from Photoshop to puppet making. I am intrigued by the 3D world, but I have not yet begun to investigate it. Mine is a continuous search. I envy a lot of artists that, speaking of their own work, can say: “this is a beautiful, terrific work.” I can only understand what a new work adds to the previous one. Or what it can detract. It’s difficult for me to be able to see, objectively, what I have made.

CC: I would like to know more about your techniques, especially your use of wax. Did you invent your technique or was it learned from someone else?

BS: I saw how beeswax is used on furniture and in the Batik technique. Then, here in New York, I attended some workshops about paper techniques. These focused on general aspects like resistances, types, and so on. From there, little by little, I developed and perfected my technique. It was born from several attempts, mistakes and lucky moments. I think it’s connected to my poetics because it is composed of many layers. First, I draw and/or paint; then I use warm gesso to give myself an idea of the space and the light in the piece; then I reinforce some areas with a collage of rice paper, especially on the edges and on some of the details. Finally, I pour warm beeswax on the whole image, and then, with the use of an iron for encaustic, I remove the excess wax, protecting the paper with pieces of cloth. It is about control and losing control, remembering and forgetting. I love both gesso and wax for their scent, it’s a matter of olfactory perception also. I am connected to the art of the past, to traditional preparations, but instead of continuing to prepare my canvases with Bologna gesso, rabbit glue, etcetera (as I used to do in the beginning), I tried to “patent” a technique that says something about myself.

But then again, this kind of things happen in the studio without words, without knowing.

 

CC: When did you know that you were an artist? Personally, I do not think that one can “act like an artist,” but one “is an artist.” You have to be aware of it, though. And then work hard.

BS: I agree with you. I think I always knew it. It wasn’t clear in the beginning. Since I was a little girl, however, I was always very aware of myself and of life in general, often in a very painful way. I was attentive to changes, to time. A goofy and happy child, but also extremely melancholic. I remember spending hours in the bedroom making puppets, drawing, and writing stories. I was terrified of losing everything, always careful to put aside memories and objects. When I was twelve, I became filled with sadness at the idea of having to grow up. I looked at my toys and protected them as if they were part of me. I was basically an obsessive memoirist as a child. In that sense, I have very vivid memories of my childhood. It was only during the years of high school, and those of the Academy in Rome, that came the actual awareness of who I was.

CC: Studying, in fact. And you’re putting in the hard work but when you were still a child, was there someone that influenced you? Some event that took you, even unconsciously, onto an artistic path?

BS: One particular afternoon comes to mind. I must have been seven or eight years old. I grew up in a small Italian village and I was often wandering around the fields with my younger cousin. Behind an old abandoned furniture piece, we found a dead kitten. I remember it was stiffened in an absurd position, with its paws up and the mouth open. I remember touching it with a branch and understanding that it was hard. I lied to my cousin, I told her the kitten was just asleep, but that image changed everything for me. I think becoming aware of mortality is one of the most intense moments in childhood, but I became obsessed with it. For several months, after that afternoon, I could not even touch the parts of my body where I could feel the presence of bones: elbows, knees, ribs, face… I felt crazy about having a skeleton inside because that reminded me of being destined to end, like everything. I do not seem to have changed much, after all.

CC: I personally believe that most artists are pushed into their artistic work by the obsession with human finiteness, an inner urgency that continually compels them to try to transcend mortality. Obviously, it is a futile effort, but it is precisely in that attempt that art is given. Do you come from a family of artists or people linked to the art world?

BS: No, definitely not. My father worked as a construction site manager. My mother was a primary school teacher in the village where I grew up. I think my father died without ever setting foot in a museum. They always gave me great confidence though, they never questioned my choices.

CC: Speaking of choices, when and why did you move to the US? And how much did this affect your practice?’

BS: I started visiting New York from time to time in 2007 and two years later, I spent a whole summer here producing a new series of works at the Lower East Side Printshop. I moved permanently in 2011 because I had fallen in love with the city, even in a very naïve way. This is a city that changed a bit of everything for me. The risk is getting too caught up in the competition and the need to “make it” as an artist. Perhaps in the beginning this way of thinking had some effect on me too. Then I decided to build beautiful protective walls and start again from myself. New York has influenced my work, freed it, and perhaps made it more playful, more conscious. I am happy to have studied in Rome, to have formed myself as an artist by looking at an incredible, baroque and cumbersome city like that. But New York is a city that was necessary for me to understand many things, to strengthen myself.

CC: Do you have any reference artists? Or do you find many of your references outside the visual arts?

BS: There are many artists I love: many in the past, some in the present. I watched Goya until exhaustion, especially the incisions. “Quinta del Sordo” is one of the places I’ve dreamed of seeing in its original structure. I love the Flemish masters, their interiors, their use of color. Among contemporary artists, I love Anselm Kiefer, Louise Bourgeois, Eva Hesse, Ugo Rondinone, Nathalie Djurberg and many others. I think my work gravitates around/towards Bacon, Giacometti, and Bourgeois. I say this because of my interest in the (human) figure and in the basic concepts of being, of self, childhood, art as an experience of life, and life itself. My true references, however, are in the literary and theatre texts. I always find my answers and some solutions there.

