Edition 3.2 of Colectivo NYU

Transcripción

Foreword
In & Around Piracy’s Web
Un día de agosto
Alexander Zeleniuch
Olaya Barr
60
115
Becoming One with
Music:
Instrumental Music
Therapy in Latin America
Mi tía Frankie
Sloane Taylor
Spanish courses
67
Presentación
William Carington
118
Silvia Luppino
Representations of
Immigration in New
Argentine Cinema: Bolivia
and Copacabana
125
Topic Courses
Naomi Hernández
128
La desubjectividad
de Las genealogías
74
Álvaro
Fernández Bravo
5
Eli Rumpf
13
Mi familia porteña
Rebecca Mondshein
Mi familia porteña
Interview: Martín Rejtman Razia Sahi
82
129
Literature in an
Expanded Field:
Creative Writing
Presentación
A Poseidón,
el Rey del Mar
Our Lady of the
Assassins and Nine
Nights
Anna-Kazumi Stahl
Kerra Vick
95
130
Razia Sahi
Point of View
Salida a Once
21
Alexandra Chernow
Joseph Beaudin
98
132
Elisabeth Deogracias
Tango
26
Tess Andrade
La película biográfica
como ilustración de la
política de un país
¡Saludos Vecinos!
The invisible hand
has an owner
Untitled
Julia
99
Courtney Bush
134
Strider Mervine
100
ESMA
La liviandad del terror
Maritza Montañez
141
Las luchas de poder
contra el Estado:
el caso de los pueblos
indígenas
Yael Schonzeit
103
Institutional
Joseph Audeh
44
Maxwell Dubin
La Protesta y la Política
Concreta
The Capital of Concern
Lucas Green
32
Sarah Stern
51
147
Creep Whisper
106
Jordan Landsman
108
In Memoriam
151
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Contents
Colectivo NYU / BA Staff
Editor
Collaborators on this issue
Álvaro Fernández Bravo
Tess Andrade
Joseph Audeh
Managing Editor
Olaya Barr
Pedro Ferdkin
Joseph Beaudin
William Carington
Translator
Alexandra Chernow
Christine Paiva
Maxwell Dubin
colectivo nyu ba
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Proof Readers
Lucas Green
Keerthi Chandrashekar
Naomi Hernández
Georgia Halliday
Jordan Landsman
Sean Heidelbach
Strider Mervine
Conor Messinger
Rebecca Mondshein
Martiza Montanez
Transcriptor
Eli Rumpf
Julian Cloutier
Razia Sahi
Yael Schonzeit
Photos
Sarah Stern
Olaya Barr
Sloane Taylor
Kerra Vick
Design
ZkySky
Contact
[email protected]
Colectivo NYU / BA
The Journal
of New York University
Buenos Aires
Vol 3 Issue 2 2011
Issn 1852 – 3196
Alexander Zeleniuch
Foreword /
Presentación
Cosmopolitismos periféricos
Peripheral cosmopolitanism
E
E
“América Latina” es una región
mucho más compleja y variada de
lo que su nombre indica. Sabemos
que el encuentro entre las fuerzas
colonizadoras europeas y los habitantes
originarios del continente es solo
uno entre los diferentes contactos
producidos en las Américas de los
que participaron numerosos grupos
y culturas. Al continente llegaron
contingentes de inmigrantes judíos,
asiáticos –desde inmigrantes del Medio
Oriente hasta japoneses y chinos,
presentes en Brasil, Perú y el Caribe
como minorías significativas–, europeos
no latinos, africanos –en su mayoría
como esclavos– así como flujos de
migraciones internas entre regiones y
países que contribuyeron a componer
un mosaico cultural que no cesa de
incorporar nuevos integrantes y añadir
nuevas capas de significado a la imagen
de la subjetividad colectiva de la región.
Los documentales sobre los líderes
políticos Evo Morales, de Bolivia, y
Luiz Inácio “Lula” da Silva, de Brasil,
dition 3.2 of Colectivo NYU/
BA: The Journal of New York
University Buenos Aires allows us to
acknowledge student interest in an
aspect of Latin American culture that is
reflected in several of the essays selected
for the collection. The ethnic and
cultural diversity of a region which,
starting with its name, tends to favor
its European legacy (and only part of it)
over any other is a point of reflection in
several essays.
“Latin America” is a region that is
much more complex and varied than
its name indicates. We know that the
encounter between the European
colonizing powers and the native
inhabitants of the continent is just one
of various points of contact that took
place in the Americas and involved
numerous groups and cultures. Among
the mass arrivals to the continent were
contingents of Jewish, Asian –from
the Middle East to Japan and China
(present today in Brazil, Peru and
the Caribbean as significant minority
groups)–, non-Latino European
and African immigrants –largely as
slaves– as well as a flux of internal
migration from regions and countries
that contributed to the composition
of a cultural mosaic, which continues
to incorporate new members and add
new layers of meaning to the region’s
collective image of subjectivity.
Documentaries about political leaders
Evo Morales, from Bolivia, and Luiz
Inácio “Lula” da Silva, from Brazil,
which Courtney Bush analyzed in
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l número 3.2 de Colectivo
NYU/BA: The Journal of
New York University Buenos Aires
permite reconocer el interés de los
estudiantes por un aspecto de la cultura
latinoamericana que aparece reflejado
en varios de los ensayos seleccionados.
La diversidad étnica y cultural de una
región que ya desde su nombre tiende
a privilegiar el legado europeo (y solo
una parte de él) por sobre cualquier
otro es materia de reflexión de varios
ensayos.
El libro de Margo Glantz,
recientemente publicado en la
Argentina, también sirve para recordar
a un lector poco familiarizado
con América Latina que la región,
usualmente percibida como productora
de inmigrantes –principalmente hacia
los Estados Unidos–, fue y continúa
siendo también receptora de ellos,
de manera análoga a la experiencia
her monograph for the course Mitos,
íconos y tradiciones inventadas*…
speak not only about the emergence of
new political leaders representing some
of the most underprivileged sectors of
the Latin American world, but also
about individuals who were uprooted
from the geographical and social
borders of their own communities to
the peak of political power. Although
the route traveled by Mexican writer
Margo Glantz’s family from Europe
to Mexico holds a different meaning,
what it shares with the itineraries
covered by Lula and Evo is the mark
that this displacement left on each
individual and what each character
represents on a collective level. Margo
Glantz’s book, analyzed by Eli Rumpf
in his essay for the course Literaturas de
la Intimidad* narrates an experience
that is at once intimate and social: that
of many European Jews who sought
refuge in the Americas. In this way,
the essay takes up a historical episode
not as a harmless matter, but rather as
a problem which allows for examining
the possibilities of capturing the past
without altering it1.
Margo Glantz’s book, recently
published in Argentina, is useful in
reminding a reader who is unifamiliar
with Latin America that the region,
usually perceived as a producer of
immigrants (mainly to the United
States), was and continues to also be a
receiver of immigrants, both internal
from various countries in the region, as
well as groups largely originating from
Asia and Africa.
norteamericana. Hoy el continente
recibe inmigrantes, tanto internos entre
los países de la región como de grupos
ahora provenientes en su mayoría de
Asia y África.
Si bien el Océano Atlántico
fue la avenida más transitada
para la formación de la hibridez
latinoamericana, varios trabajos
examinan otras trayectorias. Al
hacerlo, iluminan la experiencia de
lo que el crítico y escritor brasileño
Silviano Santiago ha llamado “el
cosmopolitismo del pobre”, una
categoría útil para contestar el
multiculturalismo occidentalista desde
una perspectiva latinoamericana. El
término “cosmopolita” –ciudadano
del mundo– tiene resonancias elitistas
porque en efecto, aquéllos que tenían
acceso a los viajes y recorrían el
mundo en transatlánticos o en aviones
durante el período histórico en que el
cosmopolitismo floreció, eran quienes
tenían los medios para hacerlo.2
Sin embargo, sabemos que muchos
europeos, africanos y asiáticos que
llegaron a América Latina carecían
de recursos, buscaban amparo ante
contingencias políticas adversas
y venían de una experiencia muy
distinta a la de los “cosmopolitas de
transatlántico”. Ellos iniciaron un
proceso que ha continuado y solo
promete acentuarse: las migraciones
masivas de individuos carentes de
medios, en búsqueda de mejores
oportunidades, tanto entre continentes
como dentro de cada región. Así, los
Silviano Santiago. O cosmopolitismo do pobre: crítica literária e crítica cultural. Belo
Horizonte: Editora da Universidade Federal de Minas Gerais, 2004.
2
1
Margo Glantz. Las genealogías. Buenos Aires: Bajo la luna, 2010 [1981].
Although the Atlantic Ocean was
the most traveled avenue for the
formation of Latin American hybridity,
several essays examine other paths.
In so doing, they shed light on the
experience that Brazilian critic and
writer Silviano Santiago has called
“the poor man’s cosmopolitanism,”
a useful category when it comes to
facing Western multiculturalism from a
Latin American perspective. The term
“cosmopolite” –citizen of the World–
gives off an elitist connotation because,
essentially, those who could travel
the world in ocean liners or airplanes
during the historical period in which
cosmopolitanism flourished were those
who had the means to do so2.
However, we know that many
Europeans, Africans and Asians who
arrived in Latin America lacked
recourses, sought protection upon
being faced with adverse political
contingencies, and came from a
very different experience than that
of the “translatantic cosmopolites.”
They initiated a process which has
continued and only promises to
deepen: mass migrations of individuals
lacking resources, in search of better
opportunities, both across continents
and within the region. Therefore, today
indigenous groups in Latin America
reside largely in cities and obtain
greater visibility and recognition, like
Evo Morales in Bolivia. Parallelly, as
observed by Joseph Audeh in his essay
“Las luchas del poder contra el Estado:
el caso de los pueblos indígenas” (“The
Struggle for Power Against the State: the
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analizados por Courtney Bush en su
monografía para el curso Myths, Icons,
and Invented Traditions: A Cultural
History of Latin America no solo
hablan sobre la emergencia de nuevos
liderazgos políticos representativos de
los sectores menos privilegiados del
mundo latinoamericano, sino también
de sujetos que se desplazaron desde
los márgenes geográficos y sociales
de sus propias comunidades hasta la
cima del poder político. Aunque el
recorrido de la familia de la escritora
mexicana Margo Glantz desde Europa
hasta México tiene un sentido diferente,
comparte con los itinerarios de Lula y
Evo la huella que ese desplazamiento
dejó sobre el sujeto y lo que cada
personaje representa a nivel colectivo.
El libro de Margo Glantz analizado
por Eli Rumpf en su ensayo para el
curso Literaturas de la Intimidad
narra una experiencia íntima y a la vez
social: la de muchos judíos europeos
que buscaron refugio en las Américas.
De este modo, el ensayo recupera un
episodio histórico no como una materia
inocua, sino como un problema para
interrogar las posibilidades de capturar
el pasado sin alterarlo.1
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Las tensiones y paradójicas alianzas
de grupos subalternos frente al poder
tienen una larga historia en la cultura
latinoamericana. El libro del Profesor
Pablo Ansolabehere recientemente
presentado en el Site de NYU BA,
Literatura y anarquismo en Argentina
(1879-1919), recorre un aspecto de
esta cuestión. Al examinar la llegada
de grupos anarquistas de origen
europeo a fines del siglo XIX y su
peculiar intervención en las luchas
políticas y los debates culturales
argentinos, Ansolabehere recupera
aspectos curiosos de las alianzas entre
europeos y criollos y reconstruye
el impacto de la cultura anarquista
en América Latina. Estas alianzas
incluyen la recuperación del gaucho
en la tradición literaria argentina como
un exponente de la resistencia al poder
del Estado, la vindicación de la figura
del bohemio como personaje del
mundo literario (universal y local) y la
apología de la vida urbana finisecular,
poblada de una subjetividad híbrida
y mestiza. Todos estos aspectos de la
Case of Indigenous Peoples”), written
for the course Culture, Identity and
Politics in Latin America, the native
peoples who resist migration must
face another type of displacement:
the invasion of their territory by the
State, which alters their way of life,
like the Tobas in the Chaco region of
Argentina.
experiencia anarquista tienen ecos con
las protestas de los indignados hoy
y muestran cómo el cosmopolitismo
(o internacionalismo, como lo
denominaban los anarquistas) no es
privilegio de los ricos, sino un tipo de
experiencia que atraviesa la historia
mundial en manifestaciones muy
diversas.3
The tensions and paradoxical alliances
of subordinate groups facing power
have a long history in Latin American
culture. Profesor Pablo Ansolabehere’s
book Literatura y anarquismo en
Argentina (1879-1919), Literature
and Anarchy in Argentina (18791919), which was recently launched at
the NYU BA Site, covers one of the
aspects pertaining to this issue. Upon
examining the arrival of anarchist
groups of European origin at the
end of the 19th century and their
peculiar intervention in Argentine
political struggles and cultural debates,
Ansolabehere retrieves some curious
aspects of the alliances between
Europeans and natives, and recounts
the impact of anarchist culture in Latin
America. These alliances include the
restoration of the gaucho in Argentine
literary tradition as an exponent
of resistance to the State’s power,
the bohemian figure’s vindication
as a character in the literary world
(universal and local), and the apologia
of end-of-the-century life, inhabited
by a hybrid and mixed subjectivity.
All aspects of the anarchist experience
are echoed in today’s outraged protests,
and demonstrate how cosmopolitanism
(or internationalism, as the anarchists
called it) is not a privilege of the rich,
La globalización no es un fenómeno
nuevo. Tiene una larga historia
que algunos de los trabajos de este
número de Colectivo NYU/BA
consiguen rescatar para demostrar
lo que una experiencia y educación
internacionales contribuyen a hacernos
comprender: que la heterogeneidad
no es una amenaza sino una riqueza
necesaria para entender el mundo
en que vivimos. Esa heterogeneidad
comprende también al cosmopolitismo,
ya que existen distintas formas de
ser un “ciudadano del mundo” y
los cosmopolitas migrantes son
una de ellas. Vivimos un tiempo
donde las identidades (por suerte)
no permanecen inmóviles, sino que
están sujetas a mutaciones continuas.
Eso exige de todos la capacidad para
comprenderlas sin tenerles miedo. Es
lo que intentamos enseñar (y seguir
aprendiendo) desde NYU BA.
but rather a kind of experience that
traverses world history and has been
exhibited in very diverse ways3.
Globalization is not a new
phenomenon. It has a long history
that several essays in this edition
of Colectivo NYU-BA manage to
retrieve, demonstrating that which an
international experience and education
contribute to helping us understand:
that heterogeneity is not a threat,
but rather a richness that is necessary
in order to understand the world in
which we live. This heterogeneity also
includes cosmopolitanism, given that
“citizens of the world” exist in various
forms, and migrant cosmopolites
are one of them. We live in a time
where identities (luckily) do not
remain immobile; they are subject
to continuous transformations. This
obliges us all to learn to understand
them without fearing them. This is
what we try to teach (and continue to
learn) at NYU BA.
Álvaro Fernández Bravo, PhD
Director
Álvaro Fernández Bravo, PhD
Director
Pablo Ansolabehere. Literatura y anarquismo en Argentina (1879-1919). Rosario: Beatriz
Viterbo, 2011.
3
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indígenas viven hoy principalmente
en las ciudades en América Latina
y obtienen mayor visibilidad y
reconocimiento, como Evo Morales en
Bolivia. Paralelamente, como observa
Joseph Audeh en su ensayo “Las luchas
del poder contra el Estado: el caso de
los pueblos indígenas”, escrito para el
curso Cultura, identidad y política en
Latinoamérica, los aborígenes que se
resisten a migrar, deben enfrentar otro
tipo de desplazamiento: el del Estado
que invade su territorio y altera sus
formas de vida, como los Toba en el
Chaco argentino.
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Topic Courses /
Cursos Temáticos
La desubjetividad de Las genealogías
Eli Rumpf
Literaturas de la intimidad
Para analizar lo que trata de hacer ese libro, sería útil desarrollar la pregunta “¿Qué es lo autobiográfico? En El pacto autobiográfico Philippe
Lejeune establece detalladamente las características del género, enfatiza la
importancia del título y el hecho de colocar el nombre del autor como
subtítulo. Él nota que, en muchas autobiografías escritas en primera persona, éste es el único lugar donde el narrador está nombrado. Sin embargo, Glantz no tiene ningún subtítulo para clarificar quién es el sujeto de
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¿Qué es una genealogía? Esta es la pregunta que permanece en los lectores
después de finalizar el libro de Margo Glantz, Las genealogías. Es un libro
que oscila entre muchos géneros literarios –el autobiográfico, la ficción,
la crónica, el texto histórico, etc. Ella examina su propia identidad desde
las historias de sus padres y sus investigaciones sobre el linaje de familia. Su escritura-incertidumbre demuestra una narrativa de búsqueda y no
una presentación de un tema certero. Quiero analizar su obra desde tres
puntos de vista: la autobiografía, la genealogía y el testimonio judío. Su
identidad híbrida –mejicana y rusa, judía en un país católico– hace que su
genealogía no llegue a una conclusión definitiva. Aunque el libro es muy
íntimo, finalmente logra un trabajo de desubjetividad porque está desestabilizando constantemente su propia identidad. Su identidad se pierde
detrás de la multitud de voces del pasado.
Lejeune dice que la autobiografía “supone que existe una identidad de
nombre entre el autor (…), el narrador y el personaje de quien se habla”
(Lejeune 52). Sin embargo, no es tan fácil identificar al sujeto en Las genealogías. En el prólogo, Glantz describe el texto como una búsqueda de
origen y de identidad personal, pero casi no habla sobre ella misma –se focaliza en las historias de los otros. Además, hay tres narradores en ese texto: Margo, Jacobo y Lucía Glantz. Jacobo y Lucía aparecen en entrevistas
grabadas que la autora diferencia de la narración con una línea de diálogo.
Esas grabaciones forman la mayor parte del texto. Sin nombres para identificar al hablante, los tres narradores se mezclan. Durante la cena, todos
interrumpen a los otros. Margo, como narradora, explica:
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La conversación es de sobremesa y la comida ha sido familiar. Los diálogos van y
vienen de quién sabe qué bocas. Los transcribo.
-¿Así que Olga era opulenta?
-No, cuando la conocí estaba como una tabla.
-El violín la compuso. Ahora tiene mucho dinero.
-El, como músico, fue verdaderamente extraordinario. (Glantz 155)
La conversación salta entre diferentes temas y diferentes hablantes. La narradora se retira en los fondos y la grabación inédita toma el control. Acá,
la autora es menos subjetiva y más una presentadora neutral que solo escucha y ‘transcribe’ literalmente las conversaciones que oye. Otros capítulos
empiezan con una historia sin contexto y los lectores necesitan trabajar
para adivinar quién es el hablante. Usualmente, un nombre o un dato en
los primeros párrafos resuelven el misterio, pero ese momento de incertidumbre es una importante parte de la estructura. Los lectores tienen que
ser activos y usar el género de las palabras y pequeños detalles biográficos
para distinguir entre los padres. Los cuentacuentos son más naturales que
la narración en la tradición judía. Por eso, hay muchos pasajes sin introducciones y conclusiones –son autosuficientes. El texto es un folletín de
muchos cuentos.
Glantz rechaza la mirada objetiva como narradora. Esa acción es problemática para con el género. Lejeune dice: “Por oposición a todas las formas de la ficción, la biografía y la autobiografía son textos referenciales…
pretenden aportar una información sobre una ‘realidad’ exterior al texto,
y se someten, por lo tanto, a una prueba de verificación” (Lejeune 57).
Esta verificación es imposible en la narrativa subjetiva de Las genealogías.
Entonces, el objetivo de la autobiografía cambia desde una transmisión de
verdad hacia una búsqueda personal. Nancy Soledad Noguera describe ese
proceso: “Al perder el texto autobiográfico su condición de objetividad, el
escritor pierde su autoridad al pasar de ser un testigo fiel y fidedigno a ser
un ente en busca de una identidad en última instancia inasible” (Noguera
4). No se puede nombrar a Las genealogías una autobiografía pura –aunque seguramente sea íntima. La subjetividad de la autora está presente en
la totalidad del texto, pero ella no cuenta su propia vida. No hace la acción
final de evaluar su evidencia –los relatos y pensamientos quedan como un
folletín.
Si Las genealogías no es una autobiografía, ¿puede ser un texto histórico?
La genealogía puede ser una técnica muy íntima –árboles genealógicos–
pero también sirve en el mundo más objetivo y profesional –el de los historiadores. Una genealogía recuerda la progresión de un sujeto a través del
tiempo. En 1887, Nietzsche publicó La genealogía de la moral para delinear las raíces de la moral y para ilustrar que los sentidos de culpabilidad y
responsabilidad son construcciones humanas. En 1971, Foucault escribió
Nietzsche, genealogía, historia, que propone que la búsqueda del origen
tiene errores inevitables y que la historia es territorio de contradicciones
y dudas. Para Glantz, la genealogía sirve como técnica porque requiere
una gran base de evidencia que ella tiene –todas sus entrevistas y charlas
con sus padres valen como datos. El problema es que los datos son contradictorios, subjetivos e incompletos. Las ideas de Michel Foucault sobre
el estudio de la historia coinciden en muchos aspectos con la estructura de
Las genealogías. Para Foucault no se puede resumir la historia. Los eventos suceden de una manera imprevisible. No hay una trayectoria desde el
pasado hasta el presente. La genealogía es una estructura meticulosa que
ilustra las variaciones en cada situación. La genealogía no trata de conectar
su cantidad de evidencia –el foco es la individualidad de cada cosa. Como
resume Foucault, “la genealogía no se opone a la historia como la visión de
águila y profunda del filósofo en relación a la mirada escrutadora del sabio;
se opone por el contrario al despliegue metahistórico de las significaciones ideales y de los indefinidos teleológicos. Se opone a la búsqueda del
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esas genealogías. Además, el título está escrito en una manera impersonal
sin el pronombre posesivo: no “mis genealogías” sino “las genealogías”.
Después, en el prólogo, ella toma responsabilidad sobre el texto, “y todo
es mío y no lo es y parezco judía y no lo parezco y por eso escribo –éstas–
mis genealogías” (Glantz 15), pero la declaración es débil, todavía a medio
camino entre posesión y separación de la obra.
‘origen’” (Foucault). Aunque es cierto que Glantz descubre un nivel más
profundo de su identidad con ese texto, esa identidad no tiene un origen
específico. ¿La identidad puede existir sin un origen?
suelo es resbaladizo. Hay muchas flores. Me acerco a un nopal y quiero arrancar
una tuna. La tuna se defiende y me dispara sus espinas. Regreso al cuarto y tengo
que quitarme con unas pinzas las que tengo pegadas en los brazos, en las mejillas,
cerca de la boca, en las manos, en los dedos. Mi padre murió una madrugada del
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El capítulo XXV vacila entre los recuerdos de la madre y las descripciones
en presente de Margo como narradora. Ellas están caminando por la hacienda antigua San Miguel Regla, un lugar tranquilo y bellísimo. La única
cosa para diferenciar entre las historias de la madre y el presente de Margo
es la ausencia de la línea que significa un diálogo separado de la narración.
La madre cuenta el pasaje a las Américas y dice “Papá no se marchaba, de
día subíamos a cubierta y de noche dormíamos en nuestro camarote.” Margo como narradora añade ese comentario esencial – “(¡Y pensar que tanto y
tanto amor se acaba!)” (Glantz 78). Solo el tono melancólico y unas frases
cortas como ésa señalan que el padre ha muerto. Los lectores todavía no
saben del fallecimiento del padre y por eso esa frase crea confusión.
Las descripciones narrativas de Margo en ese capítulo son más poéticas
y más extendidas que el resto de la autobiografía, como si ella estuviera
soñando, perdida en sus pensamientos, y no tiene la energía ni el interés
de escuchar y recordar las historias de su madre. Después de una larga
descripción narrativa del jardín de la hacienda, el diálogo vuelve con la
frase de la madre “Y así aprendí a hacer el strudl” (79). Pero ese “así” no
significa nada para los lectores porque Margo no escribió el principio de
la historia. Como lectores, entramos en la mente de la autora –cuando ella
no está escuchando las historias, los lectores no oyen las historias. El capítulo termina con una descripción final del presente y una declaración en
la última línea, como si la autora hubiera tratado de posponer la realidad
con un enfoque en los detalles pequeños del jardín, pero al fin admitiera
lo que sucedió:
Recorro el parque, paseo cerca de los estanques, todo está húmedo, hay moho, el
2 de enero de 1982. (83)
Foucault también enfatiza el rol del accidente en el desarrollo de eventos
significantes: “Seguir la filial compleja de la procedencia… es descubrir
que en la raíz de lo que conocemos y de lo que somos no están en absoluto
la verdad ni el ser, sino la exterioridad del accidente” (Foucault). Para la
familia Glantz, un accidente causó que ellos se mudaran a México y no los
Estados Unidos. Después de planear su viaje, una ley restrictiva de inmigración los forzó a cambiar su destino a México. La narradora lo explica
con sentido de humor: “Decidimos irnos a México para ver si allá el clima era normal y también porque estaba más cerca de los Estados Unidos
(?)” (Glantz 74). Cosas como esa, sin razones profundas, son los frutos
de genealogías para Foucault. A él no interesan teorías grandiosas –está
buscando la individualidad de cada encuentro y cada evento. Por eso él
está en contra de las ideas de Platón sobre teleología. Para Foucault, no
se pueden establecer raíces ni explicaciones. La historia no es tan simple
como la fórmula causa y efecto.
Para entender Las genealogías como un texto histórico, es esencial evaluar la narración como posholocausto y un trabajo en la tradición judía.
