I wear you and take off the days,

There is no history before your hands,

There is no history after your hands,

They call you the alternative,

I do not have language, between myself and my name there is a country,

And I want to incarnate the trees,

I bear witness that I Have covered my name with silence,

Near the sea...

Mahmoud Darwish: Thats her image and this is the lovers suicide. 

“[…] there is [rather] nudity and us, we who are in the very place of lighting; in other words, it is our gaze which, in opening itself upon the nudity of Olympia, illuminates her. […] we are responsible for the visibility and for the nudity of Olympia. […] we are – every viewer finds this – necessarily implicated in this nudity and we are at a certain extend responsible. You see how aesthetic transformation can, in a case such as this, provoke a moral scandal.” Michel Foucault in: Manet and the Object of Painting.  

II

A verdade mais simples de saber é esta que não é preciso dizer. Que lê-se nos olhos. 

O que queres saber afinal? O que achas que posso te dizer quando és incapaz sequer de olhar-me nos olhos?  Quando sequer procuras meu olhar? Quando nem mesmo deixas eu eu encontre no teu olhar o sentido da tua vontade de saber? O que achas que eu posso te dizer, que não queres escutar de ti mesmo?

E eu não sei o que te dizer. Eu sequer sei como agir. A minha confusão interna é tão grande, tão imensa quanto a confusão de tentar ver o que não me olha. E fico tentando antecipar em tua pergunta a resposta para a minha. Conjeturo se minha pergunta não é a mesma pergunta da resposta que esperas.

Perco o fio de meus pensamentos tentando adivinhar se deveria primeiro responder-te ou também perguntar-te. E faço tudo isso para tentar esquecer-me de todas as certezas que habitam meu coração e contra as quais luta em vão minha mente.

Meu coração que ignora simplesmente tal duelo e que te olha através do olhar que não me olha. E eu poderia passar sentada aqui toda a eternidade. Fazendo com que estes segundos, que eu não sei se serão poucos ou muitos, durem para sempre.

Durem toda a eternidade, ou uma eternidade qualquer. Para que eu possa extender ao máximo esta sensação de não saber, de não precisar saber e, principalmente de sequer desejar saber. Viver somente de olhar para o ar entre nosso olhar. 

isso que a vida não era

era o que a vida era dentro de mim

morrer como indigente

com todas as glórias da impermanência

diluir os medos

todos eles

na luz dos dias

deixa a escrita do outro

se esconder em tua escuta

a escuta do outro em tua fala

Cubo branco ao cubo 1

O espaço expositivo para a arte pensado enquanto espaço neutro que não compete com a obra artística foi traduzido na modernidade pela ideia do museu enquanto cubo branco. Dos que eu conheci, poucos parecem traduzir de maneira tão frenética esta noção quanto o High Museum em Atlanta (http://www.high.org/). Tamanha adesão à crença da neutralidade da geometria do quadrado e do branco produziu em mim um impacto que, enquanto comentário algo irônico, mas sem dúvida enquanto exercício de olhar interrogativo, lanço nesta coleção de detalhes ao cubo de obras expostas no museu.

Cubo branco ao cubo 2

Since Modern Art, exhibition spaces have been thought and perceived as a neutral space translated into the idea of a white cube. No other museum I have known relates to this ideal as much as the Atlanta High Museum (http://www.high.org/). Here, the architectural space is all about reassuring the white cube and its geometric standards. Such impact was somehow absorbed by me within a peculiar gaze that sometimes relates and other times ironically comments on this modern idea. Here are some samples of a geometrical gaze to some of the pieces in High’s Collection. 

Cubo branco ao cubo 3

Love story

He was my first Kiss, completely took my breathe away, I might have hurt him. He invited me for a sleep over. He showed me there was power in being a woman, but I completely forgot about it. 
He showed me I could be jealous. He thought we were going to marry the minute we first kiss. We made a trip to the sea. 
He was my boyfriend, so I thought, but not he. We split, he hated me. He looked for me 20 years later.

And he.

The only thing of notice is that he reminds me I once had sex in a car for the first time. We have never really been together, but many people thought we were lovers. He was in my life for too long. I must have been sick. Oh God, the day after his back looked as if he had been run over by a bulldozer.

And he?

We had absolutely nothing in common. I must have been desperately needy. I thought he was handsome, he looked like a prince. He was a complete jerk. I met him at a party. He had an old man’s car. I felt immediately driven by him. I run into his arms the minute I saw him in the street. He was so, so handsome. But he didn’t like watches and I didn’t like shoes.

He?

He is a true friend. Talk about friendship and sex between a man and a woman. He drives me crazy in many ways but sometimes I think he is the only one who truly respects me. We have known each other for so, so long. 
He was my boyfriend. I didn’t really like him. He was the other guy’s guy, but we fucked.

And he.

He introduced me to his father. His father loved my eyes. He made me fall in love all over again. He simply left me. And I forgot everything about it.

He was a musician and had truly black eyes. He had red hair. Doucement, I told him! He was so found of himself. He never really respected me.

He taught me I deserved to be respected. Those wore the most unbelievable 18 hours of my life.

And I run away from him.

He was the great passion in my life. He called me “little beautiful girl” and I wished I had known how to love.

He was the first man to ever make me wish I'd be sleeping as someone made love to me. He was a terrible person… where was I? He didn’t understand any real subject I would talk about. He made me feel completely free, a true amazon, but I couldn’t stand the sound of his voice.

He was just a really old guy. He was going to marry somebody else. He made me think that love could be a tree. I thought he was the one I dreamed about when I was a teenager. He was not.

And he looked for me after so many years. He sad my skin was just the same as twenty years before. He felt lonely, he felt abandoned, I felt overwhelmed. We split.

He thought me about the ways men try to have control over a woman.

He was my first man, my true love, he told me we were going to marry, have a house and children may be. No one has ever made me change dreams for reality like him, but he truly broke my heart; he left without looking into my eyes.