 

CC: How important is emotion in your existential and professional experience?

BS: It matters a lot and I cannot even distinguish between existential and professional experience. Being here, wanting to be attentive and present to myself… this can only be dealt with in an emotional, instinctive, empathic way, sometimes even neurotic. An instability seems to be necessary to proceed: there are doubts, contradictions, weaknesses and errors. There is this book that I started reading recently, it’s mainly about writers such as Kafka, Camus, and Sartre. The title is “The Outsider.” I started it and I felt at home, its approach resonated with my own. Quoting the book: “The outsider problem is essentially a living problem, to write about it in terms of literature is to falsify it.” I think this concept can be applied to the visual arts, to everything I love, respect and I aim to be. It is always and exclusively an existential problem, a basic one. It is a question of authenticity, of being faithful to what one is, of one’s own urgencies. In this sense, I like to call myself an outsider. I’m proud of it.

CC: Can you elaborate this concept of “outsider” in which you reflect yourself? It seems very interesting, but it can also imply that to achieve success, at the top of the system, we must be strategists and we must be cynical (the opposite of authentic) and this reasoning is likely to be self-absolutory…

BS: You’re right about that, but I was not referring to a self-absolutory attitude, far from it. To paraphrase Whitman: we contain multitudes and therefore one can declare oneself an outsider with regard to one’s own work, one’s urgency, and one’s own poetics and proceed in any case with one’s own “career” as an artist with determination. Part of being authentic is also about accepting the absence of fidelity towards a modality, accepting there are days when one feels invincible and days when one can barely walk out of the house.

I like my work to be unique and not easily associated with others. As for the cynicism and the strategy necessary to “make it,” we enter a complex discourse. I think that, yes, one should possess a certain amount of lucidity, but I also think that there are so many ways to proceed and there is a certain degree of freedom.

Every day I put everything in perspective and I laugh. The world of contemporary art is so unpredictable that no one is safe; so, in the end, defending your work and your passions are the only things that matter.

 

CC: Speaking of successful artists, you worked for some years in Jeff Koons’s studio. What can you tell us about that experience? How did you get there and why did it end?

BS: I arrived there because I was looking for a job and I had the right skills. I remember I was at a workshop at the Art Student League and I met someone who worked for Koons who invited me to visit the studio, then I got an interview and so on… It ended because it was time to end it. After the first exhibition of the Gazing Ball Paintings in 2015, for different reasons, I decided it was time to leave. I learned so much working there, I refined my knowledge of color and painting, I listened to hundreds of audiobooks and above all, I met people who have become my family here in New York, on all levels.

CC: I have a question about the gender of the characters in your works. Their faces are always hidden, hooded, and it is, indeed, impossible to attribute a gender. One of your first series was titled “he, she, it” (2010) even suggesting that the characters represented could also be non-human creatures… Why this gender indefiniteness of your characters? And why do you continue to represent only “beings” that move in a neutral space, a sort of great emptiness?

BS: I think I’m interested in the indefiniteness we contain. There are moments in our daily routine in which we have no conscious awareness whatsoever: like when we are half-awake and we forget who we are, where we are and we are just sense but not sensibility… I’m interested in that feeling, in the vulnerability of those moments. That’s why I play with senseless movements and senseless attire/accessories. It is a modality that brings me back to the absence of awareness and brings me back to childhood, to the days when we could play as everyone and no-one.

A tail becomes a cigar, an umbrella becomes a curtain, a boy becomes a girl, a girl is a woman, a kid becomes an old man, a pillow becomes your best friend. Everything goes.

I love the expression “put yourself together.” Long ago, I listened to a lecture on American literature in which Professor Arnold Weinstein was speaking about it. “Put yourself together” recalls almost a physical action. Getting together again, reconstituting… reminds us of all our theatricality and inconsistency.

That’s why even when I play with metamorphosis, I use the accessories to cancel and almost make fun of that transformative aspect.

The transformation of man/animal, man/plant in my work is harmless: I add a hat with horns or a tail or a myriad of breasts/sacks, but without making them credible.

For example, in my latest works, the main character wears sacks that recall the many mammary glands/testicles of the Artemis of Ephesus; it is obviously also a tribute to the unforgettable costume by the Bourgeois in the series “Confrontation” of 1978.

There is a fragility at the core of the concept of identity that touches and terrifies me, and with which I have always compared myself.

[Caroline Corbetta is an arts writer, independent curator, and artistic director of @ilcrepaccio ]

December 2017.