El rol del testimonio de los judíos sobre la Segunda Guerra Mundial ha
sido la fuente más importante para pensar en las atrocidades. Aunque la
autora no sufrió en un campo de concentración, ella admite que la razón
principal para escribir ese libro fue entender el intento de linchamiento
de su padre en 1939 por razones antisemíticas. Muchos miembros de su
familia extendida murieron en los pogroms de Stalin o en el Holocausto.
Sería fácil decidir que los acontecimientos de la shoah (la palabra hebrea
para el Holocausto) son inexplicables e inaprensibles. Pero ella siente una
responsabilidad de contar sus historias –para hacer un testimonio. Pero el
objetivo del testimonio como género es poco claro, especialmente en este
texto. Aunque la presencia del Holocausto claramente aparece en el texto,
su sentido de humor y sus expresiones exageradamente moderadas complican el trabajo de interpretación.
Glantz, Giorgio Agamben y Primo Levi se focalizan en la figura del musulmán cuando analiza la ética del campo de concentración y las posibili-
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Foucault critica la perspectiva ‘objetiva’ de los historiadores, específicamente la negación del presente, como si el historiador juzga la sociedad
desde una posición atemporal. Dice que ellos “se procura[n] un punto de
apoyo fuera del tiempo; pretende[n] juzgarlo todo según una objetividad
de apocalipsis” (Foucault). En contraste, Glantz impone el presente sobre
el pasado. Las historias están contadas en lugares reales como el comedor
y la cocina. Ella presenta su proceso de investigación como parte del texto.
No trata de esconderse detrás de la pared de la objetividad.
dades de la memoria. El musulmán es un nombre para los prisioneros que
ya están muertos antes de la muerte. Las degradaciones del campo han
reducido esas personas a animales que no pueden observar para nada su
ambiente. Han perdido la habilidad de hablar y por eso sus testimonios no
existen. Glantz hace una observación: “los sobrevivientes hablan siempre
de los musulmanes en sus testimonios, pero los libros de historia los ignoran o les reducen importancia… La representación del propio ‘yo’ ha
operado desde afuera al influjo de la mirada y ha demandado un espectador externo, un espectador que contempla aterrorizado la abyección del
otro” (Glantz, 34-35). Ella añade que “esta sucesión de miradas nos alcanza, pero sobre todo alcanza a la historia, o a la percepción y utilización que
tenemos o hacemos de la memoria histórica” (35). Las genealogías trata de
usar esa vergüenza como una técnica para contar las historias perdidas de
los musulmanes.
Agamben expande esa concepción de la vergüenza, y dice que es una parte
inevitable de la intimidad.
como Tradición” (38). El acto de escribir hace la transformación desde la
experiencia y memoria de opresión y genocidio hasta una tradición que
reconoce el terror que pasó.
A pesar de sus opiniones fuertes sobre el recuerdo y el olvido, en Las genealogías la violencia aparece en maneras profanas, sin un tono serio. Ya
en el tercer capítulo, Lucía Glantz habla de los pogroms, pero en un tono
irreverente. Dice que conoció a la poetisa nacional judía Jaim Najman Biálik por accidente, cuando se cayó en la calle. Él y su compadre Rovnitzki la
ayudaron hasta que llegó a su casa. Margo, la narradora, hace esa pregunta
tonta: “¿Quién te cargó, Biálik o Rovnitski?” (Glantz 29). La narradora
usa ese tono liviano casi siempre, focalizándose en los detalles cotidianos
y solo sugiriendo los horrores en el fondo. Ella desacraliza a un autor importante y en la misma acción desacraliza el terror, removiéndolo del lugar
de lo no decible. Entonces, la madre continúa su relato, describiendo el
pogrom que Biálik explicó:
La mamá de mi cuñada Sara fue asesinada en ese pogrom, estaba en la casa, senta-
Avergonzarse significa: ser entregado a lo inasumible. Pero lo así inasumible no
da en su silla de ruedas porque era paralítica, y llegaron los cosacos y empezaron
es algo externo, sino que procede de nuestra misma intimidad; es decir, de lo que
a saquear y todos huyeron y se escondieron porque eran jóvenes y fuertes, pero
hay en nosotros de más íntimo… En la vergüenza el sujeto no tiene, en conse-
la señora no se podía mover y la mataron nomás por sí. (29)
cuencia, otro contenido que la propia desobjetivación, se convierte en testigo del
propio perderse como sujeto (Agamben 110).
La vergüenza es un parte esencial de la subjetividad íntima. Agamben dice
que el ‘yo’ poético hace el trabajo de desubjetivación porque el poeta pone
dudas constantemente sobre sí mismo. Ese proceso de autocuestionamiento forma la llave que liga la narración de Las genealogías. Por esa razón, el
libro no puede llegar a declararse una tesis –no puede encontrar respuestas
a sus preguntas.
Glantz admite las dificultades de un individuo torturado para transformarse en un testimonio y no filtrar sus memorias, pero usa palabras de la
Torah para proponer una memoria colectiva que sea más fuerte que la memoria personal. “Lo que llamamos olvido en el sentido colectivo aparece
cuando ciertos grupos humanos no logran (…) trasmitir a la posteridad lo
que aprendieron del pasado. Todos los mandamientos y órdenes de ‘recordar’ y de no ‘olvidar’ que se dirigieron al pueblo judío no habrían tenido
ningún efecto si los ritos y relatos históricos no se hubiesen convertido en
el canon de la Torá (…) y si la Torá a su vez no hubiese cesado de renovarse
La historia es extremadamente dura y triste, pero el capítulo todavía termina con un tono cómico cuando el padre hace un chiste -“No eran judíos
-dice de repente mi padre- estaban jodidos” (30). La violencia está presente, pero está mezclada y escondida detrás de lo cotidiano y el humor.
Las genealogías es un comentario histórico, pero toma una visión muy atípica de la historia: no tiene tesis, sino que ocupa el lugar de la incertidumbre. Usa la vergüenza judía del postholocausto para reescribir las historias
de las víctimas y familias judías. La subjetividad de la autora desaparece
detrás de las voces del pasado. Es un folletín sin un género que ilumine
verdades esenciales y disparatas de la historia. ❉
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Literature in an Expanded Field:
Our Lady of the Assassins and Nine Nights
Agamben, Giorgio. Lo que queda de
Auschwitz. Valencia: Pretextos, 2000.
Print.
Configuraciones culturales y literarias
en el imaginario judío latinoamericano.
Rosario: Beatriz Viterbo Editora, 2006.
Print.
Foucault, Michel. “Nietzsche,
Genealogy, History.” [Trans. José
Vásquez Pérez] Hommage à Hyppolite.
París: Presses Universitaires de France,
1971. Web. 27 Mayo 2011.
Lejeune, Philippe. El pacto
autobiográfico. [Trans. Ángel G.
Loureim] París: Seuil, 1975. Print.
Glantz, Margo. Las genealogías. Buenos
Aires: Bajo La Luna, 2010. Print.
Glantz, Margo. “Siempre es posible
lo peor (Políticas de la memoria).”
En Huberman, Ariana y Alejandro
Meter. Memoria y representación:
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Noguera, Nancy Soledad. Noción,
desplazamiento y género en la escritura
autobiográfica de Esmeralda Santiago
y Judith Ortíz Cofer. Diss. New
York University, 2000. Dissertations
& Theses @ New York University,
ProQuest. Web. 27 Mayo 2011.
Razia Sahi
Comparative Latin American Literature
“I didn’t invent this reality, this reality is inventing me.”
Fernando Vallejo
After the decline and fall of the “lettered city,” literature ceased to exist as an autonomous mode of art. Politics and social context began to
invade all forms of art, expanding the field of literature. Literature today
often contains traces of anthropology, journalism, and social commentary
intertwined with fictional plot. Fernando Vallejo’s Our Lady of the Assassins and Bernardo Carvalho’s Nine Nights are examples of Latin American
literature in an expanded field. The boundary between fiction and reality
is blurred both in terms of plot and narration, exposing the psychology of
the authors as well as the context for the production of their work. Thus,
literature becomes a medium for discourse of larger social and philosophical issues, documenting intellectual movements across time.
Vallejo’s Our Lady of the Assassins is more than just a novel; it is an ethnographic account of a particular society in Latin American history. Many
critics have placed the novel in the literary genre “sicaresca;” “a new and
distinctive narrative discourse, directly engaged with the economic, political, and social reality of Columbia” (Lander 1). The plot unfolds in the
city of Medellín, Colombia, during a period of overwhelming crime and
poverty. Grammarian Fernando, protagonist of the novel, returns from
living abroad to find his hometown in shambles. With the drug lord dead
and the government taking little responsibility for the well-being of its
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Obras citadas
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Carvalho’s Nine Nights similarly works closely with a true story in its creation of a work of fiction. The plot follows a writer journalist who takes
interest in the mysterious suicide case of young ethnologist Buell Quain.
Though the suicide had taken place decades in the past, the protagonist
becomes consumed by the case. As he investigates, he develops theories
about the events leading to the suicide. In his investigation of the suicide,
the narrator uncovers much about the subject of the ethnologist’s research,
providing the reader with a brief anthropological study of Brazilian Indians. Additionally, he documents the experience of researching the Indians
as a scientist as well as his own experience of the Indians as a child traveling
with his father. Carvalho utilizes a journalistic methodology in his investigation of the suicide that exposes itself in the unornamented fragmented
plot. For the narrator, and for Carvalho who is barely distinguishable from
his primary narrator, art becomes the production of experience. While the
novel enjoys commercial success for its Joseph Conrad-like suspense, the
novel seems to centralize around the narrator’s construction of the story
more than the story itself. Thus, the novel extends beyond fiction into
realms of anthropology, journalism, and literary theory.
Narrative style and voice largely influence the direction of these works,
carrying the fictions into domains of autobiography and philosophy. In
both pieces, the narrator is a partially fictionalized representation of the
author. In Our Lady of the Assassins, the protagonist is named after the
author and speaks with Vallejo’s voice. Carvalho and his narrator in Nine
Nights are both writer journalists who became obsessed with the suicide
of Buell Quain and went through great lengths to investigate Quain’s life
and death. By inserting themselves as narrators into their fictional novels,
which are only slight extrapolations of reality, Vallejo and Carvalho establish ambiguity between fiction and reality that inspires renewed reading of
the texts with further implications.
In Our Lady of the Assassins, Fernando presents his account of Medellín
from the perspective of a moral and educational superior. He never fails to
remind the reader of his intellectual fame and his detachment from the violence of Medellín. Fernando’s superiority and detachment from Medellín
reflect the intellectual’s irrelevance in the construction and comprehension
of a national reality (Lander 2). As society decomposes, the intellectual
remains removed, distant from the daily grievances of the general population. Even as Fernando returns to live in Medellín, he remains unscathed
while both his lovers die early deaths. When Alexis dies, Fernando quickly
replaces him with Wilmar, demonstrating how the intellectual remains
unaffected. Though Fernando does not himself commit murders, he is
indirectly responsible for many of the murders his lovers commit and at
times acts as an accomplice to their crimes. Fernando justifies himself by
stating that his sin, if any, resided solely in what he wanted, not what he
did (Vallejo 32). However, Fernando’s self-driven amoral mindset is the
exact sort of mentality that perpetuates the deterioration of civil society.
One even gets the sense that Fernando, as an educated wealthy intellectual, is more responsible for the poor state of society than the two poor
uneducated assassins who were born and bred into a society of violence
and decay. By speaking directly to his reader as an outsider to Medellín,
Fernando calls into question the responsibility of the reader. By maintaining that the reader is a foreigner, the discourse expands beyond a national
discourse into a global one, “in order to expose the inadequate nature of
this notion of community, the novel exaggerates its failures to the extent
that the reader is cornered and forced to recognize his/her intellectual and
material participation in the preservation of a disjointed and dysfunctional
society” (Lander 3). Ultimately, one is brought back to the concept of
the “lettered city” and the place of literature. Though we are unable to
do anything through literature, it is no longer exclusively a medium for
the creation of utopias. Literature in an expanded field contains a new
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citizens, out-of-work assassins kill freely in meaningless gang wars and
endless battles of honor and revenge. An entire city exists in a constant
state of hatred and fear, demonstrating the collapse of civil society in
Columbia during this time. Fernando encounters a young assassin named
Alexis that he takes as his lover. The novel follows this aimless pair through
the decrepit city, providing an insider view of Medellín from the perspective of an outsider, in terms of wealth and education. Once Alexis is killed,
Fernando takes a second lover, Wilmer, another young assassin, who is
also killed before the end of the novel. Through this dark and violent plot
centralizing around daily life in Medellín, Vallejo illustrates the nature of
urban poverty, the development of slums, and extreme social inequality, all
of which were typical Latin American problems in the nineteen-seventies
and eighties. The novel also contains strong themes of homosexuality and
religiosity. Fernando outwardly criticizes society’s notion of these concepts, displacing the traditional Latin American culture of “lettered city”
literature. Though the novel’s success has much to do with its insolent
humor and cinematic portrayals, it is rooted in a devastating historical
reality and brimming with indirect social commentary.
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Perspective and narrative form are similarly crucial to the wider reading
of Nine Nights. However, Carvalho’s work deals with very different concepts than Vallejo’s. While Vallejo’s narrator conveys concepts of social
conflict and questions of ethical responsibility in a national and political
context, Carvalho’s narration works on a more psychological and epistemological level, challenging notions of identity and singular truth. Carvalho interweaves historical facts and fictional elements in a discontinuous
plot that never provides concrete information about Buell Quain or any
of the characters involved in constructing his identity. Carvalho leaves
the narrator unnamed, complicating the ability to differentiate between
author and narrator, further confusing the readers’ conception of the
boundary between fiction and reality. As the narrator slowly builds an
identity for Quain, a real historical character, and paints the events surrounding his suicide, he constantly reminds us that there is no singular
truth, especially when it comes to explaining the complexities of the human psyche. Memory and language are inadequate tools for the construction of an identity, and yet the narrator spends an entire novel utilizing
these tools to construct Quain. Knowing that there is no ultimate truth,
Carvalho and the narrator push forward with their research under the torment of uncertainty, exposing the irrepressible curiosity of human beings:
“but our curiosity about these presumed mysteries relies on their lack of
meaning” (Carvalho 1). The concept of narration and identity construction draws back to the foggy distinction between fiction and reality. An
author is always in a sense constructing his own identity even as he writes
a work of fiction. This psychic spillage is evidence that language comprises
us and contains all that we know (Beal 136). Recalling the inadequacies of
language in unveiling the human psyche, one is reminded of the subjectivity of truth and the instability of our constructions of identity.
For Carvalho, we are automatically all storytellers and there is no wick.
The reader who fears his or her agency as storytellers struggle in vain to
preserve the imagined wick, a symbol of singular truth. Conversely, the
reader who delights in his or her agency as a storyteller views the gentle
flame as a space for self-empowerment and creativity (Beal 147).
Thus, Carvalho indirectly comments on the real nature of writing and
identity as he constructs a fictional identity based in his own reality and
that of the historical Buell Quain. His narration points to a theory about
the function of literature, both for the reader and the writer, and elucidates
an epistemological viewpoint that expands into fields of psychology and
philosophy.
In a sense, literature has come to represent the cloudy boundary between
fiction and reality. In an expanded field, literature encompasses a plethora
of fields of study including anthropology, sociology, journalism, psychology, and philosophy. No longer an autonomous medium, literature is invaded by all sorts of “noise from the outside”, so that even fiction contains
traces of reality. As can be seen in Nine Nights, reality also contains traces
of fiction such that no truth stands independently of its context. By taking a closer look at literature such as Our Lady of the Assassins and Nine
Nights that won much commercial success for their artistic qualities, one
can see that novels do far more than fictionalize a reality. The function of
literature is expanded along with its content, allowing the study of time
and place through literature. ❉
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Works cited
Beal, Sophia. “Becoming a Character:
An Analysis of Bernardo Carvalho’s
Nove Noites.” Luso-Brazilian Review
42.2 (2005): 134-149. Print.
Lander, María Fernanda. “The
Intellectual’s Criminal Discourse in
Our Lady of the Assassins.” Discourse 25.3 (2003): 76-91. Print.
Carvalho, Bernardo. Nine Nights.
London: Vintage, 2002. Print.
Vallejo, Fernando. Our Lady of the
Assassins. Bogotá: Alfaguara, 1994.
Print.
Jean, Franco. “The Decline and Fall
of the Lettered City.” Latin America
in the Cold War. Cambridge: Harvard
University Press, 2002. Print.
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context for social discourse where the problems of the present are just as
important as the hopes for the future.
Julia
Reporting Buenos Aires
school, playing in a yard, posing on the porch. She raises both of them, as
her Argentine husband, “Juani,” is often working or traveling. Still, she is
perceived by colleagues to be a woman who has learned to dedicate time
as a mother, while balancing her own growth through her writing and
photography.
Julia speaks like she writes: dramatic, superlative, and vivid. As soon as she
sits down she is chatting rapidly and peppering her frantic sentences with
words like madly, thrilling, refreshing, gorgeous, stunning, and insane to
describe Jonathon Safran Foer’s Eating Animals, Jonathon Safran Foer’s
wife (Nicole Krauss whom she has had the pleasure of meeting), and of
course, her own vegetarian children. A self-described intense baker, she
says she has had to learn to cook vegetarian cuisine because her husband
has very high ideals about food, but not the time to make it. Consequently,
she is currently working on an illustrated Spanish vegetarian cookbook.
The first thing you notice about Julia Napier is her shoes –sailor-striped
espadrilles with sinewy cream-colored ties twisting around her calf. The
next time you see her, she’ll be wearing impossibly tall wooden clogs, with
smooth black leather molded and punched in place by brass tacks. Julia
Napier doesn’t strike you as a local here –blonde half-hearted curls frame
a face free of make-up, her pale blue eyes serving as the only adornment.
You might wonder what this lanky blond American woman is doing in
Buenos Aires. You might be surprised to learn she moved here because she
fell in love at eighteen; and that, in spite of economic crises and robberies at gunpoint, writer, shoemaker, mother, Julia Napier stays because she
feels more alive here in Argentina than she ever could back in the States.
She arrives 20 minutes late to the interview, after it has been already been
rescheduled once before. She´s breathless and confident when she arrives
to the café, apologizing on account of her tardiness and explaining the
unexpected diaper emergency that delayed her arrival into the city from
the wealthy neighborhood of San Isidro. She has left her children at home
with her husband while she spends a day at the Feria del Libros to mingle
with her fellow writers. She will mention her children –Oliverio, 4 and
Justina, 2– six times during the interview. She will take out her iPhone
and show a few pictures on her phone of the two toddlers in front of their
She is the youngest daughter of a woman who seduced and spurned a
Swiss count and a man who studied under Robert Frost and later rejected
a promised career in poetry. A child to parents who did groundbreaking
work in family therapy, her father later moved the family to Atlanta on
account of the insupportable cold of winter. She was raised in Georgia, attending progressive, liberal schools that nurtured her creative side. Family
legend says she wrote her first poem at six. Growing up, Julia’s mother
spoke and sang French to her. For some undisclosed reason she had chosen only to share her penchant for the overseas with her youngest child.
Julia says she took on her mother’s narrative of never really fitting into the
United States as sort of a driving force that led her to assume she would
end up living abroad. She studied abroad in France twice and figured she
would end up living in some French speaking country. That is, until she
met Juan. Her mother warned her how dangerous international types can
be, but freshman year Julia fell “madly in love, head over heels, insane” for
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She had found herself publishing only in Spanish recently. She arrived in
Argentina 13 years ago speaking fluent French and English but hardly a
word of Spanish. She had followed her then boyfriend, now husband, who
said to her “I really want to go home. If I don’t go now, I never will.” She
laughs, remembering, and says flatly: Argentine men are mama’s boys. She
was never formally schooled in Spanish, but when she turns and orders a
doble lágrima in perfect Castellano with a flawless Rioplatense accent, it is
hard to believe she was born in Madison, Wisconsin.
She came to Argentina for love and she remains here for her craft. Having
studied English and French literature as an undergraduate with a concentration in creative writing, Julia has always used writing as her primary
vehicle for self-expression and commentary. At the table, where she sits
wearing a bright pink scarf wrapped around her neck and a khaki raincoat
with tiny polka-dotted lining, she grabs a red sugar packet. She uses her
hands and the things around her to make her points more tangible. She explains that she is very interested in creative non-fiction because it requires
her to take something as real as “this,” she says holding out the sugar,
and remake it –find a narrative. She asserts that Argentina has helped her
writing immensely: living in an unusual place where everyday requires
improvisation and ingenuity.
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She has used her experiences in Argentina as fuel for her writing. The
short story, Chase the Sun chronicles her early experiences of success
and partying in the social elite world of Buenos Aires as the Argentine
economy and government collapsed in 2001. The character (Julia) eventually escapes a crumbling Argentina for a graduate program in London
and leaves behind the intimacy of a friend group fortified with long
nights of drug-induced revelry.
An outspoken critic of Buenos Aires social elitism, Julia finds the repercussions of privilege in this society to be eternally disturbing. She describes
the kinds of people her husband grew up with –lifetimes in homes where
one merely had to hold out their hand for a glass of water, she takes her
glass of water and holds it out and to the side, stares forward. “There is
not a sense of privilege, but a reality of privilege,” she argues. However,
readers of her work have found her writing to be dripping with privilege –especially Chase the Sun and her piece detailing her work running a
shoe factory, El Taller. A student in one of her writing workshops, Jacob
Stone states his impressions of her writing: “In person, she was evasive
and unwilling to acknowledge her overwhelming position of privilege. She
doesn’t seem to be aware of how her social status colors her writing and
she was reluctant to address it in class.”
She used her experience of running a successful shoe company in the late
90s as material to write El Taller. Soon after she arrived to Argentina,
Juan and she became involved with a successful young shoe designer and
opened up the first young hip shops in Recoleta and Palermo. The experience was a crash course in all things business and all things Argentine
–speaking Spanish with wealthy Recoleta ladies and Paraguayan employees, dealing with robberies at gun point, eating panchos on the floor in
the middle of the night, bribing IRS officers in front of Tribunales– Julia
embraced the experience in all its obstacles and successes until things came
to a halt in December of 2001. She returned to Buenos Aires two years
later after completing a Masters in fine art at Goldsmith’s in London and
began writing her first novel.
Now, she admits, she finds novels are a bit too much work without the
payoff. She has set about working on a series of short stories about bodily
excrements and has been commissioned to work on a coffee table book
with a photographer about people who work in very small spaces in Buenos Aires. She is continuing to write, but enjoys editing and collaborating
with local artists; she finds it brings her closer in contact with the Buenos
Aires writing world. Constant calls to New York and London and publishing in English had kept her outside of the vibrant Argentine literary
community.
“I believe she is one of the most versatile and creative persons I have had
the pleasure of meeting,” praises colleague Anna Kazumi-Stahl. “She is at
the same time a writer who is deeply engaged with the form and material
substance of writing as an art, that is to say she focuses on craft, on wordsmanship, and therefore also draws heavily on both an intuitively sharp
eye as well as a strongly informed academic background in literature.” She
continues, “She is able to galvanize diverse individuals in projects that are
often surprising, many times inspired in multi-cultural lives and émigré
women.”
Watching her children grow each day with Spanish as their first language
thrills her transmigratory soul. She explains, “The thing that drives me
to be a writer, to live here, to have been an entrepreneur, is an enduring
desire to take risks in ways that feel meaningful and to search for narrative
in areas where I’ll have to be very creative.” With that, she’s finished her
lágrima and rushes out the door as quickly as she breezed in. ❉
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him. They broke up after graduation and Julia went straight into a Masters
in French, Caribbean, and North African literature, while Juan, who was
not ready to settle down, traveled around the world. Two years later, she
met him in Buenos Aires.
Women on the bench
I took this photo in the Parque Botánico, but honestly, it could’ve been in any park
in Buenos Aires. One of the most civilized and admirable qualities of this city and its
people is how much they value taking time to relax and chat with good friends. Their
patient and don’t rush their daily activities; they appreciate parks and public space.
Olaya Barr
Lucas Green
Intro to Latin American Studies
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Even in pieces of art where no political agenda is intended or even present
in the work itself, a political interpretation can and often does find its way
to the discerning spectator and passive consumer. If we accept the truism
that when an artist publishes his work he relinquishes sovereignty of it,
we must take it to mean more than the notion that it becomes the equal
and democratic acquisition of all for individual reflection and interpretation. While the piece may no longer be the possession of the creator, we
must not exclude its propensity to fall among the possessions and intentions of one person or an incorporated group of persons with a specific
agenda directing how the popular spectator reflects and interprets it. This
is the role of the propaganda minister in the strongly willed nation and
he was most prominent worldwide during the wars of the first half of the
twentieth century. Propaganda is a passive act of war, but holds the same
destructive capacity as any other. It is the stockpiling of arms in the form
of sympathies through the systematized coercion of the greatest possible
number of emotional allies to a particular cause. It can be transparent and
forceful like the firing of a gun on the cause of another, but it can also
be subtle and unseen in its effort to plant an internal, self-propagating,
dispersion of ideas that will gradually overtake the previous strongholds
through individual corruption on a massive scale, like the work of a spy.
By the 1930s the tools to produce and distribute visual materials on a massive platform became universally available in developed nations. This was
an apt development for a time when the effective political strategy was
populism. During World War II especially, it was important for a leader to
have popular support within his country both to maintain legitimacy with
his people, appear powerful abroad, and –most delicately– to find popular
amity abroad. The emergence of a mass-produced visual language in the
form of cinema became the vessel that would be used to carry messages
between languages, borders, and even political philosophy. It was the most
efficient form of communication in that it could be exhibited simultaneously to disparate demographics who would receive the same level of understanding. This was new and it occurred internationally. When the US
government found it necessary to insure a political and economic alliance
with the countries of South America via The Good Neighbor Policy, they
sent the widely recognized Walt Disney down South to use his popularity
and prowess for attaining greater popularity as a tool to foster a continuing relationship to the advantage of the US. It is in this event that we
witness the profound and difficult-to-recognize ideological and economic
colonization of South America by both the United States and the Walt
Disney corporation. By analyzing the introduction of new forms of mass
appeal in the countries Walt Disney visited in 1941 –Brazil, Argentina, and
Chile– we can see how a country’s relationship with the US determines the
cultural product of nations who have frequently struggled in building a
national identity as the voices of the people are surreptitiously replaced by
voices speaking to the people through the universal lexicon of the image.
Leni Reifenstahl’s Triumph of the Will circulated world-wide in 1935
and sent a distinct message to the people of Germany and the rest of the
globe: that the Nazis were powerful, organized, and prepared to fight.
The United States of America had emerged as a world power and was
making every effort to remain so, but was not so aggressive in their coercive tactics and even less so socialistic. The US government is never one
to outrightly insist that people in its own country think a certain way, it
does, however, support the work of private enterprisers whose interests
concord with the political and economic interests of the nation. From this
time forward though, it became very apparent that the US government
would insist upon certain ideologies abroad (especially when the matter at
stake was economic in nature) and directly intervened in countries whose
democracies came to question these ideologies, as in, most famously, what
happened in Chile in the seventies. However, with the world so dramati-
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¡Saludos Vecinos!
The invisible hand has an owner
Walt Disney provides a good framework by which to analyze the issue of
US cultural hegemony and clandestine neocolonialism not just because his
influence can be traced on through the dictatorships of the 70s, but also
because he was the source of much that occurred in this regard. In fact,
Walt Disney (and the Walt Disney Corporation) was as much a player
in international and domestic (US) politics and economics at the time as
United Fruit, only beneath a shroud of glorious innovation. It is important to register here that Walt Disney equally epitomizes (among other
salient identities) the title of the North American Populist, Capitalist,
and Patriot. By recognizing these attributes and the reasons they so readily adhere to the persona of Walt Disney, the agenda of the Walt Disney
Corporation can be understood more clearly and it strongly informs his
actions in respect to Latin America. It is easy to see where Disney’s Populist sentiments come from, growing up on farms in the midwest states
of Kansas and Missouri (Dorfman and Mattelart 20). His films exhibit
an intimacy with and celebration of the working class from Geppetto,
the struggling carpenter in Pinnochio (1940), to the circus life in Dumbo
(1941), to the dwarves who whistle while they work in Snow White (1937).
However, the populist sentiment does not merely indicate a nostalgic fixation of Disney’s on rural or plebeian life, it is also accordant to the sale
of more films. The imagery of these works is bound to appeal to a much
larger audience who can relate to what they are seeing and appreciate the
easily accessible universal messages that are rendered in such a colorful
and emotional manner. In addition, all these films were adaptations of
already popular literature. These cunning, populist-inclined, commercial
tactics were probably not the motive for Disney’s transition from artisan
animator to innovating entrepreneur, but it is evident that this was a popularly inclined form of filmmaking and more profitable to produce than
more controversial social or political critiques which would find a narrower audience, especially internationally. A social and political agenda
was eventually achieved through his films, it just wasn’t done so through
the content, but through the systems put in place to produce and exhibit
it. This will be seen later on in the case of Argentina in a strategy employed by the United States to make sure that political messages contrary
to US interests did not infiltrate the citizens of Argentina. As was debated
prominently in Chile, Disney used populist imagery to insert himself permanently into global culture in a way that ensured him a constant stream
of revenue from countries who continued to use his images for the profits
they enable, with the by-product of permanently altering the individual
trajectory of both commercial and non-commercial artistic production
(Dorfman and Mattelart 15). We will see in the case of Chile how Disney
created a system in which his popular images and profit-minded intentions work off of each other to overtake more independent-minded work.
Before discussing unique cases in South America I would like to address
Walt Disney’s role as a symbol in the Third World. Though his films were
composed with the popular classes in mind and sought an international audience, there can be no presumption that the international image of Disney
did not exemplify his North American patriotism or capitalist predilections. Disney’s rising success and propensity to profit from his works were
closely followed internationally. His personal story of the individual enterpriser with modest roots had circulated globally by the 1940s. Throughout
World War II, Disney’s patriotism was strongly visible in his propaganda
films such as Victory Through Air Power (1943) while simultaneously
other symbols he invented came to transcend international politics, especially Mickey Mouse who was declared an “International Symbol of Good
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cally divided at the end of the thirties, more finesse would be required to
persuade foreign nations to ally on the side of the US. The situation in
South America was delicate. The US did not wish to lose trade relations
with the countries it bought such a large amount of natural resources from
at such a cheap price, but something had to be done to prevent countries
in South America from aligning with Axis powers. There was little the US
had to threaten with other than the imposition of trade restrictions such as
the limit of raw film stock to Argentina, which only served to escalate tensions (Fallcov 245). It would take shrewdness and grandeur to persuade
the neutral and nationalistically slanted countries of South America, so
far away from the conflict, to take a definitive position (Chasteen 238).
The problem would be solved by what was called a ‘diplomatic mission’
cooked up by Nelson Rockefeller as head Coordinator of Inter-American
Affairs (CIAA) and Walt Disney was the perfect candidate to proliferate
the ‘American’ message as the indisputable master of universal appeal and
possessor of a supremely patriotic and moral sensibility (Kaufman 17).
Walt Disney introduced certain rhetorical structures to the South American media as well as modes of production that would continue to be used
because of their efficiency and popular appeal. It was admiration of Walt
Disney and his work by the masses that allowed him to shape the forms
of media that would be produced and, to a large extent, its content to the
advantage of both the United States of America, but even more so to the
Walt Disney Corporation.
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The situation in Brazil was the least problematic for the United States during World War II and most easily addressed. It indicates how acquiescence
to the wishes of the USA benefited both countries to an economic and
political extent, if not cultural. Cultural interchange between the US and
Brazil was economically motivated. Brazil was the first stop for Disney
on his South American journey. He arrived on August 14th, 1941 in Rio
de Janeiro to a massive crowd of excited fans, an official welcome from
the Brazilian government, and an envoy of Brazil’s most famous artists
including the lauded composer Heitor Villa-Lobos (Kaufman 33-37).
In regards to hopes for a ‘good neighbor’ relationship between nations,
the US found the least resistance from Brazil whose nationally beloved
Carmen Miranda had already begun appearing in good neighbor films in
Hollywood. Although the dictatorship of Vargas had indicated fascist and
Axis tendencies in the past, Brazil’s proximity to the United States made
an alliance with the Allies economically logical, though they withheld a
formal position. German hostilities upon Brazilian trading vessels defaulted Brazil to the Allies in August of 1942. Trade of resources and capital
between the US and Brazil benefited both countries economically and the
United States gained the strategic advantage of constructing airfields on
Brazilian land (Chasteen 238-239). This trustful relationship made for a
strong commercial exchange of culture. The culture industry in the United
States benefited from the sale of the exotic aesthetic of the Samba in the
films of Carmen Miranda. Upon his return, Disney capitalized on the rapturous Brazilian spirit by reproducing its imagery in his ‘Good Neighbor’
films, Saludos Amigos (1942) and The Three Caballeros (1944). Brazil,
meanwhile, imported Disney’s aesthetic and production methods. Brazil’s
first animated film was released in 1951 called Sinfonia Amazônica and
was inspired by Disney’s Fantasia (1940) and made using cel-animation
technology developed by Disney. Additionally, the character of José Carioca, who first appeared in Saludos Amigos, was appropriated in Brazilian
culture and remains a comic book and television figure today, claiming a
role in Brazilian culture comparable to Mickey Mouse. José’s profits still
return to the Disney Corporation (Kaufman 268).
With such ready cooperation from the government of Brazil and satisfying
political and economic relations, it was not necessary for the United States
to pursue any new political sentiment in the people of Brazil. It sufficed
that both countries were in a profitable position and would remain that
way. The USA had only to maintain a demand for their cultural products
by ensuring that the codes of artists such as Disney were the ones that
were accepted and popularized and would remain more popular than
other art in the country. This could be realized by inserting US modes
of production into Brazilian ones. This would secure the same industrial
path of production development that US studios had only to stay ahead
of to produce films of a greater and therefore more appealing quality. It
was Brazilian representatives who came to Disney to learn these practices. The Minister of Education in Brazil asked for one of Disney’s artist/
technicians, Jack Cutting, to remain in Rio to advise the development of
an educational film industry (Kaufman 41). Brazil’s amicable relationship
with the United States also gave them access to Hollywood films and
their forms of production. As such, movies made in Brazil came to resemble Hollywood films in that they were shot in a studio and were often
melodramas of the upper-middle class or spectacular musicals. Cultural
output in Brazil during this time period was solely focused on commercial
development rather than the expression of a national sensibility or unique
aesthetic -and especially not political dissidence. The avant-garde silent
cinema that made Brazil a strong emerging cinema long before was overtaken by the commercialization of the industry which the US provided
the tools for. The censor-happy dictatorship of Vargas monopolized these
tools and left the cinema of Brazil devoid of intellectual or political value
until the 1960s when a national cinema began to develop in the form of
Cinema Novo before it was quickly squashed, along with the Democracy,
by a CIA-backed junta (Armes 170-176).
Disney and his team arrived in Buenos Aires next on September 8th and
though they were greeted by an even grander crowd than in Rio, Argentina
posed a much greater political challenge than the one in Brazil. Disney’s
propaganda had a direct physical foe in Germany’s presence in Argentina
and a newspaper of its own, a Nazi newspaper, El Pampero. It was also
one of the rare places in which Hollywood cinema came into direct competition with Germany’s UFA. In addition, the culture industry of Argen-
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Will” by the League of Nations in 1935 (Dorfman and Mattelart 18-20).
This testifies to Disney’s unique talent to thrust his work across political
lines while maintaining the same personal ideological identity, which was
contrary to the politics of much of his audience. We will now see how this
is the case by the way in which differing political and economic international relationships held by the United States during World War II, in the
cases of Brazil, Argentina, and Chile, have shaped those countries’ culture
industries and instigated a lasting political presence.
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However, in the fates of animator Quirino Cristiani and film producer
Federico Valle we can see the tragic illustration of the reductive effects of
cultural imperialism upon a national art and identity. Both men were innovators in their field and had roots in the initial avant-garde age of filmmaking. Together they made the world’s first animated feature film, El
Apóstol, in 1917 and many other animated features, mostly of a political
nature satirizing the president Yriyogen. Although subject to occasional
censorship, the films of Valle and Cristiani remained afloat because of their
comedic nature and innovative, unique animation until Disney emerged and
captured all popular attention (Bendazzi). When Disney arrived in Buenos
Aires, he was enthusiastically embraced by both public officials and artists.
His and the United States’ popular endearment triumphed over Nazism and
assured the persisting presence of Disney’s characters and codes. Valle and
Cristiani’s uniquely and purely Argentine product could no longer afford to
risk the money on new animation devices to compete with Disney’s vertically integrated studios, the most efficient, if trite form of production. They
could not find a buyer to preserve their films, which were soon lost to a fire
that destroyed every existing print. Thus a voice permanently disappears as
a result of cultural imperialism (Barnard and Rist 5).
Argentina was prevented from developing its own aesthetic compass and
made to adopt the imagery of the United States and Mickey Mouse. By
the time Argentina began receiving film stock again, the majority of production capabilities had shifted to the government whose subsidization
of the industry had put it in their control. The mainstream film industry
was controlled by the government, which would continue to use the Hollywood model for its propaganda on through the dictatorship of the 1970s
where Walt Disney’s imagery appeared again.
Chile presents an even subtler dilemma in the undetected infiltration of the
Disney Doctrine on a massive scale. The US could not justify intervention
in a country whose democratic rule by the Radical Party remained stable
until the US feared the rise of a new socialist candidate in Salvador Allende
(Chasteen 291-293). Up until Allende’s time, however, the Chilean culture
industry was all but entirely dominated by North American products,
distribution, and exhibition. The popular appeal of Hollywood products
and their interest to conservative forces in Chile did not allow for a Chilean product to form until the late sixties. Allende’s brief government, and
the Popular Unity Party he was a part of, strongly advocated a national
industry and the rejection of North American products. In Herbert Schiller’s book Communication and Cultural Domination he proposes an
explanation that is supported by these facts and the prominence of Disney
Latin America... represents a peripheral region in which broadcasting is thoroughly commercialized and serves fully the requirements of the multinational
corporations and their indigenous counterparts... Once commercial, a series of
economic pressures thereafter ensure that the broadcast media everywhere will
carry the cultural material produced in the core areas [the USA]. (Schiller 10)
The US government initiated a second maneuver later on that utilized
economic devices to alter political rhetoric in Argentina when the government of Perón still seemed poised to side with the Nazis. In 1941, the
United States began limiting the amount of raw film stock (among other
materials) sold to Argentina in order to prevent the production of Nazisympathizing propaganda and to pressure the country into siding with
the Allies. The Argentine government tried to keep the industry afloat
by promoting government-subsidized newsreels and censoring US films,
but the United States responded with a total embargo that was completely
lifted when Argentina gave up its neutrality to the Allies in 1945 (Fallcov).
This is a clear exhibition of the urgency with which the United States
will protect the dissemination of exclusively its own popular discourse.
Schiller goes on to cite Disney as a prime example of this in that the North
American ideology present in the work of Walt Disney was presented to
Latin America in a commercial form that set up structures by which it
could continue to be proliferated by its own agency and that of ‘indigenous’ imitation which does not change the nature of the capitalist ideology in question. This explains why Chile’s own cinema took so long to
emerge. Ariel Dorfman and Armand Mattelart wrote a book titled How
to Read Donald Duck published in 1972 and distributed from exile as
a banned book. Dorfman and Mattelart insist that Disney’s predisposition to focus on popular lifestyles is a means to implant his ideas into
the masses of Chile in order to keep it a capitalist society and one that
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tina was much more diversified and rooted to the institutions developed
without US intervention (Kaufman 44). Because of this, Argentina had a
strong national voice in its artwork that served many political views. The
Hollywood model of production was also as present in Buenos Aires as it
was in the rest of the world and took on the same Western bourgeois messages (Armes 173). Greater political freedom and the lack of US influences
prevented the Hollywood film from dominating the industry.
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Mass production is realized in commercialization and commercialization
of a commodity is justified by massive demand, a collective sentiment. As
such, each item that undergoes mass production contains that piece of ideology, which, however fleeting or genuine, has led to a massive demand for
that item. To recover control over that modicum of ideology, one would
need to retract every manifestation of it and stop production of it, which
is impossible in many cases and deplorable too. There exist no restrictions on the monopoly of a collective notion. When the notion in question
proliferates through capitalism, a competition develops in which the only
way to gain strength as an idea is by dominating the other. Ultimately,
the popular dissemination of a singular idea is inevitable. The commercial
structures that develop to satisfy those initial impulses and see to their end
persevere after the impetus has passed and they are expropriated to the
masses by another party with a different end. In this we see how the voice
of the people who ask for a change remains presumed to be the same when
in truth it is being used to express the desire of those who are in control
of the commercial structures, which are usually few. The dominant will
of these players prevents new ideologies from arising that pose a threat
to the benefits the commercial system affords those in control of it. New
voices are either quelled with force or by the restriction of access to the
mechanisms that allow a voice to be heard. When an impartial capitalist
agenda finds an entrance into popular society, it dominates and feeds upon
the society in a way that only the Guerrilla knows how to fight. ❉
Works cited
Armes, Roy. Third World Film Making
and the West. Berkeley: University of
California, 1987. Print. 170-176.
Barnard, Tim, and Peter Rist.
South American Cinema: a Critical
Filmography, 1915-1994. New York:
Garland Pub., 1996. Print. 5.
Bendazzi, Giannalberto. “The
Untold Story of Argentina’s Pioneer
Animator.” AWN | Animation World
Network. Indiana University Press,
1996. Web. 26 May 2011.
Chasteen, John Charles. Born in Blood
and Fire: a Concise History of Latin
America. New York: W.W. Norton &,
2006. Print. 238-240.
Dorfman, Ariel, and Armand Mattelart.
How to Read Donald Duck: Imperialist
Ideology in the Disney Comic. New
York: International General, 1975.
Print.
Fallcov, Tamara L. “Hollywood’s
Rogue Neighbor: The Argentine Film
Industry during the Good Neighbor
Policy, 1939-1945.” Latin American
Film History 63.2 (2006): 245. JSTOR.
Web. 24 May 2011. <http://www.jstor.
org/pss/4491220>.
Kaufman, J. B. South of the Border
with Disney: Walt Disney and the Good
Neighbor Program, 1941-1948. New
York: Disney Editions, 2009. Print.
17-19.
Schiller, Herbert I. Communication and
Cultural Domination. White Plains,
NY: International Arts and Sciences,
1976. Print.
“YouTube - Propaganda De La Época
De La Dictadura Militar Argentina 2‫‏‬.”
YouTube - Broadcast Yourself. Web. 26
May 2011. <http://www.youtube.com/
watch?v=PlPLHcItxTU>.
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continues to feed the Disney empire by purchasing its products in the
form of the comic book. Dorfman and Mattelart also explain how indigenous writers imitating the form of Disney comics must abide by certain
rules in the representation of characters that the Disney Company dictates
with the threat of lawsuit (16). This would support Schiller’s view on the
staying tendencies of capitalist ideology. The idea is given more legitimacy
when considered in respect to the CIA’s involvement in the coup against
Allende and the propaganda campaign from conservative newspapers that
preceded it (Chasteen 291-293).
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Laura
Laura was one of my first local Porteña friends, and perhaps the first person to
introduce me to mate; here I think we’re in Parque Centenario. On top of being
beautiful and all smiles, she has a very generous character. She introduced me to the
marvelous working class and humble neighborhoods of Almagro y Caballito, and to
the political voice of her leftist generation; she took me to rally’s and demonstrations
in Plaza de Mayo and would explain to me her opinion on Kirchner, lunfardo
(Porteño slang), and her view of Argentine identity. “Repiola la foto!” she said in a
typical Buenos Aires accent when she saw this photo.
Olaya Barr
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Joseph Audeh
Cultura, identidad y política
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Teorizar sobre los procesos de la conquista, la migración y las pautas de
desarrollo de los pueblos indígenas significa abordar ideas de sumisión y
resistencia frente a figuras de poder y el Estado. Si consideramos que es
cada vez más difícil para los indígenas mantener una identidad propia, esto
es resultado de prácticas culturales cambiantes, o provocado por el Estado,
o por nociones divergentes de ser indígena dentro de una comunidad dada.
En el caso de los Toba, se encuentran con una nueva cosmología híbrida
que utiliza símbolos autóctonos como el shaman y el Familiar para extraer sentido de las nuevas relaciones sociales y laborales a las que han sido
sometidos. La experiencia de los Chuschinos en Perú es semejante; sin
embargo, tratan desesperadamente de mantener un cierre social a través de
sus estructuras y actuaciones rituales. Ninguno resiste las fuerzas exteriores intentando quebrar estos tejidos unidos.
Los Toba del Río Pilcomayo en la Argentina del siglo diecinueve gozaban de cierta autonomía social y lograban la autosuficiencia a través de ser
cazadores-recolectores. Sus migraciones estacionales subsiguientes resultaron no por deseo propio, sino mediante una incorporación a la economía
de plantación inmediatamente después de que el Estado-nación argentino
realizara su asalto militar en el Gran Chaco. Al mismo tiempo en que su
estilo de vida fue amenazado, traían con ellos los mismos símbolos y su-
persticiones al ingenio en el Valle San Francisco. Por un lado, los shamanes, o figuras galvanizadoras de la resistencia indígena, representaron una
rebeldía contra el Estado y emergieron como profetas milenaristas para
llevar a cabo un cambio en el sistema controlado por los criollos (Gordillo 2006). Por otro lado, el traslado estacional introduciría una serie de
“demonios” a la experiencia de los Toba, los payák de los montañas, los
“antropófagos” conocidos como los Kiya Gaikpí, y el Familiar –el más
real y peligroso de todos (Gordillo 2002).
La memoria de los Toba de trabajar en los ingenios reconocía una reformulación concreta y subconsciente de su experiencia cultural. La influencia de los misioneros anglicanos en los años ‘30 los forzó pensar en los
payák (a ellos les echaban la culpa por las numerosas enfermedades y las
muertes) como figuras diabólicas, o sea algo más singular y menos abstracto. Como estuvieran convencidos de que eran incapaces de garantizar
su reproducción social en el Chaco, los Toba empezaron a adoptar una
mentalidad capitalista, justificando su sufrimiento –San Martín del Tabacal– por la abundancia de las mercancías en el ingenio. Nuevos miedos
anteriormente no existentes aparecieron ligados a las jerarquías raciales
que engendraban sentimientos de inferioridad y se entrelazaban con ideas
ser excluidos e incluidos. Aquellos que proyectaban esta organización de
poder humano (los patrones, los militares, la policía) se verían como administradores de la segmentación de clases y muchas veces como el Familiar
mismo. Habría que decir que las estadías en los ingenios finalmente reproducían sentimientos de alejamiento del producto que fabricaban y de
esta nueva estructura social. Solo el fetichismo del documento, o el DNI,
llevaría la ilusión de inclusión al sistema estatal y la garantía de derechos
después de años de ansiedad y exclusión en los ingenios (Gordillo 2006).
Si bien el cambio cultural para los Toba venía de arriba, o por el Estado, la
multiplicidad de intereses dentro de la comunidad Chuschina comprometió su cohesión cultural. Tal vez el factor más importante para este cambio
fuera la emigración de Chuschi a Lima. Como Billie Jean Isbell explica en
Para defendernos: ecología y ritual en los Andes, esta comunidad campesina corporativa trata de mantenerse cerrada a través de un sistema complejo
de distinguir entre “dentro” y “fuera”. La oposición básica gira alrededor
de un dualismo en relaciones sociales, ejemplificada por la diferencia entre el ayllu, o una parentela íntima, y el otro, el qala. Mientras esta forma
del parentesco es una manera defenderse de las intromisiones del mundo
exterior, no es la única. La división espacial entre lo que está arriba en el
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Las luchas de poder contra el Estado:
el caso de los pueblos indígenas
Las identidades mutables de los sectores populares en Buenos Aires
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Respecto a los mecanismos que se usan para comprender las identidades sociales de los sectores populares en Buenos Aires, aparecen visiones
acerca de su significación con dobles sentidos: el “cabecita negra” durante
los años peronistas era un carga valorativa negativa supuestamente étnica, aunque lo que representaba no necesariamente fuera una persona de
tez oscura; a los “villeros” se les atribuían características sociales no siempre representativas ligadas a su pertenencia territorial; y en cuanto a los
“piqueteros”, se supuso que eran una población homogénea que se unía
por las mismas razones. Empleando un esquema socio-histórico para cada
categoría construida, intento mostrar las varias proyecciones de significación que se han experimentado en los últimos sesenta años.
A diferencia de los “descamisados”, los “cabecitas negras” adquirieron
una connotación negativa bastante vinculada con la raza a partir de los
años cuarenta. Como Hugo Ratier lo ha señalado claramente en su obra
fundamental El Cabecita Negra, ellos ocupaban un espacio social considerado lo opuesto del ideal racial argentino de ser blanco. Pero este orgullo opuesto de ser europeo fue en algún sentido un imaginario social. La
llegada de inmigrantes extranjeros –del interior, de países limítrofes como
Paraguay y Bolivia– a principios del siglo veinte se vio como una invasión
social y territorial. Los “negros” –en realidad indígenas, mestizos u otros
no de sangre “pura”– modificaron la composición demográfica del país, y
se les asignó una definición política. Además de ser una unidad conectada
a la raza, representaban lo nacionalista y lo anti-norteamericano, ya que
tendían a apoyar la plataforma política de Juan Perón. Su organización
en sindicatos marcó el ingreso del cabecita negra en el entorno político.
Considerados “nuevos guerreros políticos” a través de los movimientos
de sabotaje en las fábricas urbanas organizados por Perón, su presencia era
menos una amenaza intencional a las clases más altas; se podría decir que
eran manipulados por una determinada situación legal que aprovechaba su
llegada (Ratier).
La categoría “villero” puede ser trazada en una ubicación territorial que
emergió después de la Segunda Guerra Mundial, cuando un proceso de industrialización junto con una migración rural-urbana en la Argentina dio
origen a las actuales “villas miseria” (Cravino 2002). A esta pertenencia territorial (cualquier parte informal de la ciudad sin infraestructura básica),
se le asociaron características sociales que eran supuestamente “típicas.”
Vemos a partir de los años setenta ciertas construcciones sociales como
el villero militante político y el villero erradicado, a las que el gobierno
durante la dictadura añadió los siguientes estereotipos: les gusta vivir en
la villa, son gente de muy bajo nivel laboral, tienen acceso a otras formas
de vivienda (evidenciado por sus coches, televisiones, y otras mercancías)
y son violentos (Cravino 2002). Durante décadas se ve luchando al villero
contra la idea de que es un marginal voluntario y otras identificaciones
desde afuera, pero específicamente en los años ‘80 el villero emerge como
actor social en un intento reclamar la pertenencia de la tierra y exigir mejoras urbanas. Los años recientes encuentran una definición conflictiva de
esta figura: por un lado, el Estado evita el término “villero” para liberarse
de la responsabilidad de promesas incumplidas acerca de la radicación y la
integración –y también por su sentido negativo; por otro lado, los villeros,
a pesar de fragmentaciones periódicas dentro del barrio, tratan de crear
una construcción positiva acerca de su nombre por reinscribirse como ciudadanos que pagan impuestos y utilizan su hábitat como el lugar desde el
cual la inserción productiva toma lugar (Cravino 2002).