Caroline Corbetta, born in Milan, is a curator, cultural journalist, art critic and consultant. Her work focuses on the crossover between different cultural disciplines and the scouting of emerging talents. She organized the first international exhibitions of today’s highly acclaimed artists such as Nathalie Djurberg, Ragnar Kjartansson and Jesper Just. She has contributed to various magazines like Domus, Vogue, L’Uomo Vogue, Ventiquattro (Il Sole 24 Ore), Rolling Stone and Mousse and also wrote essays for exhibition catalogues. She has curated projects for international institutions such as Moderna Museet in Stockholm, Performa in New York, MAMbo in Bologna, HEART Museum, Herning (DK).While working with Italian art-stars like Maurizio Cattelan and Francesco Vezzoli, she continues to scout for new talent. In 2012 she launched Il Crepaccio (The Crevasse), a not-conventional, non-profit exhibition space installed in the window of a Milanese trattoria, dedicated to emerging creativity. 
Her goal is to stimulate the cross-pollination of different disciplines and to bring contemporary art to expand further the audience for contemporary art..
Caroline Corbetta has been profiled in magazines such as W, Wallpaper, Vogue America (website), Flair Germany, Living (Corriere della Sera), Domus, Elle, Donna Moderna, Pizza, Vanity Fair, Marie Claire and The Gentlewoman.

Photo: Beatrice Scaccia in her New York Studio. @Gloria Baker for the WLD Foundation

Her work is presented by:  Artsy Ricco/ Maresca Gallery

https://www.artsy.net/ricco-slash-maresca-gallery/article/ricco-maresca-gallery-told-kitten-asleep

 

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“MY PRESIDENT IS A WORK OF SHITHOLE FICTION”, in its original English version for Poder360

 

“MY PRESIDENT IS A WORK OF SHITHOLE FICTION”

REAL FAKE NEWS – I’M NOT MENTALLY FIT TO BE YOUR COLUMNIST

It was Friday January 26th early morning and I could already feel the tremors and, mind you, I’m eight mountains away. Yes. Trump was expected to arrive at Davos by Friday morning.

I live, at least for half of the year, in the Swiss Alps. Wengen (Canton Bern), to be precise. The reason why I left New York is summarized by one name, Donald Trump.

It seems like the majority, at least the better half, of New Yorkers would do the same if they could. Pack their bags and sail of for a “New Old World”. And yet it seems as if the media can’t get enough of this so called “man”.

“Fake Media”, that is. Right! In a way, they all play right into his hands and into his ridiculous tweets. Fueling a fire that for years had seemed to die down in the United States.

I don’t.

As time goes by it seems as Mr.Trump’s lies are only increasing, reaching peaks that weren’t even seen during his campaign. Wow, This creep has been in office for over a year now. A year on and counting ! It really makes you wonder about the “theories of the unbeknownst”…

Wasn’t it just great in the days of Shakespeare when a character, say, Prospero, would enter territories unbeknownst to his audience – say…Milan or Cartagena – and deliver enormous soliloquies and get away with it? It was great. Or Goethe when placing his Faust at the verge of a calamitous gate of a non existing city or even Kafka who transformed a human into a bug?

“Those were all works of Fiction !!!!” you’ll say. Fiction is fiction and those writers have always existed and Hieronymus Bosch painted all of Dante’s “Inferno” and did not have to burn in hell because of it.

“So what Gerald? How is this even remotely connected to Trump?” So! My president is a work of fiction. But that’s not all. Not only does he believe – does he? – in the melting clocks by Dali – he also accuses all that is in diverse or in opposition to him as being [a] “shithole” or “FAKE” ! Just like Orson Welles did in “F For Fake” decades ago in that brilliant movie about forgerers.

But if you’re awake and reading this, remember that we live in a culture of digital now-ness, twitter-surfing, trivia bingeing — which has become a culture of not-knowing history. Yes, I am acutely aware of social media. As is our shithole president i’m afraid.

“Well Gerald…that’s just human nature !!!!”

“What is ?”

“Degrading others!” you’ll respond. It has always been like this. “At least he speaks his mind, he owns his thoughts”.

Is that a valid point? I mean, opening this constant can of worms – his mouth that is, is that a valid point? And who gains from it?

As a playwright and theater director I can’t be writing about Donald Trump. I shouldn’t…I utterly refuse !!!!

Yet somehow, here I am.

Everyone has pointing in strangely venomous directions. I blame society. Defamation has become the norm, enabling a man as disgusting as Donald J. Trump to rise up as the “Leader of the Free World”. A reality in which social media, knives and screams dictate our rhythm – what used to be a preliminary assessment is now a FINAL judgment before a trial has even taken place!!!

(“The Marshall Plan of misinformation”)

I remember simpler times, before this pool of hate inspiring media took over in which a person could be described as so much more than black or white. Good or evil. To rocker Chrissie Hynde – from the Pretenders – I was nothing more than a disgusting meat eater, “a predator, devourer of the species”, nothing less than a “murderer”. (Oh yes, this all happened moments before we were bound for bed. She smelled the meat on my breath. She stood by her vegetarian / vegan principles. Her loss…)

I also remember when, to some, Jimi Hendrix was simply a fucking junkie. Not a genius who revolutionized everything but a junkie. Yes, I heard this argument from the mouth of a dying country rock star in Nashville, TN in the mid 1990’s.

See? It all depends on how you are portrayed and how you portray others in this ‘War-hole’ age of “selfies portrayal” of others. “Branding”, “marketing”, taking ALL of your values and blending them and coming out with ONE is so damn difficult. But this is how it is in the post-modern life. I mean, I was born with the holocaust in my head. There is no ‘post’ anything, except “post WAR”. I was always made to believe in fleeing, in escaping from conflict. “Run, kiddo!” my parents used to scream! “RUN!”. This was the norm.

Whenever I see myself portrayed in some cultural news story wrongly: am I a victim of Fake News? No. Not really. I guess I’m simply reflecting what I appear to be to that particular news editorial outlook. I used to be paranoid. My president still is. Yes, he’s a prepubescent child.

I was completely moved by Michael Smerconish’s assessment’s of Trump’s first year in office as a movie script of horror fiction. Donald “Prospero” Trump is, in fact, a HORROR STORY.

We’re in our infancy. Social Media, the iPhone and all this CRAP. Trump did what he did. He has, no doubt, awaken the DEVIL. They all said the same about Karl Rove, decades ago. Someone always discovers a dormant devil somewhere.

But what is the source of Trump’s hate? Does success make you bitter? Does it? Well, maybe. Is this the case with Trump?”People who come here from all kinds of SHITHOLES”

I know, on a small scale how it [success] has affected me. And maybe that is the case with Donald Trump.

You can kill a mocking bird but you can’t kill a mocking president because, well, it’s illegal. But you can tase him, you can tease him and freeze him. Or, to put it bluntly, you could send him up to the 257th floor (1 kilometer high) of that tower in Saudi Arabia and tell him to fuck off together with his good friends of the Bin Laden family. You can do “all things Oprah”, you can do outrageous things but you don’t because in today’s ‘information overload’ – as we used to call it in the 1990’s – the entire meaning of meaning has just become blunt, a stunt or simply nothing. “The immaterial has become immaterial.”

Shakespeare wrote the ultimate treaty and it’s called The Tempest and the final word here belongs to Prospero, the man of the future, back then, in Shakespeare’s time, based on Italian Renaissance intelectual Leonardo da Vinci. Yes, isolated on a small island, the former Duke of Milan can and will make all kinds of devilish plans, but only once he has allied himself with a witch, Sycorax.

Imagine Trump! Trump making a pact, a deal with a witch! “A WALL, 1 kilometer tall, like that Bin Laden building in Jeddah !!!”

Yes, the WALL !!!

Maybe, just maybe, history has it backwards and somehow Donald fucking Trump mixed up Shakespeare with Aldous Huxley and what came out was something of the tune of “The Brave New World of the Former Duke of Milan”.

No such luck, however. Trump’s attention span would not allow him to read, let alone Huxley !
Walls, Orwells, Dukes and God knows what ?

Coming from a generation which tore down walls, as I do – such as the Berlin Wall (and I had family on either side of it, West and East), the idea of a “Donald Prospero” is kind of too much of a “Trinculo and Caliban mix”, a smell of rotting fish, but easy enough to fathom.

Gerald Thomas

Wengen, CH – Jan 24, 2018

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PODER 360 – estreia de uma nova coluna (Portuguese and English) “Donald Trump is a work of SHITHOLE fiction”


30.jan.2018 (terça-feira) – 6h00
atualizado: 30.jan.2018 (terça-feira) – 11h37

“MEU PRESIDENTE É UMA OBRA DE FICÇÃO DE MERDA”

FAKE NEWS DE VERDADE – EU NÃO SOU MENTALMENTE ADEQUADO PARA SER SEU COLUNISTA

A 6ª feira (26.jan.2018) começava e eu já conseguia sentir daqui os tremores, mesmo estando à 8 montanhas de distância. Sim. O presidente norte-americano estava chegando a Davos nesse dia pela manhã. Eu moro no mínimo 6 meses ao ano nos Alpes Suíços, no vilarejo de Wengen (Cantão Berna) para ser exato. O motivo para o qual eu deixei Nova York é definido por um nome: Donald Trump.

Parece que a maioria, no mínimo a parcela mais inteligente, dos nova-iorquinos faria o mesmo se pudessem. Fariam suas malas e viajariam para um “Novo Velho Continente”. E ainda assim parece que a mídia não se cansa de enfatizar as ações desse “homem”.

A “Fake Mídia” no caso. Certo! De uma maneira todos os veículos e emissoras são enfeitiçados por seus comentários vulgares e tweets ridículos. Pondo lenha em uma fogueira que por anos parece estar se extinguindo nos Estados Unidos.

Mas eu não.