El índole sociopolítico del origen del “piquetero” es crítico al entendimiento de su lugar percibido en la sociedad argentina. Como Quirós lo
ha explicado bien en su etnografía Cruzando la Sarmiento, existía una
situación política concreta en la cual las organizaciones piqueteras nacieron: “a fines de 1999 el gobierno de Fernando De la Rúa dispuso que
los planes (prestaciones sociales) podrían también ser administrados por
organizaciones de la sociedad civil” (Quirós 34). En ese marco muchas
organizaciones piqueteras se construyeron en ONGs y se convirtieron en
las entidades que gestionarían los planes para sus seguidores. Mientras los
dirigentes piqueteros, con ayuda del Estado, siguen organizando las contraprestaciones de cuatro horas diarias de trabajo para cada destinatario
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pueblo, Hanay barrio, y lo que está abajo, Uray barrio, ayuda a organizar
estructuras sociales a lo largo de líneas educacionales y autoritativas (Isbell
2005). Empleo estos términos porque las autoridades del Estado, o los
Hatun varayok, están compuestas de políticos y profesores que ocupan la
plaza del pueblo y tienden a actuar como mediadores entre la comunidad
y el Estado. Estas figuras, junto con las que pasan a través del sistema educativo y las que simplemente quieren un “futuro abierto” en Lima más allá
de la producción agrícola no competitiva, se transforman en los migrantes
que introducen los valores nuevos de progreso individual.
de un plan obtenido, aquellos mismos destinatarios basan su participación
en la rapidez de la obtención del plan. En un juego de empujar/tirar, los
que están con los piqueteros definen su aproximación y reaproximación a
los piqueteros según los recursos disponibles –planes como el Jefes y Jefas
que reparten una cifra monetaria para alimentos o gastos médicos. Y para
los dirigentes de los movimientos piqueteros, marchar es la condición para
obtener derecho a un plan. Lo que es interesante es que el estímulo para
participación tiene más que ver con las obligaciones recíprocas entre “activistas” respetados que por el chismorreo de expectativas mutuas. Es ese
poder que va contra la idea del movimiento piquetero como una práctica
clientelar (siempre propugnada por el diario La Nación).
Las identidades de cada categoría social mencionada son altamente impugnadas. Mientras siempre parece haber proyecciones “confirmadas” sobre los sectores populares en la Argentina, nunca permanecen inmutables.
Como ciertas significaciones, leyes, proyectos y planes son impuestos en
sectores marginales, estos, a su vez, los adaptan, los cambian y los reconstituyen, introduciendo nuevos significados a su posición en la sociedad y
complicando la noción de una sola identidad.
El proceso migratorio del campo a la ciudad en regiones como América
Latina se producía por un número de razones: la saturación del subsistema
rural debido al crecimiento de su población, el agotamiento de las tierras
y el desequilibrio relativo como resultado de una creciente centralización
de los recursos nacionales en la esfera urbana (Lomnitz). Además de estos catalizadores para la migración, las ciudades siempre han atraído tanto
a campesinos como a otros actores urbanos por razones menos concretas. Siendo sitios incomparables para la socialización, la acumulación de
capital, y las oportunidades laborales y educativas, las ciudades (a través
de mitos, símbolos e imágenes cristalizados en el periodismo, el cine y la
televisión) se encuentran en la vanguardia, o lo más nuevo. Este término
es revelador: si reconocemos que los sectores económicos más avanzados
tienden estar en ciudades grandes, y que siendo “lo más nuevo” significa
un cierto acceso a mercancías en el periodo de tiempo más reciente, se
puede decir que los que se mudan a ciudades requieren una cierta reorientación de su concepto de tiempo. Así que aquellos ciudadanos a quienes
se les promete el ascenso social urbano, que no “aprovechan” los servicios
y oportunidades en las ciudades con rapidez, se transforman en el nuevo
proletario marginalizado.
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La cultura de tiempo: sus proyectos, alianzas, y descontentos
Suponer que ciertas prácticas de la ciudadanía sustantiva –acceso equitativo a tierra, derechos humanos, servicios médicos, seguridad, nutrición, y
transporte, entre otros– han desaparecido debido a ideas divergentes sobre
la política y la economía es pasar por alto un factor crucial: el tiempo. La
historia del capitalismo, como David Harvey ha señalado bien, ha sido
caracterizada por una aceleración en el ritmo de la vida, lo cual se ejemplifica por nuestra capacidad de atravesar el espacio en un tiempo cada
vez menor (Harvey 2000). Como dice el refrán neoliberalista, cuantas más
transacciones en el mercado en la mínima cantidad de tiempo, mejor el
resultado. Pero cuando un grupo activista o pueblo indígena se opone a
un proyecto o ley del Estado o una empresa multinacional, se ve como
subversivo, problemático, violento. Empleando ejemplos de migraciones
históricas, oposiciones populares y alianzas urbanas-indígenas, trato de
identificar una cierta suposición por el marco neoliberalista de que todos
tienen el mismo concepto homogéneo de tiempo y que los desafíos contra
esa noción resultan en procesos de exclusión.
Desde una perspectiva de los beneficiarios de este sistema, los que viven en
las favelas, barriados, y villas miseria del mundo no lograron integrarse al
mundo urbano. Si suelen oponerse al sistema estatal por haber sido excluidos, es a través de prácticas legítimas e insurgentes que se ven como peligrosas y políticamente “fanáticas”. Con mucho, el mejor ejemplo de exigir
de mejoras urbanas es el corte de ruta por los piqueteros en Buenos Aires.
Se les atribuye un carácter peligroso pues llevan palos. ¿Pero pudiera ser
que son aislados porque están atrasando el tiempo? Esta amenaza directa –de desacelerar movimientos, transacciones, y el ritmo del día– parece
justificar estos procesos de exclusión.
Hay una crispación permanente entre los que propugnan y se benefician
de un sistema neoliberalista y los que sufren como resultado de ello. Los
pobres, indígenas, y campesinos tienden a querer usar el espacio por razones individuales, sociales y para perpetuar su estilo de vida, mientras que el
Estado y ciertas empresas transnacionales dominan ese espacio mediante
la propiedad privada y otras formas de poder social y de clase. Recientemente, han sido implementadas ciertas alianzas eco-políticas entre ONGs
y grupos indígenas para impedir la destrucción ecológica de tierras remotas de importancia (Conklin y Graham 1995). Sin embargo, los pueblos
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indígenas que viven en regiones rentables como resultado de tener una
abundancia de recursos naturales suelen ser los más vulnerables frente al
mundo occidental. Un artículo en el BBC recientemente salió con el título
“El tribu Amondawa carece de una idea abstracta del tiempo”. ¿Es eso el
reto más saliente para el proyecto neoliberalista? ❉
La Protesta y la Política Concreta
Sarah Stern
Argentine History and Culture
Obras citadas
Isbell, Billie Jean. Para Defendernos:
Ecología y Ritual en un Pueblo Andino.
Cuzco: Centro De Estudios Regionales
Andinos Bartolomé De Las Casas,
2005. Print.
Cravino, María Cristina. “Las
Transformaciones en la Identidad
Villera...la Conflictiva Construcción de
Sentidos.” Cuadernos De Antropología
Social 15 (2002): 29-47. Print.
Lomnitz, Larissa. “Redes Sociales y
Estructura Urbana de América Latina.”
En Miguel León-Portilla, Motivos de
la Antropología Americanista. México:
Fondo de Cultura, 2001. Print.
García Canclini, Néstor. “Ciudades
Multiculturales y Contradicciones de
la Modernidad.” Imaginarios Urbanos.
Buenos Aires: Eudeba, 2007. Print.
Quirós, Julieta. Cruzando La
Sarmiento: Una Etnografía Sobre
Piqueteros en la Trama Social del Sur
del Gran Buenos Aires. Buenos Aires:
IDES, Centro de Antropología Social,
2006. Print.
Gordillo, Gastón. “The Breath of
the Devils: Memories and Places of
an Experience of Terror.” American
Ethnologist 29.1 (2002): 33-57. Print.
Gordillo, Gastón. En El Gran Chaco:
Antropología e Historias. Buenos Aires:
Prometeo Libros, 2006. Print.
Harvey, David. “Between Space and
Time: Reflections on the Geographical
Imagination.” Annals of the Association
of American Geographers 80.3 (1990):
418-34. Print.
Palmer Science, Jason. “BBC News
- Amondawa Tribe Lacks Abstract
Idea of Time, Study Says.” BBC
- Homepage. Web. 03 June 2011.
<http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/scienceenvironment-13452711>.
Ratier, Hugo E. El Cabecita Negra.
Buenos Aires: Centro Editor De
América Latina, 1972. Print.
Hubo un cambio en la definición de “ciudadano” cuando se presentó Perón
a la población argentina en los años cuarenta. Aún en el nuevo siglo XXI, en
las manifestaciones que sucedieron el 19 de diciembre de 2001 en respuesta a
la retención de dinero por los bancos, se podía ver una politización ya existente del pueblo argentino. En contraste con bastantes gobiernos declarados
“democráticos” o “representativos” del pasado, la retórica de Perón no estaba caracterizada por la idea de que una persona debía tener una voz, sino
por la idea de que eran más fuertes las voces de las personas que trabajaban
juntas. Como describe Daniel James, “Peronist discourse denied the validity
of liberalism’s separation of the estate and politics from civil society…Perón
explicitely challenged the legitimacy of a notion of democracy that limited
itself to participation in formal political rights, and he extended it to include
participation in the social and economic life of the nation” (282). Perón les
ofreció a las masas el sindicalismo, una forma de poder que la gente podía
ver y con el que podía interactuar como parte de la vida cotidiana.
Perón instó a los sectores obreros el sentido de que el público y el gobierno
se necesitaban el uno al otro, y que uno estaba involucrado en la creación, el
apoyo, el desarrollo y el bienestar del otro. La corrupción y devoción hacia
lo extranjero que habían caracterizado a tantos gobiernos anteriores de Perón ya no eran un hábito aceptable según el pueblo argentino en la segunda
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Conklin, Beth A., and Laura K. Graham.
“Un Campo de Negociación Cambiante:
Indios Amazónicos y Políticas
Ecológicas.” American Anthropologist
95.4 (1995): 695-710. Print.
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En contraste a tantos otros líderes carismáticos en la historia de las sociedad
moderna, Perón nunca prometió nada de la democracia ni usó retórica de la
adquisición de la libertad como un estímulo para unificar a la gente o ganar
apoyo. En contraste, Perón apuntó a una falta de honestidad y función en
los gobiernos democráticos, los cuales, de verdad, habían sido caracterizados
por la ineficacia, la corrupción y el auto-interés en la historia anterior de
la Argentina. Escribe James, “The political and moral Falaise embodied
in this situation clearly engendered a crisis of confidence and legitimacy in
established political institutions. Peronism could, therefore, draw political
capital by denouncing the hypocrisy of a formal democratic system that had
little of democracy’s real content” (281). Se indica que había una reevaluación
de qué era un sistema representativo en realidad. Aunque “democracia”
es una palabra de connotación positiva, parece frecuente que la existencia
de un partido que se identifica como democrático tiende a disuadir el
cuestionamiento de si es, en realidad, un gobierno que representa las voces
de la gente. Claro que la retórica de Perón era espectacular (“espectáculo”)
–como se puede ver en los discursos que hizo en la Plaza de Mayo con el
murmullo agresivo del público abajo– pero además parece que el gobierno
de Perón colocó un poder realístico y pragmático en los sectores obreros de
la nación, lo que es decir, colocó un poder que ya existía y solamente tenía
que verse destacado por una política nueva.
Lo más importante, quizás, que ofreció Perón a las masas era la oportunidad
de ver por sus propios ojos los cambios que puede hacer un gobierno para
la gente. Era una cristalización de la retórica de Perón en la realidad de la
estructura de la sociedad. Las comisiones internas que se crearon durante
el peronismo funcionaban –y continúan funcionando– para hacer recordar
a las fuerzas más altas de las empresas que las demandas de los obreros
necesitaban ser traducidas en una realidad concreta. Con la creación de las
comisiones internas, Perón había introducido la protesta en la estructura de
la sociedad, la cual era igual a la estructura política durante el peronismo.
Hizo legítima la protesta como forma de representación y poder. Como
escribe James, “Peronism…was prepared, particularly in its formative period,
to recognize, and even glorify, workers who did ‘threaten, yell, and trample
with a demon-like fury.’”
Había una cierta definición de la política pragmática durante el gobierno
de Perón, la cual se podía sentir, cuando faltaba, en los gobiernos posteriores. Como describió un miembro de la CGT de los Argentinos en el diario
La Capital en 1966, “…tiene la oportunidad de abrir una etapa de fecundas
transformaciones, si saben interpretar las ansias de realización y liberación
de las mayorías populares de la Nación...la C.G.T Rosario espera hechos
concretos, juego limpio y un programa claro de gobierno” (Diario La Capital, 1 de julio de 1966 – 31). Onganía quería terminar con la participación
política del clase obrera pero ya se había convertido esta imaginación de la
vida política en una fuerza tangible y visible, y así las fuerzas sindicalistas
podían ver que tenían un impacto en la política, y no iban a dejar de sumar
presión. Si bien no estaban hechos los derechos que les ofrecía el gobierno a
los sindicalistas, era un hecho la oportunidad de organizarse. Aunque faltaba
Perón en el gobierno, el hecho de lo que había construido como forma de
poder de las clases obreras no dejó de existir como realidad.
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Es interesante ver cómo se hablaba del “gobierno justicialista” cuando volvió Perón a la Argentina en 1973. Él era bastante rápido en castigar la violencia que había surgido entre las autoridades y la izquierda Peronista, sin reconocer que la fuerza que manejaba ese enfrentamiento parecía ser la misma
fuerza que había presentado Perón a las clases obreras como forma legítima
de lograr la justicia –la protesta. El 21 de junio de 1973 Perón pidió que “los
argentinos…tengan fe en el gobierno justicialista” y incentivó “la paz constructiva.” Es posible que el discurso de Perón ya empezara a convertirse en
una entidad separada de las condiciones de la realidad –un hecho que, debido
a su previa promoción de la política pragmática, pudiera ser bastante alienante para los sectores de la sociedad que le esperaban soluciones concretas
en un tiempo de crisis.
Es verdad que Perón dejó como huérfano a su gobierno cuando murió en
1973 en el sentido de que dejó la estructura y el liderazgo sin sucesor. Sin
embargo, la práctica de la protesta seguía haciendo promesas de inclusión
política y acción concreta para las fuerzas que habían traído a Perón a la esfera política. Durante la dictadura militar del Proceso de Reorganización que
llegó en los ‘70, el liderazgo aprovechó las protestas de las Madres de la Plaza
de Mayo para confirmar la seguridad y racionalidad ofrecidas por el Estado
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mitad del siglo XX en la Argentina. Lo que designa Daniel James en el texto
“Perón and the People” como una “crisis de confianza y legitimidad en establecidas instituciones políticas” del público argentino en los primeros años
de los ‘50, tenía que ser no solamente una crisis de confianza sino además
una desilusión pública en relación a toda la esfera política, la cual antes de
que llegara Perón debía parecer algo remoto, en distancia y aplicación, a las
preocupaciones diarias de la gente.
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La cuestión de “nación” siempre se relaciona a la de la identidad, y la relación entre el individuo y una identidad más grande. Mónica B. Gordillo distingue entre manifestaciones de distintos sentidos cuando escribe que lo que
se encontró después de El Cordobazo era “el escenario para una redefinición
desde abajo creando el marco, a su vez, para que de la resistencia que había
caracterizado a la etapa anterior se pasara a la acción colectiva” (356). La
esencia de la frase “acciones de resistencia” indica una fuerza defensiva, una
fuerza que deja de existir sin otra fuerza opuesta. Pero “la acción colectiva”
siempre va a ser lo más poderoso, porque le da a su dueño la oportunidad de
definirla por sus propios términos y estar de acuerdo a una propia identidad.
Se construye la acción colectiva por factores que ya existen en la sociedad
–como hizo Perón cuando reunió a los obreros de distintos sectores para
mostrarles que eran más poderosos juntos que solos. Parece que según Gordillo y la política pragmática de Perón, lo más importante para mantener a
una sociedad de público politizado es, primero, que las masas puedan construir su propia identidad y sentirse parte de un “nosotros,” y, segundo, hace
que las masas puedan ver el logro de sus aspiraciones como realidad concreta
o, por lo menos, realística.
En tantas épocas en la historia de la Argentina se puede ver una división
fuerte entre las esperanzas del Estado y las esperanzas de la nación. Un film
sobre la crisis económica de 2001 presenta la deuda extranjera como la forma
de patrimonio más obvio de la Argentina. En ciertos modos, esta desconexión entre la nación y el Estado ha producido el efecto de deslegitimar al
estilo de gobierno “representativo” o “democrático” en la Argentina. Parece
que la ineficiencia implicada a un gobierno democrático puede convertirse
en una visión de ineficacia cuando se enfrenta con masas ya movilizadas
hacia la acción, con propia identidad, con necesidades que parecen más reconocidas por dichos colectivos que por el gobierno, y que ya han sido expuestas a un gobierno peronista auténtico. Mónica Gordillo describe cómo
distintas formas de la acción directa surgieron después de El Cordobazo y
durante el gobierno de Onganía, las cuales tuvieron el efecto de apuntar a
la debilidad del sistema existente de gobierno “representativo”. Escribe, “lo
novedoso del pos-Cordobazo fue que éstas [organizaciones armadas provenientes de diferentes vertientes político-ideológicas] ocuparon el espacio
público presentándose claramente como una alternativa política más para
el acceso a poder…” La ocupación del espacio público por gente crítica de
la función del gobierno supuestamente “representativo” parece ilustrar una
falta de verdadera representatividad. Es decir, el espacio público ofrece una
arena en donde la gente puede encontrar un eco para sus voces en lugar de
tener la representatividad que el gobierno le debe ofrecer. La gente reclama,
entonces, su propio suelo en el que se puede reinar, para hacerse visible y
hacerse representativa de sí misma.
En la historia de la segunda mitad del siglo XX en la Argentina, es difícil decir si la ocupación del espacio público está pasando un periodo de desilusión
o politización del público porteño. Perón empezó a usar al espacio público,
como en la Plaza de Mayo, para hablar a sus partidarios populares desde el
balcón de la Casa Rosada. Perón habló con la energía de un cantante en un
concierto de rock –gritó, reconoció a sus aficionados, y la Plaza de Mayo
estuvo cada vez más llena de gente haciendo gestos unísonos de apoyo y
mostrando su fuerza por gritar. Al ver algunos videos de sus discursos, es
obvio que esta manera de hablar era algo raro en la historia de interacción
entre el líder y el público, donde uno parecía prosperar por el apoyo del
otro, lo cual solamente era posible porque pasaba en un espacio público.
Después del peronismo, el espacio público no perdió su importancia. Como
escribe Gordillo sobre El Cordobazo, “Córdoba era una ciudad tomada”
–y físicamente estaba así. Trabajadores, estudiantes, y ciudadanos marcharon por las calles, ocupándolas y exigiendo la atención de todos. Lo que
empezó como una manifestación pacífica debía ser temeraria desde la perspectiva autoritaria de la policía que violentamente previno que continuaran
las manifestantes. Gordillo describe cómo por ocupar el espacio público los
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declarando a Las Madres de la Plaza de Mayo “locas.” Trataba la dictadura
de hacer que los ciudadanos desconfiaran unos de otros mientras se guardaba fe en la protección ofrecida por el sistema de gobierno. Sin embargo,
parecía que era difícil romper los lazos que vinculaban a la gente. Escribió
Julio Cortázar en 1982, “Sigamos siendo locos, madres y abuelas de la Plaza
de Mayo, exiliados de adentro y de afuera. Sigamos siendo locos argentinos;
no hay otra manera de acabar con esa razón que vocifera sus slogans de orden, disciplina y patriotismo. Sigamos lanzando las palomas de la verdadera
patria a los cielos de nuestra tierra y de todo el mundo” (127). Había una
nueva “verdadera patria,” la cual ya no tenía que estar de acuerdo con los
discursos nacionalistas del Estado. Se presentó la idea de que la nación y el
Estado podían existir como entidades separadas. Además, que una voz de
la nación podía existir fuera del organismo del Estado –que el Estado es, en
realidad, solamente un organismo y deja de tener poder concreto si no puede
alinearse con las esperanzas de la gente que constituyen un nacionalismo
verdadero. El poder de la dictadura se presentó como concreto en la práctica
pero ilusorio en su sentimiento.
Para entender cómo la ocupación del espacio público representa una sociedad politizada también se pueden observar las condiciones de la ciudad
frente al Proceso de la dictadura militar de los ’70. En su análisis de la dictadura militar en A Lexicon of Terror, Marguerite Feitlowitz presenta algunos
testimonios de visitantes en la ciudad de Buenos Aires durante el gobierno
de la dictadura. Un testigo describe:
When you see the busy streets and the wonderful shops and the lumber of people
who are out making parchases, it is a complete contradiction to what you were
told [regarding the repression, inflation, and high cost of living]…You can walk in
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the streets at midnight without any disturbances, you see no policemen, you see
no military. When I asked one of my Argentine friends how was this possible, he
smiled and said, “In Buenos Aires you are safe in the street at any time, but you are
Parece que el espacio público en realidad se convirtió en un espacio político
en la segunda mitad del siglo XX en la Argentina. Más allá de ver cómo son
ocupados los espacios públicos físicos, también es clave ver cómo la gente se
acerca o se aleja de los espacios públicos en diferentes épocas. Parece que en
la historia de Buenos Aires hay algunos ejemplos que verifican que la inicial
ocupación física del espacio público muchas veces se ha convertido más tarde en movimientos que tuvieron el efecto de politizar a nuevos sectores de
la sociedad. El gobierno de Onganía que surgió en los años sesenta trabajó
en despolitizar la sociedad –se quitó poder a los sindicatos, se censuraron
algunos diarios, revistas y formas de arte, y se reprimió la protesta social.
Pero la represión de una vida política, en cambio, produjo sectores sociales
más determinados a tener voz, como se puede ver por las manifestaciones
que sucedieron como El Cordobazo. Además, cuando entraron a las calles
las personas de la clase media en 2001 para protestar por lo que se llamó “la
traición” del gobierno “democrático,” se usaba el slogan “el pueblo no se
va.” Era como si hubieran estado anunciando la presencia constante del pueblo en el espacio público de la ciudad, y puede ser así. La gente no tenía que
ocupar físicamente el espacio público en forma de manifestación, porque el
espacio ya parecía pertenecerle. Las acciones cotidianas de la gente nunca seguían lejos de sus identidades como ciudadanos políticos. Héctor Palomino
escribe sobre algunas de las redes y organizaciones que aparecieron al fines
del siglo XX en la Argentina y cómo se relacionaron al espacio político:
never safe in your home.” (156)
Mas allá de las diferentes orientaciones de los movimientos, todos ellos buscan
La idea de una falta de disturbio puede ser tan inquietante como cualquier
acto de violencia visible. La última oración acá parece acreditar una cierta
honestidad a cualquier evento que pasa en el espacio público. Los actos de
violencia privados de la dictadura prevenían que se pudiera afectar la esfera
política o social. La falta de crítica parece ser una ilusión. Parece que un
público que no demuestra su inquietud o que se ha convencido a sí mismo
de que el gobierno no puede hacer nada, no entiende que hay una fuerza
contra la que debe protestar. En suma, indica un desconocimiento. El terror
que la dictadura inculcó en la población porteña en relación a la vida política resultó en una sociedad menos movilizada y menos pública por algún
tiempo. Pero claro que cuando vino la crisis económica a Buenos Aires en
2001 la población estaba movilizada de nuevo frente a la necesidad de exigir
que el gobierno le devolviera su propio dinero. No le interesaba la violencia,
ni la revolución ni demandas específicas, lo más importante fue que logró
visibilidad y que el gobierno oyó su indignación colectiva.
articularse entre sí, a través de redes y organizaciones informales, mediante la construcción de ámbitos comunes, o realizando acciones solidarias que sostienen sus
lazos de reciprocidad. Estos movimientos convierten a la sociedad en un espacio
político, borran la fronteras tradicionales entre política y sociedad, y responden de
hecho al interrogante sobre la posibilidad de hacer política “desde” la sociedad. (3)
Me parece que éste es el legado del peronismo: que se juntaron y siguen
juntándose la gente de la sociedad y el “espacio político”. Después de las
manifestaciones iniciales de la crisis económica había grandes movimientos
realizados por ciertos sectores de la ciudad –de las clases productivas especialmente– para recuperar el control de sus propias vidas que había sido
perdido por corrupción y devoción extranjera por los gobiernos “democráticos” de la Argentina. Se “recuperaron” empresas cerradas, y aparecieron
cooperativas y economías alternativas como clubes de trueque, más la instauración de asambleas barriales. En contraste a los programas de industrialización que habían caracterizado al gobierno de Perón, estos movimientos
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manifestantes pudieron compartir “la indignación colectiva” con algunos
miembros de la clase media, “no solo por la reciente brutalidad policial sino
también por los tres años de autoritarismo.” Era dudoso que la gente de la
clase media protestara sin ver una fuerza con la que pudiera juntarse, así que
se presentó un concepto de la contagiosidad de la protesta. Y era verdad que
El Cordobazo era el principio de un espíritu de protesta entre las fuerzas socialistas y peronistas, las cuales continuaron haciendo manifestaciones con
más frecuencia después de El Cordobazo.
se desarrollaron debajo del nivel del Estado y fueron diseñados para proveer
alternativas a la inseguridad y a la desilusión en relación a la política del
Estado. Así que la gente atrajo la vida política hacia sí misma. Las redes
sociales, en algunos casos, se convirtieron en fuerzas políticas, basadas en las
necesidades sociales y económicas de los miembros de las redes. Aunque las
redes funcionaban a un nivel bastante bajo, la proliferación de dichas redes
produjo una forma de visibilidad bastante fuerte que había de ser considerada en la esfera política y la social.
Playing on the sidewalk
Obras citadas
Caraballo, Liliana, Noemí Charlier, y
Liliana Garulli, La Dictadura (19761983): Testimonios y documentos.
Buenos Aires: Editorial Universitaria,
1998. Print.
James, Daniel, “Perón and the People,”
En Nouzeilles, Gabriela y Graciela
Montaldo (eds.), The Argentine Reader:
History, Culture, Politics Durham:
Duke University Press, 2002. Print.
Feitlowitz, Marguerite. A lexicon of
terror: Argentina and the legacies of
torture. New York: Oxford University
Press, 1998. Print.
59
Gordillo, Mónica B., “Protesta, rebelión
y movilización de la resistencia a la
lucha armada, 1955-1973.” En James,
Daniel (ed.) Nueva Historia Argentina,
Buenos Aires: Editorial Sudamericana,
2003. Print.
Palomino, Héctor, Gustavo Rajher,
Leticia Políaghi, Inés Lascano, “La
política y lo político en los movimientos
sociales en Argentina.” Facultad de
Ciencias Sociales, Universidad de
Buenos Aires, Buenos Aires. Web.
<http://departamento.pucp.edu.pe/
ciencias-sociales/images/documentos/
Lapoliticaylopolitico.pdf>
Walking through the narrow residential streets of San
Telmo I came across these kids. It was hot, they weren’t
wearing shoes, and were happily enjoying the shade. I
guess I was intrigued by the reflections, and the juvenile
air and lack of self-consciousness of these boys.
Olaya Barr
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Estos movimientos más recientes y todavía muy relevantes siguen haciendo
preguntas sobre la cuestión del sistema representativo de la democracia. Se
puede ver que en esos casos la gente tuvo que establecer su propia identidad
pública por una falta de esfuerzo por el gobierno de representarla verdaderamente. Me parece que lo que es más aparente es que la sociedad argentina
busca una política concreta, una política pragmática, y una política que produzca soluciones visibles. Obviamente, existen muchas otras sociedades que
quieren lo mismo, pero la historia radicalmente única de la política peronista
en Argentina ha creado una sociedad en la cual esta forma de política parece
algo bastante realística porque ya ha existido y los sectores medios y bajos
ya han visto los beneficios de una sociedad politizada. ❉
Alexander Zeleniuch
Global Media Seminar
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Piracy is certainly a complex topic. In the past few decades, this illegal
activity has surfaced in all parts of the world. Cultural imperialism and
exposure, technological development, and globalization have all shaped
piracy into what it is today. This paper will break down the connections
between these three themes and address the positive as well as negative
impacts of piracy on society.
Prior to engaging in this topic, it is imperative to define what piracy actually constitutes. As defined by the online Oxford English Dictionary,
piracy is “the unauthorized use or reproduction of another’s work” (“Piracy” def. 3). For the purpose of this paper, the focus will be on pirated
media content, including news, television shows, and films. Furthermore,
this paper will specifically address how American culture infiltrates South
America through pirated products.
Cultural imperialism and ‘cultural exposure’ is by no means a new phenomenon, but it is only in the last few decades that it has taken such a
prominent role in the relationship between the developed and the developing world. Héctor Fernandez L’Hoeste expands on this idea in his text
entitled “Cultural Imperialism,” explaining that it is only the rich and developed nations that have the resources to actively and effectively spread
their spheres of influence. This is to say that cultural imperialism is not a
level playing field; the flow of information, media, and culture is closely
linked to resources. This idea is directly related to the recent development
of globalization. As pointed out in Morley and Robins’ “Tradition and
translation. National culture in its global context,” globalization is really
about Westernization and the spreading of Western commodities. Furthermore, because the world is becoming more and more inter-connected,
the global conglomerate exploits local differences, while simultaneously
transforming cultural products into commodities. Moreover, these commodities are easily pirated and a whole black market of various products
emerges. In a sense, piracy is an unwanted side effect of the success and
influence of Western culture.
A recent example that accurately illustrates the interrelationships between
technological development and piracy is the video recorder/VCR. This
particular machine enables users to record and enjoy media content on
cassettes in their own homes. The popularity of this invention swept the
globe in the 1970s, and by the 1980s it had become a standard complement
to the television set. In his text “Audio-visual piracy: towards a study of
the underground networks of cultural globalization,” Tristan Mattelart
addresses the impact of the VCR on the piracy industry. He begins his
report by clearly specifying that he intends to address piracy from a noncriminal perspective. In essence, he unravels some of the advantages that
pirated products provide to poor people of the developing world. For
example, he asserts that piracy is perhaps one of the most effective ways in
which the developing world has gained exposure to global media content,
which many would not have access to otherwise, due to lack of resources.
Furthermore, he quotes Tom O’Regan in articulating how piracy “has
been an integral –even essential– component in the development of VCR
in the Third World” (Mattelart 313).
Building upon this example, Mattelart addresses some of the complex
moral dilemmas that piracy provokes. He notes that the act of piracy is
indeed illegal; however, it is a means by which many deprived citizens of
closed or censored societies gain access to content otherwise prohibited
by powerful political regimes or vested interests. He notes:
One of the main factors explaining the spread of video to countries of the South
and the East from the late 1970s and throughout the 1980s was also that it gave
people a way of bypassing state political control of the communications media.
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In & Around Piracy’s Web
economy and in some contexts meant that people were no longer subject to the
official monopolies on news and entertainment (Mattelart 314).
Such content exposed these isolated citizens to other cultures. This reality
begs another question, which is whether or not this exposure is balanced.
Concerning Latin America, Fernandez L’Hoeste argues that it is not balanced, but on the contrary dominated by American influence.
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L’Hoeste explains how history shows that the communication field has
been and continues to be far from level. Latin America is but one region
of the world, which struggles to compete with the North American and
Western European media moguls. In essence, the majority of the media
content that these sheltered citizens are accessing (for perhaps the first
time in their lives) is from limited sources. Most of the content, whether it
be news, television programming or films is essentially American or Western European pop culture. For better or for worse, such culture infiltrates
these semi-closed societies. Mattelart argues that it often has a positive
impact, because these citizens have limited ideas of what such pop culture
is or maybe have heard about it by word of mouth, but have never actually
experienced it. He indicates:
ization condenses time and space, making the world smaller…” (Birón 2).
In her text entitled “Globalization,” Rebecca Birón elaborates upon recent
technological advancement that has had a profound impact on the current
communication field. Because of “…rapid advances in communications
technology that facilitate the almost instantaneous electronic transfer of
capital as well as information” (Birón 2), Western media tycoons effortlessly spread their work across the globe. L’Hoeste goes even further and
argues that contemporary globalization coupled with cultural imperialism
has led to diminishing local authenticity. Latin American media is not Latin American so much as it is Westernized media. L’Hoeste discusses the
notion of the current consumerist civilization in close relation to capitalism and the idea that peripheral nations, simply have less media influence.
Jesús Martín-Barbero echoes this point in his text “Communication from
culture: the crisis of the national and the emergence of the popular” in
which he writes: “What is identified by the transnational question is not
merely a sophisticated version of the old imperialism, but a new phase
of capitalist development, in which the field of communication is really
coming to play a decisive role” (Martín-Barbero 452). As he points out,
one cannot discuss globalization/transnational action without considering
the decisive role capitalism has played and continues to play in defining
the contemporary communication playing field.
One of the main attractions of pirate video networks was that they offered, at reduced cost, easy access to the images of this transnational entertainment culture.
Thanks to the video recorder, people in many countries of the South and the East
were able to enjoy, just like those in the North, the most successful products of
the international cultural industries. ‘Private citizens everywhere are seen to take
a special delight in having short-circuited, via piracy and smuggling, the usual
long wait for American and other films and TV programming’ (Mattelart 313-4).
Finally, these people have quicker access to popular content, otherwise
censored or simply unattainable due to resource constraints. Moreover,
such consumption has symbolic value, since for many it is a form of ‘protest’ against repressive regimes that deny their citizens basic democratic
rights. More often than not, these people create black market networks in
their active quest to gain access to media other than the common propaganda they receive at home.
One aspect that must not be neglected in discussing cultural imperialism/
exposure and its relationship with Latin American media is “how global-
Indeed, because of recent developments in technology, the discussion
started in the context of the VCR focuses today on cable television and
the Internet. In his text “How digital convergence is changing cultural
theory”, Néstor García Canclini assesses the impact of digitalization. He
states, “Digitalization will extend the number of channels per bandwidth,
satellite, or on cable and new networks. We will see advancement in the
erosion of national frontiers controlled by states, and we will see diminishment in the efficacy of national actors” (García Canclini 145). More
importantly and similarly to L’Hoeste, he stresses the proliferation of
cable channels by U.S. programming. The trend remains the same —even
as the methods of distributing content evolve, it is still mostly American
content that infiltrates the developing world.
Presently, American films are one of the most common pirated goods. Movies are also a fundamental component of American pop culture and Hollywood’s sphere of influence reaches far and wide. In his report, Mattelart
quotes Jack Valenti, a former President of the Motion Picture Association of
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Pirate video defied frontiers rendered porous by the networks of the informal
The MPAA and other American content distribution organizations consistently lobby for both greater domestic, as well as international copyright protection legislature. In addition, the United States continually
pressures nations with evident track records of unbridled piracy to crack
down on the problem. In fact, two of Argentina’s major media sources,
Clarín and Página/12 both came out with piracy-related articles in May
2011 that touched upon such American pressure.
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Clarín’s article entitled “EE.UU. sitúa a la Argentina, Chile y Venezuela
a la cabeza de la piratería intellectual,” (“U.S. places Argentina, Chile and
Venezuela at the head of intellectual property piracy violation”), indicates
that the United States has been actively pursuing international intellectual property protection in and around South America. Furthermore, the
United States has a working list ranking countries on their judicial action
against piracy and regarding South American countries, Argentina, Chile,
and Venezuela are among the lowest ranks. In contrast, countries such
as Mexico and Spain have ranked higher on the list as both nations have
recently passed legislation that promotes intellectual property protection
and judicial action against criminals. Moreover, this is a central issue for
the United States as the majority of pirated content is American made.
The United States claims that more than 18 million Americans working
in entertainment industries have been and continue to be negatively affected by widespread international piracy. As indicated in this article, the
United States will continue to actively put pressure on countries such as
Argentina, Chile, and Venezuela to contain piracy.
Página/12’s article entitled “Un embate contra los videos piratas” (“An
attack against pirated videos”), coincidentally discusses an Argentine plan
of action going forward in addressing the problem specified in the Clarín
article. The article criticizes both the current Presidential administration
as well as local law enforcement for not being more aggressive in tackling piracy. The article states: “This crime is punishable under the Penal
Code and is illegal by copyright law…Piracy, is listed as a ‘special case
of fraud’ under the Copyright Act (No. 11,723), which also provides for
imprisonment of between one month and six years for anyone illegally
storing, displaying or selling pirated material” (“Un Embate Contra Los
Videos Piratas.”). It boils down to a matter of initiative, as most pirated
content in circulation around Argentina are bought and sold in plain view.
Interestingly enough, the article also emphasizes that the black market
organizations distributing pirated content are, more often than not, also
involved in other, and perhaps more serious, criminal activity. If the government promoted and granted local law enforcement the authority, active
crackdowns would be entirely possible.
A related and extremely interesting argument that Mattelart makes is that
developing countries such as Argentina should more accurately realize the
negative consequences of piracy on local media production. He states: “…
piracy may be less harmful to the interests of the main American companies than to those of the national cultural industries in the countries
of the South and East…This is mainly because it leads to the widespread
distribution in these countries of Western cultural content that is fiercely
competitive with local content” (Mattelart 321). In other words, Argentina should not only combat piracy for American interests but for its own.
Classic examples are television series. In presenting an Argentine the options of watching a well-known, high-quality, cheap, pirated American
series or a local Argentine series, the choice is simple —American content.
Take away ‘high-quality’ and ‘cheap’ and the Argentine may very well opt
for the local option. Widespread piracy inevitably decimates local media
production. The general public is more in touch with elements of American pop culture as opposed to domestically-made culture that simply cannot compete with the American titans.
In conclusion, it is clear that piracy is a complex topic. One must always
take into account both the negative but also positive impact that the phenomenon has had on various societies around the world. For as much as
it provides an outlet for deprived citizens living in closed societies, it is
also an illegal action that robs official producers of their due profits. Many
factors including cultural imperialism, technological development, and
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America (MPAA), who in 2003 released a statement praising the advances in
technology that allow families to enjoy high-quality entertainment in their
homes, but also explaining how the DVD revolution has impacted piracy. He
states: “The mysterious magic of being able, with a simple click of a mouse,
to send a full length movie hurtling with the speed of light to any part of
the planet, is a marketing dream and an anti-piracy nightmare” (Mattelart
317). The MPAA has shown an increased concern with both the spreading of
Internet piracy, and the growing criminal organizations involved in cheaply
and effectively distributing pirated movies. In short, the globalization of the
economy and the development of international trade have made it easier for
organized piracy networks to emerge and to operate across frontiers.
globalization must be taken into consideration in evaluating the intricacies
of piracy. Perhaps a viable solution going forward is a joint effort by both
media content producers as well as national governments, in which the
nation State actively cracks down, but the producer also lowers prices for
the polished, legal product. All in all, maybe more people would choose
the morally correct option if it were within their price range. ❉
Becoming One with Music:
Instrumental Music Therapy in Latin America
Sloane Taylor
Music in Latin America
Works Cited
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“EE.UU. Sitúa a La Argentina, Chile Y
Venezuela a La Cabeza De La Piratería
Intelectual.” Clarín.com. 03 May
2011. Web. <http://www.clarin.com/
sociedad/EEUU-Argentina-ChileVenezuela-intelectual_0_473952886.
html>.
Fernandez L’Hoeste, H. “Cultural
imperialism” in Szurmuk, M. and
McKee Irwin, R, Dictionary of
Latin American Cultural Studies.
Forthcoming, 2010.
García Canclini, N. “How digital
convergence is changing cultural
theory” in Popular communication,
Nº7, London: Routledge, 2009. Print.
Martín-Barbero, Jesús “Communication
from culture: the crisis of the national
and the emergence of the popular”
in Media, Culture and Society Nº10,
London: Sage, 1988. 447-465. Print.
Mattelart, T. “Audio-visual piracy:
towards a study of the underground
networks of cultural globalization”
in Global media and communication,
London: Sage, 2009. 308-326. Print.
Morley, D. and Robins, K. (1995)
“Tradition and translation. National
culture in its global context” in Morley,
D. and Robins, K Spaces of identity.
Global media, electronic landscapes
and cultural boundaries. London:
Routledge, 2005. 105-124.
“Piracy(pi·ra·cy).” Oxford Dictionaries.
Oxford University Press. Web. <http://
oxforddictionaries.com/definition/
piracy?region=us>.
“Un Embate Contra Los Videos
Piratas.” Página/12. 07 May 2011. Web.
<http://www.pagina12.com.ar/diario/
sociedad/3-167744-2011-05-07.html>.
From the relationship of Argentina’s volatile political past, particularly the
time of the “Desaparecidos,” with its musical genre “Rock Nacional,” to
the evolution of tango with its various class and cultural influences, and
even to the formation of Bossa Nova from the Samba, which could be a
topic unto itself, the numerous topics in Latin American music covered
this semester would be fascinating to research further. Yet in lieu of these
many topics, I find myself drawn to a concept that has not been delved
into thoroughly and has only been mentioned in passing or alluded to by
theorists and performers read or encountered in this class. I believe it is
time to give more recognition to music therapy. In this paper I hope to
show the appearance of music therapy in Latin American musical genres
and traditions through the highlighting of the unique, therapeutic histories and qualities of Latin American musical instruments, namely the
Berimbau, the Bandoneón and Candombe Drums.
Throughout history and all around the world, performers, listeners and
even healers have used music in a therapeutic manner. In fact, the idea
of sound healing, a type of “vibration healing” that uses the energy and
resonations of sounds coming from musical instruments to create feelings of well-being and harmony, has become increasingly popular since its
beginnings in the sacred texts and healing traditions of Ancient Egyptians,
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Birón, R. “Globalization” in Szurmuk,
M. and McKee Irwin, R, Dictionary
of Latin American Cultural Studies.
Forthcoming, 2010. 1-10.
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I have only ever used my voice to create music in performances. The
voice is, as some performers of Bossa Nova music have mentioned, an
instrument unto itself and is actually considered one of the easiest to use.
Shamans of all cultures have used their voices in ceremonies and rituals
as well as healing practices to balance and align chakras (Harner). Singing
provides me with a mental, emotional and even physical relief of sorts
when I am in need. Since I am not a skilled instrumentalist outside of
singing, it has taken me more time and research to delve into the world
of instrumentalists who opt to use specifically the instruments mentioned
previously –the Berimbau, the Bandoneón and Candombe drums– to
understand how the instruments can create the same type of sensation for
the performers that my voice does for me.
My first real experience with Latin American instruments occurred in Brazil. The Berimbau is used during a performance of Capoeira, a combination
martial art and dance form. The one-on-one combat ritual of the Capoeira
can itself be used as a therapeutic technique, yet it is the instrument of the
Berimbau on which my focus falls. Different accounts exist concerning the
origins of the Berimbau, a single string percussion instrument, and its use
in the Capoeira. It is believed to have its roots in African musical traditions that arrived with the culture of the slaves who arrived in Brazil in the
early 19th century. Claimed as a descendent of the “Mbela” musical bow
in central Africa and known in different cultures as a variety of names, the
Berimbau has been used by singers and storytellers from Mozambique and
Nigeria, by Afro-Cuban priests during ceremonies to speak with the souls
of the dead, and by medicine men and women of Angola in healing rituals.
In the late 19th century, shaped by its new cultural contacts, the Berimbau
began to be used as a master instrument in to dictate the rhythm of the
movements in the Roda, the center of the Capoeira, which had typically
only involved drums until that point. The people encircling the Capoeira
players clap in time with the Berimbau and said players must align their
energy, speed and movements to the pace of the Berimbau as well.
The Berimbau in its basic form consists of a bow (traditionally made of
wood), a metal string, and a hollowed-out gourd that acts as a resonator.
It is played using a coin or small stone and a wooden stick known as the
Baqueta. Striking the Baqueta on the metal string is what produces the
sound, and moving the stone or coin changes the tone of the Berimbau,
but one can also alter the entire sound by changing the position of the
gourd in relation to the performer’s abdomen. There are various beats that
can be produced, and some performers as well as therapists and shamans
(who attest to the power of the Berimbau particularly during spiritual
journeys and have written various articles on and produced CDs of the
music of the Berimbau) opt to use a rattle or shaker simultaneously. The
Berimbau’s importance in music therapy derives from this connection that
it has with a person’s body. The performer must listen to, move with and
absorb the vibrations produced by the instrument’s unique sound in order
to decide how best to play it, an important aspect that is also found in the
case of the next instrument as well, the Bandoneón.
The Bandoneón resembles an accordion, and like the accordion it originated in Germany. Invented by a German instrument dealer in the 1850s,
it traveled to Buenos Aires in the hands of immigrants during the industrialization boom later in the 19th century. It was primarily used to play
Waltzes and Polkas at the time, but later became the so-called soul of a
dance and music style that was also forming at that time and would later
become a national symbol and Argentine tradition, the Tango.
A group of Tango performers traditionally consists of two Violins, a
Piano, a Doublebass and two Bandoneóns; however, the Bandoneóns
are accepted as playing the heart and soul of the music. The Bandoneón
consists of two square, wooden boxes on each end, each containing a reed
organ controlled by buttons and connected together by a folding bellow.
While considered a beautiful instrument, it is very difficult to play: the
performer who visited our class referred to the instrument as “diabolical”.
It has a total of 72 buttons (37 on the right hand and 35 on the left hand),
none of which are arranged or organized in a logical manner, and the instrument can play a total of 144 notes. Each button on the instrument has
both a closing note and an opening note, and these different sounds can
be made by pushing or pulling the bellow, altering the airflow and subsequently the pitches of the notes. To play the Bandoneón, performers place
the instrument on their lap, holding it with their hands and using their
legs to help control the movement of the bellow. As such, the Bandoneón
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Australian Aborigines, Native Americans, Hindus, Buddhists and Yogis
(Harner). I have spent the past few years studying music therapy and
have witnessed the positive affects that different techniques can have on
psychotherapy or even physical therapy patients. It was not until I came
to Brazil and Argentina that I began to understand the specific effects that
the playing of certain instruments can have on the performers themselves,
even in more popular genres of music.
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While the Bandoneón does not have the Berimbau’s history of use by
shamans and healers, the Bandoneón was influential in helping one of its
most famous performers and composers, Astor Piazzolla, overcome his
grief after the death of his father. During this time he wrote one of his
most beloved songs, “Adios Nonino.” He declared it finest tune he had
ever written, and said he had felt “surrounded by angels” throughout the
process (“Astor Piazzolla Adios Nonino”). Piazzolla was not alone in his
experience with the Bandoneón; many other writers claim that after hearing or playing the instrument, a person is never again the same and his
or her hearing will forever be altered by the instrument’s distinct sound.
The instrument breathes with its player, and the rhythm mimics the beating of a dancer’s heart. The enveloping nature of the music has also been
described in classic Tango lyrics as a hundred birds flying in a person’s
heart (“The Challenging Art of the Bandoneón”). The last instrument to
be discussed in this paper, the drums of Candombe, could be described in
this same manner.
While in Brazil, I was lucky enough to have the opportunity to march in
the streets of Salvador de Bahia during a pre-Carnival parade to the beat
of over one hundred drums. It was truly a life-changing experience during
which I have never before or since felt more liberated. These drums were
not part of the Candombe, but the experience allow me to imagine playing
the drums of the Candombe or witnessing a parade of Candombe performers. Candombe is not Brazilian, but an important part of Uruguayan
culture that has persisted for over two hundred years. It originated in Africa and, much like the Berimbau, was brought to a new country with the
culture of the slaves. These origins define the very heart of the Candombe
and ultimately the heart of an incredibly important aspect of Uruguayan
culture, seen in the streets and carnivals throughout the country.
The Candombe’s contagious rhythm is the result of a combination of
sounds from three different drums, including the Tambor Piano, the
Tambor Chico, and the Tambor Repique. Together they are named the
Cuerda and played by a minimum of three people, each person with a
different tambor, but during parades, hundreds of Candombe players can
be found in the streets. The drums are typically made of wood and are
shaped of Conga drums with an extended belly; the original Candombe
drums were made of oak barrels. While the heads of the three tambors
were traditionally made with tacked skin, the head of the Tambor Piano
remains the only one that has not been converted to plastic. Performers
hang their drums over their shoulders with a strap and play them with a
stick and bare hand.
This very close, physical contact of the performers with the drums, like
that involved in playing the Berimbau and Bandoneón, is just one aspect
of Candombe’s important relationship with music therapy. While drums
are used more often than most other instruments in music therapy, the
drums of the Candombe are so deeply ingrained in the history and culture
of Uruguay that they have a very unique significance to the Candombe
performers and the Uruguayan people. Not being a part of their culture, I
personally could not reach a full level of emotional understanding of what
Candombe means, though I could still bear witness to its power, should I
ever be lucky enough to take part in a Candombe parade or event.
The Candombe drums and the rituals associated with them are described
by the website devoted to them as “what survives of the ancestral heritage of Bantu roots, brought by the blacks arriving at the Rio de la Plata”
(“What is Candombe?”). They are of such great cultural importance, and
their music invokes passionate and intense emotional responses from performers and listeners alike. Candombe music is said to have a spirit unlike
any other music that encompasses the souls of all brutalized slaves taken
away from their homelands to South America (“What is Candombe?”). In
Carlos Paez Vilaró’s documentary Candombe: Tambores en Libertad, one
of the men interviewed explains, “the drum is the soul of the blacks… it is
what he has carried with him all his life and in all his blues.”
These blues are the feelings of uncontrollable pain and nostalgia for what
the blacks lost. Just as the slaves would find joy in playing the Candombe
drums after a terrible day of work, drummers still to this day pour their
hearts out into their performances. The traditional ritual of meeting in the
streets to heat and tone the hides of the drums continues prior to Candombe events. It serves as just one of the many symbolic actions taken to
remember the past and mourn losses while celebrating where the traditions began. The importance of Candombe drums is summed up thus in
Paez Vilaró’s documentary: “The drum is life experience. The drum for
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acts in music therapy not only through its sound, but also in the same
manner as the Berimbau, where a performer must become one with the
instrument, physically and mentally part of it, in order for it to reach its
full level of capability and sound quality.
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These three instruments are not used only to create beautiful harmonies in
music, but also to create harmonies in life. Each instrument has a unique
history and is the result of a variety of cultures coming together to create
something new, but each instrument also has the capability of helping cultures to preserve and celebrate where they came from, creating a harmony
of the past and present through music. Each has a unique sound that resonates through the instrument and through performers and listeners alike,
creating feelings of both grief and joy, and ultimately a harmony within
a person. I have witnessed, in person or through videos, the affects that
these three amazing instruments can have on anyone in contact with them,
and it is truly a sight to behold. I have experienced the effect that singing
can have on my mind, body, and emotions, yet I could not comprehend
how other instruments that are not physically part of a performer’s body
could make that great of a therapeutic impact. Much like how my voice
is a part of me, these three types of instruments -the Berimbau, the Bandoneón and Candombe drums- in fact become part of the performer, and
the performer in turn becomes a part of the instrument in a harmonic
relationship to which the performers are forever bound, and that is truly
where in the idea of music therapy lies. ❉
Works Cited
“Astor Piazzolla Adios Nonino.” Astor
Piazzolla Tango Nuevo. 29 July 2010.