Conforme o tempo passa parece que as mentiras do sr. Trump estão se tornando cada vez mais comuns e mais absurdas, atingindo níveis que não foram vistos nem em sua escandalosa campanha. Wow, faz mais de 1 ano que esse tarado lunático está no poder. Isso realmente me faz pensar sobre as “teorias do desconhecido (theories of the unbeknownst)”…

Não era ótimo nos dias de Shakespeare quando um personagem, por exemplo Próspero [personagem principal da peça “A Tempestade”], entrava em territórios desconhecidos à sua plateia –digamos… Milão ou Cartagena– declamando enormes solilóquios saindo ilesos, sem ninguém notar ou muito menos apontar algum erro de informação? Era ótimo. Ou até mesmo Goethe, que colocou o personagem da sua magnum opus Fausto frente a um muro calamitoso de uma cidade inexistente ou até mesmo o dramaturgo húngaro Kafka que transformou um humano em inseto em “A Metamorfose”.

Todas essas estórias são obras de ficção Gerald!!!”, você prontamente dirá. Ficção é ficção e esses escritores sempre existiram.

Mas e daí Gerald? Como que isso é conectado ao Trump?!” E aí é que meu presidente é uma obra de ficção. Mas isso não é tudo. Não só ele acredita –será que acredita?– nos relógios derretidos de Dalí – ele também acusa tudo que é diferente ou contrário à sua pessoa como algo “falso” (“FAKE!”) ou “merda” ou vindo de “buracos de merda” (“shithole”). Assim como o Orson Welles fez em “F for Fake” décadas atrás, naquele filme brilhante sobre falsificadores.

Mas se você estiver acordado e lendo isso, lembre-se que nós vivemos em uma cultura de satisfação digital imediata, twitter-surfing, além de passarmos horas e horas lendo fatos triviais como: “10 Maneiras de fazer Limonada Suíça sem Limão” –o que se tornou uma cultura de não conhecer história. Sim, eu estou plenamente consciente das redes sociais. Assim como, infelizmente, está nosso presidente de merda.

Bem Gerald…isso é só a natureza humana!

O que é?

Degradar os outros!” Você responderá. Sempre foi assim. “No mínimo ele fala o que vem em mente, ele é o dono da própria linha de pensamento.

Será que isso é um ponto válido? Eu quero dizer, se vamos constantemente abrir essa lata de minhocas –no caso, a sua boca– será que isso é um ponto válido? Quem ganha com isso?

Como um dramaturgo, eu não deveria estar escrevendo sobre o Donald Trump. Eu não deveria…, porém, eu me recuso a escrever algo positivo sobre ele!!!

Mas de alguma maneira aqui estou eu.

Todo mundo está apontando em diferentes direções em busca de um culpado. Eu culpo a sociedade. A difamação tornou-se a norma, permitindo que um homem tão nojento como Donald J. Trump se eleja como o “Líder do Mundo Livre”. Uma realidade em que as redes sociais, facas e gritos ditam o nosso ritmo –o que antes era uma avaliação preliminar agora é um veredito FINAL antes de o julgamento acontecer!!!

“O PLANO MARSHALL DE DESINFORMAÇÃO”

Eu me lembro de tempos mais simples, antes dessa explosão de veículos que inspiram ódio. Tempos em que uma pessoa, coisa ou país podia ser descrita como muito mais do que somente branca ou negra. Boa ou má. Para a roqueira Chrissie Hynde –da banda The Pretenders–, eu era nada mais do um carnívoro asqueroso, “um predador, devorador das espécies”, nada mais do que um “assassino”. (Ah, sim, isso tudo foi dito momentos antes de nos juntarmos na cama. Ela sentiu o cheiro de carne no meu hálito. Ela preferiu manter seus princípios vegetarianos/veganos. Azar o dela…).

Também me lembro quando, para alguns, Jimi Hendrix era somente um puto drogado. Não um gênio que revolucionou tudo, mas um drogado. Sim, eu ouvi esse argumento da boca de um esquecido artista country em Nashville (TN), em meados dos anos 90.

Viu? Tudo depende de como você é visto e como você vê os outros nessa “Era Selvagem” de imagens públicas baseadas em selfies de outros. “Marcar”, “marketing”, todos os seus valores e criar um semblante único e coeso é muito difícil. Mas é assim que funciona na vida pós-modernista. Eu quero dizer, eu nasci com o Holocausto na minha cabeça. Não existe “pós” nada a não ser “pós-GUERRA”. Eu sempre fui ensinado a acreditar que a fuga era a melhor opção para qualquer conflito. “Corra, garoto!”, meus pais costumavam gritar! “CORRA!”. Isso era a norma.

Eu sou vítima de Fake News, quando sou retratado por uma matéria de forma errônea? Não. Isso só demonstra o que eu represento para aquele veículo ou emissora em específico. Antigamente eu era paranoico em relação a isso [a maneira que a mídia me retrata]. Meu presidente ainda é. Sim, ele é uma criança pré-púbere.

Fiquei impressionado com um editorial pelo jornalista Michael Smerconish que retratava o primeiro ano de Trump no poder como um script de um filme de terror. Donald “Próspero” Trump é de fato uma ESTÓRIA DE TERROR.

Estamos na nossa infância, nos primórdios de uma nova era. Redes sociais, o iPhone e todas essas BOSTAS. O Trump fez o que fez. Ele, sem sombra de dúvidas, acordou a BESTA. Eles disseram o mesmo sobre Karl Rove décadas atrás. Alguém sempre descobre um demônio dormente por aí.

Mas qual será a fonte de todo o ódio que vive dentro de Trump? O que motiva o presidente dos Estados Unidos da América a exclamar: “As pessoas que vêm para cá vêm de países de MERDA”.

Será que o sucesso/fama te tornam amargo? Será? Bem, talvez. Seria esse o caso com Trump?

Sei em pequena proporção como o sucesso me afetou. E talvez esse também seja o caso com Donald Trump.

You can kill a mockingbird, but you can’t kill a mocking president because, well, it’s illegal.” Mas você pode dar um choque nele, torturar e congelá-lo. Ou, de forma mais bruta, você pode mandá-lo para o 257o andar da torre de 1 quilômetro de altura que estão construindo na Arábia Saudita e mandar ele ir se foder junto de seus bons amigos da família Bin Laden. Você pode fazer tudo “igual a Oprah”, você pode fazer coisas escandalosas, mas você não faz porque, com a “sobrecarga de informação” que estamos vivenciando, a definição de definição se tornou algo bruto, uma acrobacia ou simplesmente nada. “The immaterial has become immaterial.

Shakespeare escreveu o seu tratado final e o chama de “A Tempestade”. E a palavra final dessa obra pertence a Próspero, o homem do futuro, que no tempo de Shakespeare era modelado em Leonardo da Vinci. Sim, isolado em uma ilha pequena, o ex-Duque de Milão pode e faz todos os tipos de planos maquiavélicos, mas ele só se alinhou com uma bruxa uma vez, Sycorax.

Imaginem o Trump! O presidente estadunidense faria um pacto por semana! “A MURALHA! 1 quilômetro de altura, igual aquele prédio Bin Laden em Jedá!!!”

Sim, a MURALHA!!!

Talvez, existe uma mera possibilidade, a estória está ao contrário e de alguma maneira o Donald fucking Trump confundiu o Shakespeare com o Aldous Huxley. Acabou produzindo alguma coisa com uma melodia que representa “O Novo Mundo do Ex-Duque de Milão.”

Infelizmente esse não é o caso. O baixo nível de concentração de Trump não o permite ler, muito menos Huxley! Muralhas, Orwells, Duques e Deus sabe lá mais o quê?

Por ser de uma geração que derrubou barreiras, como eu derrubo –como o Muro de Berlin (tinha familiares de ambos os lados, Oriental e Ocidental)–, a ideia de um “Donald Próspero” é meio que uma “mesclagem de Trinculo e Caliban”, um cheiro de peixe podre, porém fácil o bastante de entender.

Gerald Thomas

Wengen, Suíça, 24 de janeiro de 2018

[tradução de Miguel Gallucci Rodrigues]


[a seguir, o texto original escrito por Gerald Thomas para o Poder360, em inglês, como ele o enviou]


“MY PRESIDENT IS A WORK OF SHITHOLE FICTION”

REAL FAKE NEWS – I’M NOT MENTALLY FIT TO BE YOUR COLUMNIST

It was Friday January 26th early morning and I could already feel the tremors and, mind you, I’m eight mountains away. Yes. Trump was expected to arrive at Davos by Friday morning.

I live, at least for half of the year, in the Swiss Alps. Wengen (Canton Bern), to be precise. The reason why I left New York is summarized by one name, Donald Trump.

It seems like the majority, at least the better half, of New Yorkers would do the same if they could. Pack their bags and sail of for a “New Old World”. And yet it seems as if the media can’t get enough of this so called “man”.

“Fake Media”, that is. Right! In a way, they all play right into his hands and into his ridiculous tweets. Fueling a fire that for years had seemed to die down in the United States.

I don’t.

As time goes by it seems as Mr.Trump’s lies are only increasing, reaching peaks that weren’t even seen during his campaign. Wow, This creep has been in office for over a year now. A year on and counting ! It really makes you wonder about the “theories of the unbeknownst”…

Wasn’t it just great in the days of Shakespeare when a character, say, Prospero, would enter territories unbeknownst to his audience – say…Milan or Cartagena – and deliver enormous soliloquies and get away with it? It was great. Or Goethe when placing his Faust at the verge of a calamitous gate of a non existing city or even Kafka who transformed a human into a bug?

“Those were all works of Fiction !!!!” you’ll say. Fiction is fiction and those writers have always existed and Hieronymus Bosch painted all of Dante’s “Inferno” and did not have to burn in hell because of it.