Web. <http://www.astor-piazzolla.
org/>
“Berimbau.” Capoeira NYC. 2011.
Web. <http://www.capoeiranyc.com/
berimbau.html>
“Berimbau.” Music Outfitters. 2011.
Web. <http://www.musicoutfitters.
com/ethnic/berimbau.htm>
“The Challenging Art of the
Bandoneón. Latin American
Folk Institute. 24 February
2009. Web. <http://www.lafi.
org/index.php?option=com_
content&view=article&id=94%3Athechallenging-art-of-theBandoneón&catid=52%3Aourinstruments&Itemid=102&lang=en>
Elshaw, Keith. “The Bandoneón.”
Tango Weblog. 2010. Web. <http://
www.totango.net/Bandoneón.html>
García Mendez, Javier, and Arturo
Penon. The Bandonion: A Tango
History. Trans. Timothy Barnard.
London: Nightwood Editions, 1988.
Graham, Richard P. and N. Scott
Robinson. “Berimbau.” N. Scott
Robinson. 2000. Web. <http://www.
nscottrobinson.com/berimbau.php>
Harner, Michael. “Shamanic
Journeywork Recordings.” The
Foundation for Shamanic Studies. 2011.
Web. <http://www.shamanism.org/
products/audio.html>
Latin Percussion. 2010. Web. <http://
www.lpmusic.com/>
Norgard, Karin. “Bandoneón: The
Symbol of Argentine Tango.” Joy
in Motion. 2008. Web. <http://joyin-motion.com/index.php/articles/
comments/Bandoneón_the_symbol_of_
argentine _tango/>
Paez Vilaró, Carlos, Hassen Balut, and
Silvestre Jacobi. Candombe: Tambores
en Libertad. Mistika Films, 2000.
“The Roda.” ABADA. Rensselaer
Polytechnic Institute. 21 Sept. 2011.
Web. <http://capoeira.union.rpi.edu/
roda.php>
“Tribal Drumming: The
Berimbau.” Squidoo. 2011. Web.
<http://www.squidoo.com/
drumcircle#module1601287>
“What is Candombé?”Candombe. Web.
<http://www.candombe.com/english.
html>
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those of us who love it is part of our lives. In it we lay all of our feelings as
well as each beat on it. Each drop of blood coming out from the hand of
the one who is beating is a bit of all what you keep inside. It is the feeling
of a race that is laid on the beat of a drum.”
Naomi Hernández
Contemporary Argentine Cinema
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New Argentine Cinema, which appeared in the 1990s, approaches the
Argentine reality from a different perspective than previous generations.
Filmmakers of this new era, as a byproduct of living and working under
the social and political conditions of the 90s, were deeply influenced by
the effects of neoliberal policies in society that transformed the dynamics of the country. Among other things, those neoliberal policies created
disparities between classes and new waves of migration and immigration
to Buenos Aires. These new social realities are represented in the works
of various filmmakers. Two films approach a very similar topic regarding
immigration in very different ways –Adrián Caetano’s Bolivia (2001) and
Martín Rejtman’s Copacabana (2006). Both films deal specifically with the
theme of Bolivian immigrants in Buenos Aires. Caetano’s film is fiction,
while Rejtman’s is a documentary. To observe these two films is to gain
insight into the immigrant experience from different perspectives, but it
seems they both communicate a similar message regarding the hardships
that arise out of current economic situations for those who are marginalized within society. The films also indicate the kind of consciousness that
is raised by the New Argentine directors whose sensibilities about the current global order incite the viewer to analyze and reshape their notion of
social issues. Immigration through these films is observed in an alternate
manner, raising issues and conflicts that are often ignored or put aside.
To understand the emergence of these themes in New Argentine Cinema, it is important to go back and understand the political and social
reality of Argentina at the outset of the new wave of filmmakers in
the country. During the 1990s, president Carlos Menem implemented
a wide spectrum of neoliberal economic policies, in accordance to the
Washington Consensus. His program of privatization gave multinational corporations great power. The open market gave way to not only
a flow of goods between nations, but also to flows of human capital in
the form of immigration to the urban centers. Rising national debt kept
building up during the decade. The economic revamping of the country,
and the oversaturation of it, eventually led to the economic crisis at the
end of 2001, after Argentina defaulted. The years that were to follow
this would again shift the way of life in the country and alter the forms
of interactions that take place between socioeconomic sectors. During
the 90s, the emerging filmmakers sought to present the problems with
the economic reality. They presented social and class divides and the deterioration of the structure of society, as well as the effects of the social
realities on youth, among other things. Once the crisis took place, they
maintained all of these aspects as integral components of their films, but
aware of the new implications in society after 2001, they also sought
to find innovative ways to represent accurate portrayals of the subjects
that form daily life. The emerging films would go on to portray diverse
segments of society, many of them marginalized and often ignored. This
is partly due out of a growth in the consciousness about diversity and
social sectors that in the wake of the crisis no longer found a suitable
space within the fabric of society and the urban workforce, and as a
result became more marginalized.
Globalization set up the necessary conditions for migratory flows. With
open trade, national borders seem to disappear. The culture of globalization opens up the possibility of integration, and ideally social actors
within this system can easily merge into the cultural landscape of different
societies. The problem arises once the reality of the expected integration
occurs, and class divides form the makeup of a city. In the post-crisis
Buenos Aires, immigrants are able to come in and establish a new life,
but they often struggle in joining the workforce in a way that will properly maintain the desired way of life. Immigrants come into the country
escaping the economic difficulties of their own countries, and find that
while their economic reality can be transformed, their social reality will
be compromised.
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Representations of Immigration in New
Argentine Cinema: Bolivia and Copacabana
Cultural interactions and the creation of community are seen from an entirely different point of view in Rejtman’s Copacabana. His documentary
focuses on the Bolivian community in Buenos Aires as they prepare to celebrate the festival of the virgin of Copacabana. The very premise of the film
indicates that the subjects portrayed not only have a sense of community,
but are also actively seeking to maintain and reinforce their cultural ties by
keeping Bolivian traditions alive while in Argentina. The marginalization
in this film happens in a different way than in Bolivia, as they Bolivian
community is marginalized as a whole instead of the individual kind that
happens to Freddy. The subjects in Rejtman’s film are in constant interaction with one another, so much so that interactions with members from
outside the community aren’t shown. They have adapted to their environment and have found a cohesive way of life. The way the community is
portrayed as almost isolated from the rest of the city seems to go along
with the ruptures and further segregations that arose after the crisis in 2011.
In this way Rejtman’s film serves as a prime depiction of the general transformation in the Buenos Aires social structure in the first few years of the
21st Century. Joanna Page analyses that “contemporary representations of
Buenos Aires as a fractured, heterogeneous space with internal divisions of
its own undermines another discourse, that of the exceptionality of Buenos
Aires as a cultured, First World capital set apart from the problems of the
rest of the country” (111). While the divides existed long before 2001, they
were completely undeniable after 2001, and depictions and representations
of Buenos Aires are conditioned by this reality.
The destiny and fate of the immigrant subject is an issue that is also
handled differently in both films. Freddy seems conditioned to fail from
the beginning, and this eventually ends up materializing when he is shot
and killed at the end of the film. Laura Iribarren writes: “Freddy no puede
adaptarse, no puede progresar porque el presente lo arrastra hacia su destino
trágico. El trabajo deja de ser una “salida” para transformarse en un lugar
de tensión y confrontación permanentes” [Freddy can’t adapt, he can’t
progress because the present drags him toward his tragic destiny. Work
ceases to be an “exit” to transform into a place of tension and permanent
confrontation]. During a scene in the film, Freddy calls his family for the
first time since arriving in Buenos Aires. The conversation is brief, as he
doesn’t have enough money to make a longer call, but what is discussed
in the conversation signals the future and inevitable failure to achieve
hopes and plans. Freddy talks to his wife, embellishing the details of his
time in Buenos Aires and talks about the future move of the family down
to Buenos Aires. The scene depicts in a very real way the way in which
families hopes and expectations of the immigrant experience contrast the
reality of it. Once Freddy is killed, one can sense the inevitability of his
demise as the expected ending of a cycle. While most immigrants won’t
die in the fashion that Freddy does, his story serves as a metaphor of the
defeated immigrant in Buenos Aires that may be able to survive, but not
necessarily thrive. “Freddy is murdered in an act of violence that speaks of
the helplessness and chaos that besieges the formerly enlightened capital
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In analyzing the implication of those social realities that immigrants face
upon arriving to the country, Caetano presents a character in Bolivia
whose struggles and aspirations seem doomed from the beginning. The
film tells the story of Freddy, a Bolivian immigrant who has just arrived to
Buenos Aires and finds a job working as a cook in a restaurant. He came
to the city by himself, leaving behind his family in Bolivia. He expresses
that his plans are to eventually round up enough money to bring them
to Buenos Aires. The restaurant where he works also employs another
immigrant from a neighboring country, a Paraguayan woman named
Rosa. Caetano sets a both a physical and metaphoric divide between the
Argentine clients of the restaurant and the immigrant workers, who stand
behind the counter and are subject to the prejudice of those they’re serving, who in the fragile economy see them as a burden. Carolina Rocha
writes that “this conflict shapes the characterization of Buenos Aires as
a city, where dog eats dog. Event spaces like the bar that were previously
areas of common socialization, are now microcosms of the tensions and
divisiveness that affect both the long-time residents of Buenos Aires and
its newly arrived immigrants...Bolivia also ends with a representation of
a metropolis, figuratively and literally, expelling the immigrant” (124).
Because of the tensions that divide the different members of society, and
because Freddy came to Buenos Aires all by himself, he is unable to form
any sense of community in his new place of residence. The only bond
he seems to make is with Rosa, which happens naturally because they’re
both immersed in the immigrant way of life, but even this relationship is
superficial. Rosa has been in Argentina longer and as a result has found a
way to cope with her environment, disposing the hope of attainment of a
community, and instead depending on her own devices for a day-to-day
survival. She seems to understand and accept the fate of her condition, and
furthermore, she demonstrates her ability to constantly disregard feelings as a way of survival, but Freddy seems to need attachment to others,
which is a major reason why he seems doomed to fail from the beginning.
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Rejtman doesn’t approach immigrant destiny in such a grim manner. Instead, he doesn’t offer any resolutions. Throughout the documentary, he
remains highly observational as a director. He tends to observe groups of
people as they go about their daily life, but at no point does he interfere
with the routines of his subjects. There is no narration and no direct verbalized opinion about the images of the screen. There are no subjects that
are highlighted, and not even a very clear storyline that signals an expected
final outcome. As the film comes to an end, Rejtman doesn’t attempt to
make resolutions. Instead, he does the opposite and goes to Bolivia and
presents footage of the logistical process that Bolivians must go through
in order to cross the border into Argentina. He presents bus passengers as
they wait to get into the bus that will take them out if their country and
into a whole new way of life. The sequence progresses until the bus has
crossed the border and continues its journey toward Buenos Aires. The
placement of this sequence is interesting, as the viewer has already seen
what awaits them in Buenos Aires. But what’s even more intriguing is
that there is no real way of knowing where these people will end up and
what will become of their lives. This information doesn’t seem important
because what the film proposes, rather than an outright expression of a
specific sentiment and agenda, is the contemplation of what it means to
be an immigrant and the process of preserving identity while trying to
survive in another country. Identity seems essential to preserving sanity
and community while displaced from the native country since those ties
offer the key to a more defined sense of self that can get lost in the shift
from culture to culture. The Bolivian community, marginalized as it may
be from the rest of the city, progresses precisely because it makes an effort
to maintain a sense of culture. But its inevitable marginalization speaks
precisely about the conditions that await immigrants of the first decade
of the 21st Century upon entering the fractured social climate of Buenos
Aires. But as societies change the destinies of people may change, and by
leaving the film at an open end Rejtman doesn’t present any statement
about the destiny of the subjects portrayed in the film, but rather suggests
the inability to determine with precision the condition of an immigrant.
While taking significantly different approaches, what both films achieve
is bringing the issue of immigration to the forefront by placing it as its
point of focus. The multicultural city seems to have provided the New
Argentine directors with new sources of inspiration in their aim to present the structure of the society they live in, and furthermore, it seems to
have provided a cause in which to focus on. Disparities resulting from the
economic structure of the state in the last twenty years seem to provide a
good context through which to observe the dynamics that ensue between
social classes and races. Immigration in today’s globalized world raises important questions about the shifts in cultural identities and the repercussions this could have in the future. Furthermore, it raises questions about
a society’s ability to accommodate cultural integration in a world that is
interconnected by so many mediums yet still struggles in creating a proper
equilibrium in regards to persistent social divides. Bolivia and Copacabana
are effective in communicating the struggles of a social group that by its
very nature is bound to reside by the margins of society. In doing so, they
make a statement about the concerns of the emerging generations as they
move forward and try to cope with and advance the social, political, and
economic situation under which they reside. A new awareness and interest
in these subjects, which made possible their representation on film, opens
the door to the further filmic exploration of sectors that have traditionally
been underrepresented, which aids the development of a more sensible
and integrated society. ❉
Works Cited
Iribarren, Laura. “Trabajo Y Cuerpo:
Su Representación En El Nuevo Cine Argentino.” 2005.Web. <http://
catedras.fsoc.uba.ar/delcoto/textos/
Trabajo%20cuerpo.doc>.
Page, Joanna. Crisis and Capitalism
in Contemporary Argentine Cinema.
Durham, NC: Duke University Press,
2009. Print.
Rocha, Carolina. “The many faces of
Buenos Aires: migrants, foreigners and
immigrants in contemporary Argentine
cinema (1996-2008)”. In Visual
Communication: Urban Representations
in Latin America. Porto Alegre, Brazil:
Editora Plus, 2008. Print.
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city. His place will probably be occupied by another immigrant, whose
life will be as threatened by the climate of individualistic survival as his
was” (Rocha 124).
Man in hat
I took this during a trip to a rural estancia during our first week in Buenos Aires. The
way this man related to his horse was so natural; I suppose I took the photo because
I wanted to remember that pacific and tranquil look he had, and that typical gaucho
handkerchief around his neck.
Olaya Barr
Martín Rejtman (Buenos Aires, 1961) is one of the most influential filmmakers
in contemporary Argentine cinema. His film Rapado (1992) has been labeled as
the starting point of New Argentine Cinema. He has a style and a perspective
that is unique in Latin American Cinema. His insight may also be explained as
that of an outsider. An outsider that changed the scenery in cinema due to, as
he states in this interview, his formation in New York University.
His films have had a major influence in Argentina cinema but at the same time,
as it happens with the greatest filmmakers of every generation, they are impossible to imitate. After Rapado he shot Silvia Prieto (1999), The Magic Gloves
(2003), Elementary training for actors (2009) and the documentary Copacabana
(2006). Rejtman is also a writer and published Rapado (Planeta, Buenos Aires,
1992) and Velcro y yo (Planeta, Buenos Aires, 1996) among other books.
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One is tempted to present or almost analyze his entire work through a statement he makes at the very end of this interview. When explaining the process
of making his documentary Copacabana –centered on a celebration of the Bolivian community in Buenos Aires– he affirms that his strength actually resides
in what he used to consider a flaw. The supposed impossibility of developing
a sense of intimacy in the film, out of shyness and respect, becomes one of
his most powerful insights. He produces in his films a cinema of detachment
that appears to work only on the surface. As he affirms here: “detachment is
a way of getting close as well. And when you detach yourself from something,
it’s a moment for you to understand what’s going on.” Considering this affirmation one is tempted, again, to view his work by this sort of formula. Rejtman´s
ouevre can be understood through this process of “detachment,” a type of
cinematic experience that proposes a particular language, apparently devoid
of any excessive interpretation, so as to question the way we understand
“what’s going on” around us.
Edgardo Dieleke
Professor NYU BA
Editor’s Note: As part of the general course Issues on Contemporary Argentine and
Latin American Cultures, mandatory to all students, Martín Rejtman offered a talk on his
filmmaking experiences and projects. An edited version of this conference is the one
that follows.
Host: Let’s start the Q&A with Silvia Prieto your second feature film. One
of the things that appears clear since the opening shot is the use of abstract
street signs and also places that do not necessarily refer to any particular
place or city, almost as if they could have been shot anywhere. What can
you tell us about this aesthetic choice?
MR: In the film there are many of these signs, from restaurants or hotels,
signs that introduce a literal atmosphere. I use those because, probably,
I’m not sure why, but the scenes work like a net in this movie. And most
of the effects they produce are very flat. I think that the flatness of the
signs somehow coincides with the flatness of the way I shot the scenes.
And it’s very literal and it’s very simple in a way. It’s like saying there’s
nothing more to what you see.
Student 1: One of the things that I found interesting in Silvia Prieto was
how objects are used and you talk about how they’re constantly passed
around. They’re going from one character to another with different uses
each time. And I think I read a quote you said about how your movies are
about economics in some way. Because of this, I just wanted you to talk a
little bit about the use of objects and how it influences your films.
MR: Yes, in most of my films objects circulate, but also characters circulate. The characters circulate as the objects circulate. In this circulation I’m
always trying to find a balance. And it’s like in life you’re always trying to
find a balance otherwise things collapse. And I don’t want my characters
to collapse. I want them to maintain that balance.
It’s the way I come up with stories. That’s the way I think of my characters
and their relationships. In a way I think I tend to put them in the same
level as objects. So, they have the same importance for me and for the
story. That’s why the objects circulate and the characters circulate. It’s just
a big circulation of things and people. And the lack of intimacy, I really
don’t know why. I mean, it’s just all of my movies and short stories I
make, they have many ellipses. So, there are many things that are left out.
Only those emotional moments are there and then I conjoin them. But I
never think of them when I write the scripts. I just happen to skip them.
But, you know, one may think that they happen in those moments. But,
that’s wrong. You have so much time that it gets left out.
Student 2: Do you intentionally make the relationships in your films almost
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Martín Rejtman. Interview.
Student 3: How do you decide what happens first in your films? How is the
writing process?
MR: I think in all my films there is the question of why people get together. In Silvia Prieto that is clear. The different Silvia Prietos get together
at the end of the film just because they share a name. And so I think my
films are always about how you get together with somebody else, how
you establish a relationship with somebody else. Sometimes it becomes
very enriching. I think what the characters are doing is sort of establishing
alternative families. They become a family and not your classical mother,
father, children, but a family that works as a family where characters are
isolated. They stop functioning when they form this kind of alternative
family. But, these are things that I never think about. When I write the
scripts, when I make the movies, these are the stories I want to tell and
this is the way I make things function. So afterwards, when people ask me
questions is when I start thinking about all this. And maybe sometimes,
these are my reflections after.
MR: As far as the movie, usually the first image I have is the first scene
of the movie. Usually, I start there, but then I go in many different directions when writing. I start the story as a puzzle and I write scenes that I
don’t think chronologically. And I never know where I’m going to end the
script. It’s not that I have a story lined up. I develop every scene and then
I put them together as a puzzle.
Host: I have a question sort of following the lack of dramatic elements in
your films. There doesn’t seem to be a classical attempt to work with the
psychology of your characters, they seem also to lack a clear goal or impulse.
M: I respect the script word by word during the shooting. I want the
actors to say the lines exactly how I wrote them. Not only that, but the
music I heard when I was thinking of the lines. So, we rehearse a lot to get
that. For me that’s very important. I usually think of my actors when I am
writing so I have the character for a particular actor.
MR: I think I usually tend to escape from showing dramatic moments or
intimate moments. I think it works like that for me out of shyness or out
of respect. I really don’t know the exact word, but there are things I prefer
not to talk about. I rather just suggest. Sometimes it’s better for me just
to suggest than to show. And that’s why there are so many ellipses in my
films. And the detachment is a way of getting close as well. Being able to
observe. If you are too close, you cannot observe and you are just in the
middle of something. And when you detach yourself from something, it’s
a moment for you to understand what’s going on.
As for the impulse of the characters, I see that the characters are more
like neutral. They’re not optimistic, but they’re not pessimistic either. The
thing is that when you don’t see something optimistic, you don’t see a
happy ending, when you don’t see people at the end of a movie who are
happy and got what they wanted to get, then you tend to think that story
has a pessimistic point of view. And I totally disagree with that. I think
there is a middle point and my films are usually in that middle point.
Many people work in a different way. But for me, it wouldn’t be productive to work in another way because I think the scenes would be lacking
of a...vitality. They would be just descriptions of something. I need to feel
that the scenes have meaning in themselves. So I write the scenes and then I
put them all together. I have to find logic and know that this feels finished.
Host: How do you work with the script during the shooting of the film?
Student 4: There are moments in your film Rapado, where I would expect
music. For example when Lucio’s being chased down by the owner of the
motorbike and it’s just a very long scene and there’s no music. Then there
were also other moments where there was music where it seemed very obscure like the character’s activity was very mundane. I’m just wondering
how you use music in your films.
MR: Usually I don’t use music. The only film where I use music that
comes from outside the scene is in Rapado. And I think it’s because during the process of the shooting I was in the Netherlands and it was my first
feature film and there was a musician there. I don’t know. It was kind of an
accident in a way. But the music that there is works more like atmospheric
music. It’s not underlying or stressing the tone of the film because the film
lacks ground. So it’s there for creating a certain atmosphere. I believe in
the economy of resources. I do not like adding extra things.
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coincidental or arbitrary? Is there a reason why your characters meet each
other and come together?
MR: Yes there is that in my first two films, but also in the Magic Gloves,
the actor who plays the main character is a rock star (Vicentico, the singer
of Los Fabulosos Cadillacs). But I don’t think it has so much to do with
music, but more about the kind of people who are around me at the time.
I don’t make distinctions between an actor and a non-professional actor
or actress. If I feel they can do that part, I just go ahead and try. If it
works, then they’re in the movie. I realized at one point that the musicians
are trained to be in front of an audience, so they feel comfortable to be
in front of a camera. So, it’s kind of natural. I wrote a part for Rosario
Bléfari in Silvia Prieto, who’s a musician and also an actress. But there’s no
particular relationship with the music.
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There is though, in Silvia Prieto, a performance by a band at a rock show.
Again, I think I wrote the scene without knowing the music of what they
were playing. I used the group in the movie because of the name The
Other Me. As I was saying in the beginning, the movie is very literal.
Thus, it is a very literal reference to the subject of the film. The Other Me,
or The Other I is the life of Silvia Prieto.
Why there is no mate drinking? Why there is no violence? Why there is
no soccer or whatever. So, I decided to put many of the considered typical things together in this scene of the Magic Gloves. Almost like putting
together tourism and pornography (because these foreing actors come to
Argentina to shoot the movie).
Student 1: This is a strange question, but I really enjoy humor in your
movies too and I was wondering if you have specific things that influence
your humor.
MR: I think the kind of humor I like is that kind of humor that comes
from the screwball comedies from American films from the 30’s and 40’s.
Specifically, Preston Sturges and Howard Hawks. Those are the directors
that influence me somehow, their speed and the way that the characters
talk in those films. That’s something that really struck me and helped me
to think about humor in films. Particularly, in Preston Sturges the idea
that anything can happen and I like comedies because the possibilities are
endless. You can get away with almost everything. But, my movies are not
comedies. You can probably see that there are no happy endings. So, it’s
a strange mix.
Host: There is a particular sequence in The Magic Gloves, where you show
a group of foreign actors touring in Buenos Aires. It works a sort of parody
of the typical images of Argentina, because they visit all the clichés of Buenos Aires. How are your films received abroad in relationship to a certain
image of Argentina?
Student 5: Going back to your decisions for characters. You said earlier,
often times when you’re writing that you start with a scene and then that
you think of the characters while you’re writing you often have an actor or
an actress in mind. In terms of the creative process with your short stories
and films, how do you go about researching characters and filling them
with believable human attributes? When you get yourself in a situation
when you don’t have an actor in mind, how do you go about sitting down
and trying to create a person out of nothing?
MR: From the very beginning, when I started showing my films abroad
in film festivals, I always got this reaction that my films were not Argentinean in a way. They were not showing the real Argentina. They were
not showing Buenos Aires. I remember when I entered Rapado in a film
festival in Switzerland. After the screening, a producer approached me and
said to me: “well, what we’ve seen is not life Buenos Aires. It’s not life
in Argentina at all”. My distributor asked the guy if he had ever been to
Argentina and the guy said no. So, that’s the kind of stereotyping you get
all the time. And I always get questions during Q&A’s about why I show
so little about the typical aspects of Buenos Aires. Why there is no Tango?
MR: You see you have to find your own way. Don’t take me as an example. I think your question is how you build the psychology of your
character. In that case, the psychology of a character is whatever I want
this character to say or do. It’s something that comes out in the end, the
psychology of the character or the personality of that character. It’s adding
all the things that I make the character say or things that I make the character do, how they interact with the rest of the other characters. At the
end, there is a certain psychology, there is a certain personality, and there
is a certain way of behavior. But, it’s not that I start out with a character
who will behave all the time in a same way or who will react all the time in
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Student 2: There seems to be a very strong presence of Argentine rock music
in your films, especially in your first two films Rapado and Silvia Prieto.
Could you speak more to that? What is your relationship with rock music
and your filming process?
Host: I have a question regarding what it means to be a filmmaker in the
argentine context, considering the difficulties of getting funding, the locations or the casting.