“So what Gerald? How is this even remotely connected to Trump?” So! My president is a work of fiction. But that’s not all. Not only does he believe – does he? – in the melting clocks by Dali – he also accuses all that is in diverse or in opposition to him as being [a] “shithole” or “FAKE” ! Just like Orson Welles did in “F For Fake” decades ago in that brilliant movie about forgerers.

But if you’re awake and reading this, remember that we live in a culture of digital now-ness, twitter-surfing, trivia bingeing — which has become a culture of not-knowing history. Yes, I am acutely aware of social media. As is our shithole president i’m afraid.

“Well Gerald…that’s just human nature !!!!”

“What is ?”

“Degrading others!” you’ll respond. It has always been like this. “At least he speaks his mind, he owns his thoughts”.

Is that a valid point? I mean, opening this constant can of worms – his mouth that is, is that a valid point? And who gains from it?

As a playwright and theater director I can’t be writing about Donald Trump. I shouldn’t…I utterly refuse !!!!

Yet somehow, here I am.

Everyone has pointing in strangely venomous directions. I blame society. Defamation has become the norm, enabling a man as disgusting as Donald J. Trump to rise up as the “Leader of the Free World”. A reality in which social media, knives and screams dictate our rhythm – what used to be a preliminary assessment is now a FINAL judgment before a trial has even taken place!!!

(“The Marshall Plan of misinformation”)

I remember simpler times, before this pool of hate inspiring media took over in which a person could be described as so much more than black or white. Good or evil. To rocker Chrissie Hynde – from the Pretenders – I was nothing more than a disgusting meat eater, “a predator, devourer of the species”, nothing less than a “murderer”. (Oh yes, this all happened moments before we were bound for bed. She smelled the meat on my breath. She stood by her vegetarian / vegan principles. Her loss…)

I also remember when, to some, Jimi Hendrix was simply a fucking junkie. Not a genius who revolutionized everything but a junkie. Yes, I heard this argument from the mouth of a dying country rock star in Nashville, TN in the mid 1990’s.

See? It all depends on how you are portrayed and how you portray others in this ‘War-hole’ age of “selfies portrayal” of others. “Branding”, “marketing”, taking ALL of your values and blending them and coming out with ONE is so damn difficult. But this is how it is in the post-modern life. I mean, I was born with the holocaust in my head. There is no ‘post’ anything, except “post WAR”. I was always made to believe in fleeing, in escaping from conflict. “Run, kiddo!” my parents used to scream! “RUN!”. This was the norm.

Whenever I see myself portrayed in some cultural news story wrongly: am I a victim of Fake News? No. Not really. I guess I’m simply reflecting what I appear to be to that particular news editorial outlook. I used to be paranoid. My president still is. Yes, he’s a prepubescent child.

I was completely moved by Michael Smerconish’s assessment’s of Trump’s first year in office as a movie script of horror fiction. Donald “Prospero” Trump is, in fact, a HORROR STORY.

We’re in our infancy. Social Media, the iPhone and all this CRAP. Trump did what he did. He has, no doubt, awaken the DEVIL. They all said the same about Karl Rove, decades ago. Someone always discovers a dormant devil somewhere.

But what is the source of Trump’s hate? Does success make you bitter? Does it? Well, maybe. Is this the case with Trump?”People who come here from all kinds of SHITHOLES”

I know, on a small scale how it [success] has affected me. And maybe that is the case with Donald Trump.

You can kill a mocking bird but you can’t kill a mocking president because, well, it’s illegal. But you can tase him, you can tease him and freeze him. Or, to put it bluntly, you could send him up to the 257th floor (1 kilometer high) of that tower in Saudi Arabia and tell him to fuck off together with his good friends of the Bin Laden family. You can do “all things Oprah”, you can do outrageous things but you don’t because in today’s ‘information overload’ – as we used to call it in the 1990’s – the entire meaning of meaning has just become blunt, a stunt or simply nothing. “The immaterial has become immaterial.”

Shakespeare wrote the ultimate treaty and it’s called The Tempest and the final word here belongs to Prospero, the man of the future, back then, in Shakespeare’s time, based on Italian Renaissance intelectual Leonardo da Vinci. Yes, isolated on a small island, the former Duke of Milan can and will make all kinds of devilish plans, but only once he has allied himself with a witch, Sycorax.

Imagine Trump! Trump making a pact, a deal with a witch! “A WALL, 1 kilometer tall, like that Bin Laden building in Jeddah !!!”

Yes, the WALL !!!

Maybe, just maybe, history has it backwards and somehow Donald fucking Trump mixed up Shakespeare with Aldous Huxley and what came out was something of the tune of “The Brave New World of the Former Duke of Milan”.

No such luck, however. Trump’s attention span would not allow him to read, let alone Huxley !
Walls, Orwells, Dukes and God knows what ?

Coming from a generation which tore down walls, as I do – such as the Berlin Wall (and I had family on either side of it, West and East), the idea of a “Donald Prospero” is kind of too much of a “Trinculo and Caliban mix”, a smell of rotting fish, but easy enough to fathom.

Gerald Thomas

Wengen, CH – Jan 24, 2018

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“Eu choro” (texto de 2013 © Copyright Gerald Thomas NYC)

Duchamp’s wheel tattooed on a leg

De Gerald Thomas © New York , April 2013

Eu choro de noite sentada na cama sozinha olhando o mar ou o teto ou os lençóis…e eu choro quando acordo, olhando a cômoda que me olha como se fosse um Kafka me olhando…(e, ca entre nós – eu também dou umas belas choradas entre o choro da noite e o choro da manha!).

Eu não choro os meu mortos não. Já se foram todos. Não sobra mais ninguém. O ultimo deles era tão excêntrico que uma cadeira de rodas não bastava: precisava de umas quatro! Eram umas quatro e a cabeleira dele se espalhava pelo quarto do Hospital de tal forma (e ele todos desdentado ali, respirando como se fosse o pulmão do universo, tadinho!) que eu disse assim: “vai querido, você ta acabando com a pouca camada de ozônio que nos resta! Deixa ela pra nós. Vai e vá em paz. E assim se foi o ultimo!

Eu tinha acabado de vir de um lugar que eu visitava muito na infância: a ladeira do Jerusalém, la na Vila do Holocausto, na Ilha do Governador. Eu era muito jovem, tinha uns 22 ou 23 anos e….me lembro bem, como se fosse ontem, anteontem, eu colocava um Black tie.
Eu pegava uma papelada imensa la dentro de um tal de Pavilhão 17 – um tal de Pavilhão Kaddish, administrado por um tal de Eichman (mais tarde preso na Argentina pela Mossad Israelense) e, com esses papeis eu pegava o 444, o ônibus da MORTE, como eles diziam.

Eu ria.

Naquele tempo eu ainda não chorava.

Chorava por outros motivos.
Um dia chorei porque….
Bem , deixa pra la.

Não, eu posso dizer aqui sim. Chorei porque senti uma tremenda náusea e o CALOR ESTAVA UM INFERNO e já estava no segundo mês de gravidez e vomitei em pleno ônibus e ninguém me ajudou.

Exceto um. Um homem me ajudou.
Um louco me ajudou.
Me ajudou a sair do ônibus e me acompanhou ate um bar onde me troquei, me limpei e ele me esperou. Ele me contou um pouco da sua vida. Tinha sido da Marinha Mercante e já tinha sido internado como louco e…pintava e bordava….e se chamava (como era mesmo o nome dele?)…Arthur ….Arthur Bispo….algo assim.

Mas naquele tempo eu ainda não chorava.

E, claro, eu tinha responsabilidades.

Eu tinha responsabilidades.
Eu tinha responsabilidades.
Eu tinha responsabilidades.
Eu tinha responsabilidades.
Eu tinha responsabilidades.
Eu tinha responsabilidades.

(desdeperada)

HOJE EU NAO TENHO MAIS PORRA NENHUMA
ENTENDEM?

TA TUDO UMA MERDA ! TA TUDO HORRIVEL E NAO TEM MAIS NINGUEM !

NAO TEM MAIS NINGUEM !

FORAM-SE TODOS!!!

EU VIVO AQUI MEU LUTO!

O QUE EU VIVO AQUI DENTRO…nao é muito diferente daqueles….daquilo….de um Auschwitz. Vivo o meu próprio Campo de Concentração.

Sim, vocês me ouviram e eu me ouvi também.
Eu vivo o meu próprio campo de concentração criado por mim, por vocês e por essa merda que é esse ciclo de vida ingrato, inumano, de ir perdendo gente, perdendo gente que se ama, de uivar do berço até o tumulo até o urro final , ate os dia INFELIZES em que so resta mesmo a CARA a mostra e o corpo já todo EN-TERRADO com nossas pequenas manias e pequenas posses em riste, punho em riste e pra que?

Pra que?

Pra revisitar a ladeira do Jerusalém, la na Vila do Holocausto, na Ilha do Governador. É porque estive la hoje pra visitar os netos dos bisnetos e recebi um bombom – de chocolate horrendo, flavorizante puro, tudo artificial, tudo derretido, tudo já pré-mascado por um doberman e eu, toda sorrisos, coloquei aquilo na boca pra não magoar ninguém enquanto os papeis que eu fui buscar DESAPARECIAM.

Puta merda. E agora?

E agora? Agora eu não sei se eu marquei com a Zeena aqui ou no qüinquagésimo sétimo andar daquele prédio do centro da cidade, entende? Ah, a Zeena. Claro que não é o nome verdadeiro dela. É nome de guerra. Guerra mesmo! Segunda Guerra Mundial, divisão de infantaria da Resistência Polonesa que vazava pras forças Aliadas os documentos importantes dos Nazistas praquele BUM retumbante que resultou no massacre de Dresden.

Nossa ! Que loucura.

2013 New York NY 10010 (Copyright) Gerald Thomas

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