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MR: I decided I wanted to make films when I was in NYU. I could have
stayed in New York. I had contacts. It was a possibility, but I decided to
come back and make films here. I thought that there were more new ways
of filmmaking and new places, and new stories here than there. And, I
could be of more use here than anywhere else. That’s why I decided to
come back and try to make movies here. It’s always very difficult. It’s
difficult to make films anywhere in the world. There’s a lot of money
involved and there’s always the question of how you’re going to raise the
money. Do you want to raise 50 million dollars or 500 thousand? Because
there’s always that risk of how you’re going to get that money back to the
funder or producer. So, it’s always very, very difficult and it’s still very
difficult now. And it’s getting tougher I think. Although, I think with
technology is now more accessible for people to shoot with better quality.
But still, it’s tough to get the film shot. But, back then when I started, my
first film was, Doli vuelve a casa (1986). I made it with a borrowed camera.
The people I was working with were free of course. And then when I
made Rapado it was a completely different strategy because it was a more
expensive movie. I had to find some money abroad. I found money in the
Netherlands. They have a film festival that has a fund, the Hubert Bals
Fund. Actually, it was the first Argentine feature film that was awarded
some money there. I think it was only 15 thousand dollars, but it helped
me a lot. And afterwards the Hubert Blas Fund became very important for
the development of the New Argentine Cinema. Most of the films from
the New Argentine cinema were funded partially by this fund.
Later on for Silvia Prieto, I received money from France for post-production and for the Magic Gloves, I found money again from that same
fund from the Netherlands, and from France and Germany. So, part of
the funding comes from Europe and part from the National Film Institute
of Argentina. Rapado, in the beginning was a very different film from
the films that were being made at the time here. They decided not to give
me any money, any subsidies. Films that were very commercial and very
roughly made were receiving subsidies by the State. Afterwards, things
changed. People started making different films. There was a new wave of
critics as well. I think what happened was that we were in a way isolated
in terms of what was being made in the world. During the dictatorship, we
didn’t have that. Also, films didn’t circulate in the way they do now. It’s
very easy to watch movies today. For me, the most productive experience
I got was when I went to NYU because I was able to watch movies that I
wasn’t able to get here.
Student 6: What else did you learn studying at NYU and how did you use
that experience back in Buenos Aires?
MR: It did influence me a lot. When I was at NYU, for example, I was
taking a class in which we were divided in groups and we were making one
movie every week. I really learned a lot. I learned how to make a film with
what was around me. And I think that that’s what I applied when I came
here. I started making films with what was next to me.
Student: Are they any argentine directors that influenced you?
MR: Regarding an Argentine filmmaker from the previous times, when I
was starting, no. I never thought of anybody. Actually at one point, some
time ago they asked me in a film festival in France, during a series called
“From father to son”. You were supposed to choose a film from a film
director from the past and they would be showing it together with one
of yours. I decided to pick a film from the Chilean director Raúl Ruiz,
because I didn’t find anything that I liked here. I picked a film called Palomita Blanca (1973), which is a film that I really admired and that he made
before he went to France and then he finished it later on. For me it was a
fantastic movie. When you see it’s the kind of movie you can’t believe that
it was made in the 70’s in Chile.
Host: I want to ask you how was working in Copacabana (2006), your first
documentary, and how that process begun as well as how it differed from
your prior experiences.
MR: Copacabana was a film made on commission for a TV channel called
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the same way. I think that in the end that would leave you with very flat
and lifeless characters or predictable characters. Again, I don’t start with a
plot for a character. Of course, many writers and screenwriters do exactly
the opposite. They start thinking what a character would do in a certain
situation, how that person would react, and then they build character and
the plot around them. I just go with the opposite.
Ciudad Abierta, a few years ago with a previous city government. They
had this project made by independent filmmakers from Buenos Aires.
They gave me a list of subjects to choose from. One was a Boca Juniors
soccer match. The gay parade was another one. Among them was a celebration of the Virgin of Copacabana, which is a celebration of the Bolivian
community in Argentina that takes place here in Buenos Aires. It’s a big,
big traditional feast and it takes place in October. I didn’t know anything
about the subject. It was really unknown to me and I decided to pick that
subject because I wanted to explore and there’s a sense of adventure in the
process of making the film. It just felt like something new. I really didn’t
know what I was going to do. So, I spent like six months or more just
going into the Bolivian neighborhoods. The film is focused on the celebration of the Virgin of Copacabana. In the beginning of the film I show the
celebration. For me, that’s not really the interesting part of the film, but I
couldn’t do the film without it. I preferred to show the rehearsals of the
dancing in the celebration and I preferred to show aspects of the life of
the Bolivian community in Buenos Aires. When the music stops and they
keep dancing that was for me the spark that made the scene and you could
relate in a way to these people.
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So, when during my research I ran into these people who were rehearsing
in a garage I decided that I could start shooting. Then, we asked for other
groups that were rehearsing. And after we got to different situations.
There is this guy that I show holding an album of postcards for example.
We had an appointment with him because he was going to point out where
other dance groups where rehearsing, but he came to the meeting with this
album and he started showing us postcards and pictures from his arrival
to Argentina in the 60’s. And this guy was holding this album like it was
his most precious property. I found it very moving and very touching, so
I decided to put it there.
Once again, I worked in this film like a puzzle. I got into the project without
knowing if I even had a film. The traditional part within the story I put it at
the beginning and I just went backwards. First I show the celebration and
then the rehearsals and some aspects of the Bolivian community in Buenos
Aires. Then I went to the border of Bolivia and Argentina and I shot the
way the Bolivians get into the country. So, it’s a reverse structure in a way.
Host: Copacabana it’s a very observational documentary, there are almost
no interviews. Why did you conceive the documentary in this way?
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MR: There are several reasons why. I’m not very easy with people. I’m
kind of shy. I’m not very easy-going. I don’t have an easy way to talk
people into doing things. So, for me it’s difficult to get close to a community that’s as closed as the Bolivian community. When I started I knew I
would never be able to sit down with these people and have a conversation
that would develop into a deeper intimacy. And I spoke about this to my
producer, who is a very clever woman, and she said: “well, this is your
strength. What you think is your weakness is actually your strength”. ❉
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Creative Writing /
Escritura Creativa
La escritura y el cuerpo
Writing and the body
W
W
El cuerpo posee sus propios lenguajes,
y entre los sistemas lingü.sticos y
la gestualidad pautada por costumbre
circulan otros detalles nuevos que
flotan entre los significados que se
adscriben desde el país de origen y las
interpretaciones espontáneas del radar
desorientado pero de todos modos
receptivo del recién llegado: el compás
rítmico, retumbante de los bombos en
una plaza (que señala una red nueva) o
las insinuaciones veladas de un acento
que cosquillea el oído de uno (que
también señala una red inédita, aunque
en este caso interior, ya que el cuerpo
se ajusta en relación al espectro de
saber y de auto-conocimiento que se
ha ampliado en el pase de un lado del
límite al otro, más allá de lo familiar).
El cuerpo también ha cruzado el
ittgenstein said, “The limits of
my language are the limits of
my world,” and thus the question is
begged: what happens when we leave
the confines of what we habitually
identify with? On crossing borders –
especially when not bilingual (though
even then, once the border is traversed,
our languages become inverted,
set off-kilter and displaced) –, the
palpable physical takes on overweening
magnitude, and a certain (often novel)
semanticizing force of the body emerges
to grapple with apparently inchoate
stimuli. The texts here take advantage
of this as a new resource. They use that
very disorientation to articulate new
voices and construct new points of view.
The body has its own languages,
wherein linguistic systems and custombound gestures mingle with new details
that hover between the meanings
ascribed to them in one’s place of origin
and new interpretations appearing
on the newcomer’s disoriented but
still perceptive radar: the rhythmic,
rumbling bombo drums of a plaza (a
new network) or an accent’s shadowy
hints tickling one’s ear (also a new
network albeit an interior one as the
body itself shifts in relation to the
new broadened scope of knowing and
self-knowing outside the limits of the
formerly familiar). The body too has
come across the limit and been, ever
so slightly, ever so notably, changed.
Hence, in these writings the body is
clearly not the passive object of a text’s
authoritative delight and command.
This semester’s selections showcase
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ittgenstein dijo, “Los límites
de mi idioma son los límites
de mi mundo”, con lo que surge
una pregunta: ¿qué sucede cuando
abandonamos los confines de aquello
con lo que habitualmente nos
identificamos? Al cruzar fronteras -en
particular cuando uno no es bilingüe
(aunque, aun en ese caso, una vez en el
otro lado, nuestros idiomas se habrán
invertido, quedado sin su anterior
equilibrio, corridos de lugar)- lo
físico tangible adquiere una magnitud
preponderante, y una cierta fuerza (con
frecuencia novedosa) semantizante del
cuerpo emerge para lidiar con lo que
parecen ser estímulos vagos o informes.
Los textos reunidos aquí han sabido
aprovechar esto al tomarlo como un
nuevo recurso.
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Hay aquí textos producidos por
personas quienes no solo han cruzado
una frontera recientemente, sino que
vienen ya formadas por ese tipo de
cruces y virajes interculturales: uno
baja de un subte en Buenos Aires y
por primera vez mira el barrio que su
abuelo retrataba en relatos personales,
otra puede regresar a lo que hoy es el
país de origen de su madre pero debe
usar la otra inteligencia de su cuerpo
para explorar lo que habrá sido la
juventud de su madre allí (porque la
emigración corta la trayectoria de la
nación de origen mientras sigue el arco
de su fuerza, o ruina, imprevista). Esta
selección incluye textos claves que nos
recuerdan que las grandes migraciones
transcurren también muy cerca de
“casa”: el traslado de Nueva York (o
París u otra gran ciudad) a Buenos
Aires tal vez no sea tan transformador
como la mudanza de Mississippi o
Texas a la ciudad de Nueva York. Es
más, como un cuento explora con
mordacidad, aún atravesar el pasillo
de un departamento a otro es un viaje
revelador, y lo que muestre quizás no
sea nuestro mejor lado.
how a body of texts (a corpus) and
the physical body (cuerpo) can
share syntaxes, compose writing in
conjunction, and bring into circulation
entirely new terms for conjugating,
beyond what was previously thought of
as the limit.
There are texts here by persons who
have not only crossed a border recently,
but come informed already of such
crossings and intercultural shifts:
one steps off a subway in Buenos
Aires and for the first time looks on
the neighborhood his grandfather
told stories of, another can return to
what her mother’s country of origin
is today but must use her body’s
other intelligence to explore what her
mother’s youth there must have been
like (because emigration cuts off the
home nation’s trajectory as it arches
toward unforeseen brawn or collapse).
The selection includes key pieces that
remind us that great migrations take
place much closer to “home”: the
journey from New York (or Paris or
any other megalopolis for that matter)
to Buenos Aires may not be as much of
a surpassing of limits as the move from
Mississippi or Texas to New York City.
Indeed, as one text incisively explores,
even crossing the hall from one
apartment to another is a revelatory
journey, and what it reveals may not be
our best side.
The more informal and interpersonal
migrations, even happenstance routes
traced out as one moves about in the
new terrain, can create new patterns
of behavior and indeed impact
groups and identities. They -like the
Estas migraciones más informales
e interpersonales, aun las rutas
azarosas que quedan dibujadas
mientras uno se mueve en el nuevo
terreno, pueden crear esquemas
novedosos de comportamiento e
impactar grupos e identidades. Pueden
-tal cual las grandes migraciones
trasnacionales- informar el próximo
matiz de diferencia que se agrega a
una articulación de la identidad. Y ese
matiz de diferencia será una riqueza,
en el sentido en el que el texto del
Profesor Fernández Bravo habla
de las heterogeneidades no como
amenazas sino como recursos. Con
aquella matiz o borde (el “límite” de
Wittgenstein viene a la mente otra vez)
de diferencias semánticas, podremos
elaborar otras maneras de abarcar las
experiencias tras-culturales. Porque
cualquier cruce de un límite implica
ruptura pero a su vez trae una promesa
prodigiosa -no solo para la transmisión
de experiencias inéditas, sino también
para la invención de nuevos modos
para formular quienes hemos llegado a
ser mientras tanto.
Anna-Kazumi Stahl
Profesora NYU BA
greater transnational migrations- can
inform an identity´s next new shade
of difference, of richness in the sense
that Professor Fernández Bravo´s
text speaks of heterogeneities not as
threats but as resources. With that
shade or edge (Wittgenstein´s “limit”
comes to mind again) of semantic
difference, we may articulate other
ways of encompassing cross-cultural
experiences. Because any crossing of
a limit involves breakage while also
bearing a prodigious promise -not just
for the transmission of new experiences
but also for the invention of new ways
of articulating who we have become in
the meantime.
Anna-Kazumi Stahl
Professor NYU BA
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límite y ha sido entonces -por más que
sea ligeramente, será notoriamentecambiado. Por eso, en estos escritos
el cuerpo no es objeto pasivo de los
órdenes y los deleites de un texto
autoritativo. Las selecciones de este
semestre exhiben cómo un corpus
de textos y el cuerpo físico pueden
compartir la sintaxis, componer obras
en conjunción, y llevar a circulación
términos innovadores para conjugarse
más allá de lo que antes se concebía
como el límite.
Tango
Tess Andrade
There were days when she would push her body as far as it could be
pushed, when she would come home and feel the protest of each and
every of the hundreds of muscles she contained, even the tiny ones she
had never known existed, as they marched with picket signs, chanting that
they’d worked too hard and needed rest. These days were usually brought
about by an audition or a performance or something out of the ordinary
(it happened every day of the two week-long tryouts for her current dance
company), but sometimes even the demands of her everyday practice were
enough to leave her body feeling cantankerous. When she had used all the
ice packs in the freezer and the pain still could not be numbed, she would
empty trays of ice cubes into the tub and fill it with the coldest water
the tap had to offer. Slowly, bracingly, she would lower herself into the
icy depths, fighting her body’s urge leap out and wrap itself in blankets,
forcing her lungs to expand when all they could think to do was contract, watching as her extremities were kissed with blue when her blood
could no longer bother to travel so far in such inhospitable conditions.
She would lay there, submerged to the neck, until her muscles could no
longer feel anything at all, and the soreness was put to rest with the ease of
putting a child to sleep after they’d exhausted themselves with tears. She’d
drain the tub and fill it again, this time with warm water, and let her body
reawaken, and let it feel good. On the worst days she would continue to
alternate between the two, spending hours in the tub (cold, hot, cold, hot),
all the while thinking through her new choreography, preparing for the
next day and feeling amazed with her own body and the beautiful things
it was capable of. ❉
The walls of the room peel like layers of rosy skin, blistered by the sun.
The bar is unattended, but gleams with half-full bottles. In the corner of
the dance floor, a fan wobbles, sending pulses of air across the rows of long
empty tables, ruffling their unused paper napkins. It’s early still. Only
a few couples have arrived. Some wait in chairs, adjusting their shoes,
swirling their glasses of red wine. A few have already plunged deftly onto
the dance floor. Watch them, moving in a coordinated trance. His feet
pursuing hers, making predatory forward-backward motions. Hers, cautiously accepting his advances. Her chest is rigid, shoulders stiff, but her
lower half is buzzing. At any moment, one foot will dart awake, swinging
upwards and back, reflexively, like the restless tail of a horse. They move
in circles around their corral.
From across the dance floor, he makes a hand gesture towards me. Who
me? No, no, I couldn’t. I can’t. I really, really can’t. But something —a
glass of wine or two?— has propelled my body out of its chair, and now I
have my hands on the wet shoulders of a lanky, white haired man, who is
conducting me. He is my father’s age. I laugh when we begin to move. My
feet are lazy compared to his. I am very often coming out of or falling into
some kind of sleep, but he drags me around the room, expecting something other than somnolence. Expecting alertness. I struggle to keep his
pace, nipping his toes with mine. This is difficult to fake, but he does not
seem to care. I allow him to lead me, my eyes detached from my feet. And
I watch the other couples travel across the floor, their bodies synchronized
in the steady breath of the fan. ❉
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Point of View
Alexandra Chernow
Mountain King”.
Traffic blocks the intersection
ahead, stretching many streets
to the right. I see a crane in the
distance.
“Turn left here.”
“Turn right here.”
The driver flips the turn signal,
rolls the steering wheel, and leans
his head to the left.
The driver flips the turn signal,
rolls the steering wheel, and leans
his head to the right.
I look out the tinted window. The
buildings grow taller, their uniform
glass panes reflecting the morning
light.
I look out the tinted window.
The fresh snow blankets the park
ground, reflecting the morning
light.
A man jogs in the opposite
direction, sweating but
maintaining a steady, rhythmic
breath.
A woman walks her dog through
the park, leash in one hand, soda in
the other. America the beautiful.
I glance at the clock. Ten minutes
pass. The Who becomes the local
traffic report: Elm Street is blocked
by construction. Cars are backed
up a dozen blocks or so. Find an
alternate route on your way to
work. Always efficient. Another
ten minutes and we cross the
intersection.
Right
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The familiar scent of artificial
vanilla hits my nose. I glance
at the rearview to find a yellow
Vanillaroma tree hanging to mask
the stench of burnt tobacco. The
driver cracks the window and
lights a Marlboro. The smoke
dances a spinning waltz before
being caught by the wind.
Right
“Can you turn on the radio?” He
obliges, presses the button, and
the orchestrated sounds of The
Who fill the car. I sit, chin in hand,
syncing the taps of my foot with
every hit of the snare.
The familiar scent of artificial
vanilla hits my nose. I glance at the
rearview to find a yellow Vanillaroma tree hanging to mask the
stench of burnt tobacco. The driver
cracks the window and lights a
Marlboro. The smoke dances a
spinning waltz before being caught
by the wind.
The sun continues rising behind
the car. The driver adjusts his
rearview mirror and dons his
sunglasses.
The ride remains silent save the allimportant ramblings of the classic
rock station’s morning talk show
host. Something about his awesome
dog and how it was not-so-awesome
when it pissed in his bed.
“Can you turn on the radio?” He
obliges, presses the button, and
the orchestral sounds of Edvard
Grieg saturate every corner of the
car. I sit, hands in my lap, heart
beating through “In the Hall of the
I glance at the clock. Twenty
minutes pass and we drive past the
site’s gatekeeper.
Left
The sun continues rising in front
of the car. I shield my eyes, as the
driver dons his sunglasses and
lowers the visor to block the light.
The ride remains silent save the
drone of the monotonous and toowell-read classical music fanatic.
Something about his favorite
composer and how the song
structure pleased him.
Left
Left
A crane rises above us, blocking
traffic many streets to the left. One
of the workers stands in the middle
of the street, alternating between
a Stop and Slow sign. We wait
our turn. A man jogs around the
construction site, maintaining a
steady, rhythmic breath.
The driver lights another cigarette.
Vanillaroma vs. tobacco, round two.
We approach the traffic circle,
entering the line to merge. I watch
the lights for the other lanes. Yellow, then red. The driver eases off
the brake and we roll forward. He
Right
The driver lights another cigarette.
Vanillaroma vs. tobacco, round
two.
We approach the traffic circle, ready
to merge. I watch the other drivers.
Brake lights brighten, then dim. The
driver gently presses the accelerator
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Untitled
Strider Mervine
and we roll forward. He speeds up,
merging into the right lane.
ESMA
Yael Schonzeit
He eases left.
He eases left.
A response to visiting Museo de la Memoria
- Ex Escuela de Mecánica de la Armada, Argentina*
My cell phone pierces the silence.
I fumble to retrieve it from my
pocket. It slips out of my hand
and falls to the floorboard. Fuck.
I reach down to pick it up. A horn
blares. The talk show host laughs
a raspy, nicotine-loving laugh. The
car lurches forward. I try to rise.
My head crashes into the back of
the seat.
My cell phone pierces the silence.
I fumble to retrieve it from my
pocket. It slips out of my hand
and falls to the floorboard. Fuck.
I reach down to pick it up. A horn
blares. The classical host chuckles
a haughty laugh and plays Mozart.
The car lurches forward. I try to
rise. My head crashes into the back
of the seat.
I awake to find the driver, face
against a blood-covered steering
wheel. Blood trickles around the
glass bored into my arm. Smoke
rises from the hood. I can’t move.
I jerk my hand upward, finding a
half-smoked cigarette burned out
on my skin. My eyes close. The
sweet scent of vanilla hits my nose.
I awake to find the driver, face
against a blood-covered steering
wheel. Blood trickles around the
glass bored into my arm. Smoke
rises from the hood. I can’t move.
I jerk my hand upward, finding a
half-smoked cigarette burned out on
my skin. My eyes close. The sweet
scent of vanilla hits my nose. ❉
I remember the first subway ride I took after my grandma died. No one
seemed to know that the world had just become a darker place. And the
first time I walked Sammy after X tried to kill herself, returning a polite
smile to the older balding man whose shitsu was getting his ass examined
while adamantly searching for my dog’s missing balls. We both waited patiently for the meet and greet to end, and neither of us acknowledged my
swollen eyelids or the fact that his dog was wearing one of those custommade dog Velcro jackets or that I was standing umbrella-less in slippers,
in the pouring rain.
I remember the four kilometer bus ride from Lublin and how easy it was
to forget where I was going: passing through new fields, and neighborhoods with stores and banal things that I, as a tourist, probably assumed
to be uniquely Polish, historically relevant or cultural and the young Polish lady sitting next to me who tapped my shoulder and pointed out the
window at a familiar restaurant that has great steak, or ham, or sausage
or something. And now I am driving down Avenida Liberator and I pass
that sushi place I ate at last week and University of Belgrano and I wonder
if that girl Kati I met from University of Belgrano is in class or maybe in
bed hung over and my friend sitting next to me slaps my shoulder and
makes a joke and then makes another and when the bus stops and I get off
and I don’t know why I am shocked when I find myself standing outside
Majdanek since I got on a bus in the first place and a man watches his dog
patiently as it takes a shit on the sidewalk in Belgrano.
Treblinka had a forest to hide its atrocities, Birkenau: a surrounding security zone to “protect” its actions. Belzec, quickly and conveniently disappeared after one year, as did its 650,000 inhabitants. Majdanek is on a busy
street in the middle of Belgrano, a street that I have walked down before.
People driving past the camp, while it was in operation, had a completely
unobstructed view of the tall brick chimney of the crematorium, letting
out smoke on a hill not far away. Civilians in their homes, eating dinner,
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speeds up, merging into the right
lane.
looking out windows that face a gas chamber only a few yards from a busy
street. Eating sushi, or steak or ham and admiring the infrastructure of the
old Military School in this oh so lovely neighborhood, not knowing and
thus not caring. ❉
* ESMA (Escuela de Mecánica de la Armada) was a clandestine detention center during
dictatorship (1976-1983). The Museo de la Memoria now functions as a Cultural Center
and Archive for Human Rights.
Empanada lesson
Esther was my host mom during my stay in Buenos Aires and I think our relationship
was remarkably special. She is a very curious and patient woman, enthusiastic about
exposing me to her city’s culture and family customs. The day I took this photo she
was showing me how to make empanadas for a party for her daughter. I can only
hope this photo gives justice to her affectionate and cheerful personality.
Olaya Barr
A response to visiting Museo de la Memoria
- Ex Escuela de Mecánica de la Armada, Argentina*
Visiting a building to seek lingering bitters of its history.
Simmering cinders of a pit, misery, an infernal crypt; but it isn’t seen.
Feeling a need to kneel down to my knees to feel the ground exude half a
century’s deeds
in sounds & stories it bleeds out in sheets of a cumbersome dust, not
settling in the least.
It feels stained. It must be hard for it to be cleaned.
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Some resigned to the safety of the mild crowds to remain alive slaving
under tyrant crowns.
Some would arise to fight or espouse: faces plucked by Falcons & hired
Hellhounds.
What is mine. What is ours. What was once alive: devoured.
Blood that’s ice. Muttered sounds. Shrouds that blind. Eyes are bound.
Auto-da-fe for those lost to the faith: haunters that remain once embalmed in a flame.
They walk through the gates & halls of the place they were locked &
then slain:
brought, lost, boxed, then maimed.
Their march was of raising their arms & their legs to maul & shake off
the balls & the chains.
Se llaman nadie; alguien que no existe: who once thought, talked &
trained; who were tossed to the grave.
They fought: some were great, some were small, all had said they’re
appalled yet braced for claws of the state. Gone: gobbled in the fray
of blood & decay they helped cause in the praise of wars fought: one’s
thoughts: Che.
Now the present is filled with a dreadful applause for a grand & big
world
that has found just half of the lesson of a headfull of gauze, yet still
stands sick & curled.
A lasting defeat is the stench in the air as we drag our feet & are left
singed, & to bear
echoing past complete, a dreadful affair, & a now that repeats with just a
difference of where.
So creep whisper, go sneak into the deeps of a memory blister,
slowly to fester in the historian’s head, left with a need to whimper.
It feels pained. It must be hard for it to breathe. ❉
* ESMA (Escuela de Mecánica de la Armada) was a clandestine detention center during
dictatorship (1976-1983). The Museo de la Memoria now functions as a Cultural Center
and Archive for Human Rights.
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Creep Whisper
Maxwell Dubin
All winter long, Eva stood idly by as the thin blue curtains that came with
her apartment filtered in a weak sun, tingeing her beige duvet the color of
a pale varicose vein.
By April, the situation was intolerable. Whether the day was bright or
dreary, the curtains lent her room an icy tone not unlike a walk-in refrigerator. As a younger girl, Eva had suffered from wild, active bouts of
insomnia, but in this room she was asleep by twelve and unable to wake
in the morning. At six and six-thirty, she’d turn off the alarm, and find
herself assured that it was still night, or at least not yet morning. If she put
the clock on the other side of the room, she wouldn’t wake up at all.
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To avoid being late to work, Eva began showering at night. She did this to
give herself more time, but the adjustment’s sole observable consequence
was an oily sheen that appeared on her forehead sometime after lunch. The
foods she bought for breakfast grew stale inside her cupboards, or were reappropriated for dinner. When she didn’t eat until lunch, she felt weak and
thin, so she bought bagels and ate them on then train. Trips to the supermarket began as exercises in self-recrimination, but as she loaded the cart,
disappointment had a way of turning into next week’s latent manifesto, and
a battle plan would emerge extending far beyond the short and long-term
benefits of a diet rich in leafy greens. Planning healthy meals: it was enough
to set an entire life in motion. To this end, Eva artfully swapped tags and
stickers, reducing the price of organic kale by $3 a bushel.
Eva was on the way back from the supermarket, arms heavy with groceries, the night she noticed the curtains pernicious influence. She had accidently left the lights on, and as she trudged up her block, she spotted them
in the window glowing like some awful backlit glacier. When she got up
stairs, she put all the perishables away, and went straight to work imagining their replacement. She made measurements, and pictured the room
as a whole. Two weekends later, on a rainy Saturday morning, Eva went
shopping, and, much to her surprise, found a set she liked at the second
store she visited. That it hadn’t taken much time pleased her greatly, and
as she carried them home, the feeling that she’d waited overlong to replace
them disappeared completely.
When Eva got back to her studio, the rain had given way to a splendid
sunniness that came in warmly through the undressed window. The
sunny refraction turned her pale skin the same bright color as her new
orange purchase, and she was tremendously happy. With great pleasure,
she attached the new curtains to the rod, and was fiddling it back into its
grooves, when she spied an older man preparing to cross in the middle
of the street. There were puddles along the sidewalk, and the man was
focusing intently on the one in front of him. Tucked beneath his raincoat, he wore a red tie and a white oxford, and on top of his nose sat
a pair of glasses with solid-looking frames. For a minute she watched
him concentrate, until he suddenly broke his stare, and made a studied
hop into the street. No sooner had he landed was he nearly struck by an
oncoming car.
Although Eva had proven empirically that the actual inside of her apartment was invisible from the street below, the feeling that she could be seen
sometimes dogged her all the same. It was that her second floor apartment
afforded such god-like intimacy that it was hard to imagine that she was
not somehow implicated, or invested, in the goings-on below. In fact, at
the sight of this old man, who spun and splashed into the puddle, before
reeling into a nearby parked car, Eva felt as though she herself had been
hit. She promptly ran downstairs.
When she found the man he was sitting on the sidewalk with a slightly
dazed look about him. For all his whirling, he was physically uninjured,
though the front of his tan trousers were a grey sopping wet. He looked
helpless, and his face had a vaguely amused aspect to it, like he found
the whole situation wholly ridiculous. Eva asked him if he would like to
gather himself upstairs, and he accepted.
It was not until he was sitting down in front of her that he realized that
his young rescuer was very pretty. They were seated at a small round table
in the kitchen’s nook, the only part of her studio that was neither bed nor
desk. The smell of coffee and hot plastic filled the room.
“My name is Ron by the way, and I can’t thank you enough for inviting
me in.”
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The Capital of Concern
Jordan Landsman
“At my age, I’m glad I didn’t have a heart attack!” They laughed, and took
long sips of their coffee. Ron looked around at the apartment, and tried to
read the spines of the great many books that were piled next to the bed.
Then Eva spoke.
“When I moved here last year, I couldn’t believe how some of these people
drive. Are you from the city?”
“I grew up here, but now I’m settled outside of Weston, Massachusetts.
Ever heard of it?”
Eva tried to place that town on a map, but could not do it. She shook her
head.
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“And what brings you to the city now?”
“My father used to own a pet store in this neighborhood, just a couple
of blocks away from here. When he died, I was 18 or so, and he left me
the property. I tried to run it for a couple of years but, as you’ve seen,
I wasn’t built for the city. What’s more, I never cared much for animals
either, except dogs. Fish, iguana, chinchillas; they all bore me terribly. In
my mind, caring for a fish is like caring for a dirty bathtub. Who was it
that said ‘in vain we wash, we stink’? Well, after a time, you start to feel
more kinship with the tub.”
Eva laughed, “So are you taking a tour of the old neighborhood? I love
this area.”
“I wish that were the case, but I’m actually here on business. Instead of
selling that store, I’ve rented it out for the last 45 years, and now I have to
get rid of it, once and for all. There was a tragedy in my family last year
and my wife and I need the money.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Eva.
“Thank you, but these things happen. Really, you’ve made my day though.
It’s always nice to know there’s still a bit of concern left in the world.” Ron
took his last sip, and stood up. Reluctantly, Eva showed him to the door.
“If you’re ever near Weston, you’ve got a cup of coffee there, waiting for
you, on me. I own a small dog breeding business now. Here’s my card.
Thank you again, Eva”
“It was nothing,” she said. He turned around to leave, and Eva gently
closed the door.
After he left, Eva went back to the window, and watched him walk away.
It was still light out, but the sun itself was hidden behind a tall building
across the street. Eva picked up the curtain, and wrapped it around herself.
Then she went to the bathroom, and filled up the tub.
When the bath was warm, she undressed, and wrapped herself up again.
It was so thin that when she lay down it tried to float to the top of the
water. She started to think about Ron, and what they would have talked
about if he had been able to stay. At first, she told him a great deal about
herself, and moving to the city, and her job, and the landlord, but then she
took it all back, and they sat in silence for what felt like a very long while.
Eventually, Ron, sitting on the edge of the tub, leaned in, and took over
the conversation again.
“To tell you the truth” Ron began “I don’t care much for the dog breeding business either.” This made him chortle, and he gave on a long, bitter
monologue about the concept of what he called “doggy capital,” and the
greedy, stupid people who came in wanting to know how long his pooches
had been tit-fed, and so forth.
Later, she got out and hung the curtain to dry. She felt very silly, and it
was dark out now, and raining so hard that all she could see were sheets
coming against the window.
With the towel still wrapped around her, she pulled on a pair of underwear, and hiked it up to her waist. She found a t-shirt, and put that on too,
and finally she took off the towel and put it on her pillow. Her hair was
still wet, and she intended to read, but when she lay down, she quickly fell
deeply asleep.
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“I’m Eva,” said Eva “and it was nothing at all. I was hanging up some new
curtains when I saw you from out the window.” At this, she gestured
towards the cloth, which was left in a clump. “I must say though, you gave
me quite a scare!”
The next morning, at around eleven fifteen, Eva was awakened by the
sound of light knocking. Outside, the sun shined brilliantly, and as the
dim rapping ceased, the day’s utter brightness assumed responsibility for
bringing her out of her half-dream. She turned over in bed and began to
drift, when, a moment later, the much bolder sound of her doorbell roused
her to her feet.
Through her peephole, she could see nothing but the stairway and a neighbor’s door, both rounded and dark. She blinked, and looked harder, surveying the corners of the fishbowl, listening for the sound of someone else’s
door shutting. As she pulled away, a small voice came from the other side.
“Hello?” it said. “Ms. Randoph? It’s me Alec from 8C! I’m here to play
with Jeremy and be your mother’s helper!”
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Eva opened the door, and discovered a shoeless, dark-haired boy of about
eight or nine, with a small backpack slung over his left shoulder. He had
on two white, but mismatched socks, which he stared down at as he spoke.
Eva thought she might have seen him skateboarding outside the building,
up and down the block. Up and down, but never around. She couldn’t put
a face to his nanny.
“Hi Ms. Randoph, sorry I’m a little late,” said Alec a little breathlessly “I
was picking out stuff for Jeremy and I play with.” Alec unzipped his and
bag and revealed a hodgepodge of toys and comics.
“Hi Alec. I’m Eva, and I think you must be looking for Sarah who lives
down the hall. She’s in 2C.”
She pointed in the direction of her neighbor’s door and smiled, and the
boy blushed deeply.
“Oh!” he said. He ran over to the right apartment, but instead of knocking or ringing, stared intently at the door. After a moment, he glanced
nervously back at Eva.
“That’s the right one,” Eva assured him. Eva waited at her door for the
boy to ring, but he would not budge. The boy was suffering a crisis of
confidence, thought Eva: knocking on the wrong door had taken it all out
of him. Eva locked the deadbolt to keep her door wedged open, and took
a place by his side. Again she smiled down at him, and his face registered
a measure of gratitude and chagrin as she put her finger to the buzzer.
They waited awhile, listening for the slightest rustle, and then suddenly
there was a great clatter of locks and chains, and then Mrs. Amos opened
her door.
“Huh? What is it?” said the old woman, as she stuck her head through
the door. “I told you I don’t need any more wrapping paper.” She wore a
shawl with stringy black ends, and an ugly dog with a massive cataract was
wedged between her legs. It scampered and tried to get out, and the smell
of stew and starchy vegetables boiling down to mush wafted from her
kitchen. As she spoke, she looked down meanly at the boy, but on “paper,” surrendered her gaze to a quick succession of coughs that resounded
through the hall. The last hack dislodged an audible, gooey phlegm, and
when the coughing ceased, both the boy and Mrs. Amos swallowed hard.
“Oh I’m sorry Mrs. Amos,” cried Eva. “We meant to ring Ms. Randolph!”
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Mrs. Amos slammed the door as hard as her rubbery arms could manage,
and Eva made a silly face to try and comfort her tiny companion. But he
was frozen in place and completely upset. The encounter had transformed
whatever earnestness he still retained into a watery glumness, and when
a voice from behind them said “Oh hello there, Alec!” the boy spun on
his heels and spilled his bag all over the floor. Everyone bent over to help
him clean up, and Sarah said, “Whoopsy there. Look at all the stuff you
brought over. Jeremy’s in his room, you can go on in and say hello. He’s
been asking about you since he woke me up at six.”
When everything was picked up, Alec walked into the back of the apartment, leaving Sarah and Eva at the door. Eva wished she had brushed her
teeth, and Sarah said, “Thanks for bringing him over. His mom wants him
to learn about work, so I guess I’m paying him to have a playdate with my
son. Maybe I’ll make him wash the tub or something.”
“I’m sure he’d a do good job of it,” said Eva. “When he thought I was you,
he made a very strong first impression.”
“I think I’ll give him a second to catch his breath. When Jeremy plays in
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the hall, she rattles her door at him. It makes him cry.”
Un día de agosto
Olaya Barr
“It’s the dog that gets me.”
Sarah considered this. “I kind of like that dog. Sometime I hear her taking
him out for a walk, and I go in the hall and give him a treat.”
“Its eye looks like death,” said Eva.
“I look death in the eye, and then I give it a treat.” ❉
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Joaquín nos sacó la foto, recuerdo. Siempre estaba con su Pentax y esa
tarde no la dejó un segundo. Evidentemente, nunca estábamos todos preparados. Yo, capturada en el acto limpiando con mi dedo alguna miga de
bocadillo de mi barbilla para estar lista para la foto; efectivamente un intento en vano.
Fue un día de agosto seguramente… del 1973, 74. ¿En qué playa? Solo
podía ser Abrela. La playa notoria por esas malditas hierbas salvajes; los
pinchitos como enanos cangrejos garrapatas se pegaron a nuestros trajes
de baño, vestidos, y vaqueros (de vuelta en casa tardaba unos veinte minutos en sacarme todas esas puntiagudas estrellitas de mi ropa). De todas
formas, era una de mis playas favoritas: la sombra de esos eucaliptos en
las dunas nos ofrecieron una sombra deliciosa durante el día y un refugio
amoroso y misterioso durante la noche. Contenía un paisaje dramático y
precioso, y aunque no era ese paraíso típico de agua cristalina y palmeras
(de hecho, me resulta difícil acordarme de las aguas de Abrela no plagadas
con algas viscosas, lechugas marrón-verdes flotando en la espuma…), nos
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Bueno, como decía, íbamos toda la pandilla en bicicleta a La Abrela a pasar
los sábados. Llevamos las toallas, merienda, cinco o seis botellas de vino
barato, latas abundantes de cerveza Estrella Galicia, y las dos guitarras.
Como ley general, la merienda siempre sabe mejor en la playa, escuchando
el crujir de las olas, las carcajadas de amigos. Queso Manchego con largas
lonchas de jamón salado, chorizo grasiento con ese sabor a ajo quemado,
y el clásico bocadillo de Nocilla y nada más (…sigo pensando que hay
poco mejor en este mundo que crema de chocolate y avellana en un grueso
trozo de pan crujiente).
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Después de los bocadillos, la fruta robada de la huerta de Ofelia. Camino a la playa, mis hermanos Bernardo (¿le reconoces con barba?) y Juan
(probablemente seduciendo a alguna chica por allí; típico rompecorazones
que era) se paraban frente al muro de piedras que rodeaba el terreno de la
campesina y saltaban al otro lado. Volvían meros minutos después, gritando entre risas “¡Corre! ¡¡¡Correeeee!!!”. Subiríamos a las bicis a toda
velocidad huyendo de la loca Ofelia y sus perros pastores. La imagen repentina de la coja Ofelia con su pelo de algodón de azúcar, corriendo detrás de nosotros clavando un palo hacia el cielo, mientras nos condenaba
al infierno, nunca cesó de divertirnos. Oímos su estridente voz como un
eco en la distancia hasta llegar a la playa cuando mis hermanos abrirían
sus mochilas y nos mostrarían sus ganancias: peras amarillas y ciruelitas
brillantes. El almíbar de una ciruela color oro bajando por mi barbilla;
dulzura inolvidable.
Después de la merienda nos tirábamos al mar. ¿Esperar media hora para la
digestión? ¡Sí, y una mierda! respondería Juan con su voz ronca, su voz de
joven fumador, de juguetón. Nos metíamos al mar casi inmediatamente,
salpicando a los tímidos en la orilla. Sabes que sigo amando el mar, pero
fue en esos veranos que descubrí de verdad lo sensual y lo mágico que es
flotar sobre metros de agua: la paz y el bamboleo de las olas fortificaron
mi sentimiento de libertad. A veces veíamos delfines; quizás una vez al
verano una docena entraban a la ría y veíamos como saltaban y salpicaban.
Suena un poco cursi, pero nos gustaba pensar que la pandilla de delfines
era como nosotros: un poco perdidos, pero sin ninguna preocupación.
Al llegar el anochecer, empezábamos a armar el fuego. Cuando la hoguera
ya estaba reluciente, Laína (con sus favoritos pantalones blancos, me recordaba a alguna chica de una peli de Godard) y yo tocábamos canciones
de Mercedes Sosa, de The Band, y temas populares franceses esos años. Lo
que quedaba del vino se juntaba con lo que quedaba de la fruta y bebíamos
nuestra sangría casera mientras cantábamos. Lentamente aparecían las estrellas y el sonido de los grillos; y cuando el fuego ya se había reducido a
un susurro, era hora de irse. ❉
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encantaba igual. La reclamamos como nuestra playa y era nuestro lugar
de escape, juventud, y risas. Nos guardaba muchos recuerdos de primeros
amores, primeras borracheras y primeras discusiones filosóficas, políticas.
Mi tía Frankie vive encima de una colina en una casa de ladrillos marrones. El jardín de enfrente está lleno de maleza y de los escombros dejados
por sus mascotas y nietos; jaulas aherrumbradas, juguetes perdidos, una
pequeña piscina de plástico verde, seca y rota. En el porche hay más jaulas
donde viven dos loros viejos que repiten sus propios nombres y dos conejos silenciosos. Todo huele a animales, a cigarrillos y, en el verano, al calor.
Adentro existe el mismo desorden apenas escondido por las sombras. En
el suelo corren los perros que no quieren estar afuera y el gato que se
asusta de todo.
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La casa de Frankie es la única que conozco con ceniceros –en el porche,
en la cocina, en el salón. Es la única de sus hermanas que fuma y la única
que todavía vive en el campo. Mis abuelos construyeron su casa al lado
de la “casa vieja” donde todas crecieron. Se incendió en los años sesenta
y ahora mi tía usa el rectángulo de concreto que queda para estacionar su
camión. Las otras hermanas –mi madre incluso– viven lejos. Por eso me
gusta mirar las fotos colgadas en la casa de mis abuelos que las muestran
a todas juntas, con los mismos ojos y la misma boca sonriendo en blanco
y negro. Documentan sus similitudes, confirmando que sí son parientes a
pesar de todo lo que parece separarlas.
Mi tía Frankie es la única de sus hermanas que usa una peluca. Varias pelucas, en realidad, así que cada vez que la veo su pelo está diferente. No
es porque se esté quedando calva sino porque, según ella, es más fácil y
porque nunca le ha gustado arreglarse el pelo. Esto, cuando yo era chico,
no me parecía raro. Tampoco cuando por un tiempo tenía como mascota
un cerdo vietnamita que sacaba a pasear en auto. Me gustaba esta imagen
de ella: manejando con su cerdo en el asiento de pasajero por las carreteras bordeadas de pinos, fumando. Cada vez que visitábamos había algo
nuevo sobre ella que me interesaba. Finalmente el cerdo desapareció y mi
tía empezó a coleccionar plumas. Mi hermana y yo las buscábamos con
ella en el bosque. Luego mi tía se juntó a una tribu de indios originarios
de Mississippi. No sabíamos cómo pero no nos importaba. Durante este
período, cuando caminábamos con ella en el campo, miraba hacia el sol
y decía, “¡Buen día, mundo!” Dijo que en nuestra familia había sangre
Choctaw que se manifestaba en ella más que en nadie. Según mi abuela,
cuando mi tía Frankie estaba en la escuela primaria, se peleó con una amiga con el apellido “Salisbury” que dijo que su bisabuela fue una princesa
inglesa, un intento a establecer su autoridad entre las chicas de orígenes
más modestos. Frankie respondió que su bisabuela fue una princesa india,
y la riña terminó con las dos dudando la legitimidad del linaje de la otra.
La primera pelea que puedo recordar entre mi tía y mi madre fue sobre
tortugas. Eran dos que encontramos con mi tía en el bosque y que habíamos llevado a la casa de mis abuelos donde mi hermana y yo siempre dormíamos cuando estábamos de visita. Desde entonces las tortugas habían
estado viviendo en una caja de cartón en la cocina que forramos con hojas
del diario local. Después de unos días, mi madre ya no podía soportar el
olor y nos dijo que teníamos que soltar las tortugas en el bosque porque
ahí serían más felices y porque no era una buena idea traer animales salvajes a la casa. Mi tía se sintió ofendida personalmente por parte de las
tortugas y cuando vino a la casa de mis abuelos para llevarlas, mi madre y
ella no cruzaron palabra pero tenían la caras rojas, lo que me señaló que
ya se habían peleado por teléfono. Ahora conozco mucho mejor cómo
las hermanas se pelean. Comparten una forma de hablar y cuando se hablan parece una sola voz resonando. En sus argumentos los mismos temas
siempre reaparecen: que Frankie vive sola en el campo cuidando a mis
abuelos, que las otras hermanas discuten y deciden todo sin consultarle, y
que ella, la hermana mayor, siempre tenía que sacrificarse más que nadie.
Luego, mi hermana y yo fuimos a la casa de mi tía donde estaban las tortugas en su caja de cartón para verlas por última vez. Antes de soltarlas, para
poder reconocerlas en el futuro, mi tía tuvo la idea de escribir la primera
inicial de sus nombres sobre sus caparazones usando un esmalte de uñas
rosa. Ya no me acuerdo cómo se llamaban, pero sé que una tuvo un “T”
sobre la espalda y la otra un “N.” Esta tarde las dejamos en el bosque y no
las vimos nunca más.
Pasaba mucho tiempo en el porche de mi tía porque allí ella leía cartas de
tarot. Lo hacía profesionalmente para clientes muy fieles que venían todas
las semanas para fumar y contar sus vidas. Lo hacía también para sus hermanas, gratis, para que supieran que ella podía ver cosas que ellas no veían.
Y lo hacía para mi hermana y para mí porque era como un regalo. “Les voy
a dar una lectura,” decía.
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Mi tía Frankie
William Carington
Subíamos la colina, golpeábamos la puerta y mi tía contestaba sin peluca
y con el salto de cama puesto sobre sus piyamas. La visitábamos siempre
en el verano y teníamos todos las caras coloradas por el calor. Nos sentábamos en el porche alrededor de una mesa de plástica blanca con manchas
negras de cenizas. Los loros graznaban para decirnos “¡hola!” y en los
árboles había un murmullo constante de insectos.
rizonte. Mi tía estaba sonriendo, satisfecha. No había de qué preocuparnos.
Amontonó las cartas y encendió un cigarrillo, mirando hacia el jardín de
enfrente con la misma tranquilidad del hombre de la carta. Su pelo marrón
estaba desordenado por la siesta y húmedo por el sudor. De repente uno de
los loros gritó, “Te quiero, mamá,” y ella se rió. ❉
Mi tía barajaba las cartas que tenían dibujos de hombres y mujeres llevando espadas o monedas o ramas con hojas verdes. Había cartas con el
sol y la luna y las estrellas y otras con cadáveres atravesados por puñales.
Estos me daban miedo, pero mi tía decía que a veces simbolizaban un
“nuevo comienzo.” Esperábamos hasta que nos dijera que elegir una serie
de cartas que ella leía en seguida y explicaba con un tono serio. Todo tenía
que ver con nuestras fechas de nacimiento, decía. Tenía en la mesa un libro
astrológico que miraba siempre con una sonrisa porque nos describía con
tanta exactitud que le daba gracia. El 23 de junio de 1990, cuando nací, el
sol y la luna estaban en Cáncer. Cada vez que me lo dice se emociona por
esta casualidad que me hizo muy sensible y muy leal.
Al final de todas las lecturas mi tía nos preguntaba si teníamos preguntas.
Yo siempre decía que no porque no quería revelar lo que quería. Ella me
miraba con la cara incrédula e inventaba preguntas para mí. “¿No tienes
una novia?” Siempre contestaba que no pero mi tía nunca lo creía, “Seguro
que estás pensando en alguien.” Yo respondía mascullando algo como “No
sé...” o “No mucho...” mientras mi tía miraba las cartas buscando la información que no quería divulgar. Terminaba por decir, “Bueno, hay alguien
que está pensando en ti.” Esto me daba vergüenza. “Vas a ver,” decía.
Cuando tenía dieciocho años, era mi última visita a la familia de mi madre
antes de que empezara en la universidad. Mi tía anticipó mi reticencia y sugirió una pregunta: “¿Cómo va pasar el semestre que viene?” Asentí con la
cabeza y saqué unas cartas de la baraja. Las puse en una línea sobre la mesa.
No estaba satisfecha, y me pidió otra. La tomó con las otras y hizo una formación de H. “Sí,” dijo, sus ojos vacilando entre las cartas y el libro, “es lo
que pensé.” Indicó con el dedo la imagen del cadáver penetrado por cinco
espadas, “Un nuevo comienzo.” Sobre una otra, que mostró una mujer llorando, dijo, “El sufrimiento. Pero no tuyo, el sufrimiento de la familia que
hace sacrificios para ti.” Y sobre la que hizo el puente entre las dos ramas de
la H, “Éxito. ¿No lo ves?” Asentí de nuevo con la cabeza. La carta tenía un
dibujo de un hombre sentado sobre una pila de ramas, mirando hacia el ho-
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Spanish Courses /
Cursos de Español
En efecto, una de las riquezas de
mostrar en secuencia estos textos
es darle materialidad a ese proceso
de aprender una lengua que es
otra. Los contactos entre el inglés
y el español, los titubeos entre
palabras y sentidos, los análisis
de los ensayos, hacen palpable y
material el hecho de que aprender
una lengua extranjera implica
siempre un diálogo de cierto tipo
con la lengua propia. Y la presencia
ineludible de este diálogo es
bienvenida porque, más resistente
a veces y más permeable otras, nos
ofrece la oportunidad para estimular
en los estudiantes la reflexión y la
comprensión sobre lo propio y lo
ajeno. En cierto modo, la lengua
propia se convierte también en
lengua extranjera y esta toma de
distancia hacia lo que se considera
habitualmente como natural (qué
más natural que la lengua materna)
es el punto de partida para abrirse
a una experiencia de aprendizaje
auténtico.
T
he essays published in this
section, texts written by students
of varying levels and courses for
their classes at NYU BA, are telling
of the process of learning Spanish as
a Foreign Language. These pieces
emerge as a possible course in the
steps towards acquiring a foreign
language, where the presence of both
languages –both the native and the
learned– is evident, while varying in
degree and nuances.
In essence, part of the richness of
displaying these texts in sequence
is that it somehow materializes the
process of learning a language that is
foreign. It is rendered tangible and
material that –through the contact
between English and Spanish,
the wavering between words and
meanings, the process of essay
analysis– that learning a foreign
language always entails some sort of
dialogue with one’s own language.
And the unavoidable presence of
this dialogue is welcome, for while
at times it is more resistant and
other times more permeable, it offers
us the opportunity to stimulate
-in the students- a reflection and
comprehension about what is
familiar and what is unknown. In
a way, one’s own language also
becomes a foreign language, and
taking this distance from what would
usually be considered natural (what
is more natural than one’s mother
tongue?) represents the starting point
for opening oneself to an experience
of authentic learning.
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L
os trabajos que se publican
en esta sección dan cuenta del
proceso de aprendizaje del español
como lengua extranjera, a través
de textos que estudiantes de cursos
de diferentes niveles escribieron
para sus clases de NYU BA. Así,
estos trabajos se proponen como
derrotero posible en los pasos de
adquisición de la lengua extranjera,
en los que se hace evidente la
presencia de ambas lenguas, la
materna y la de aprendizaje, en
distintos grados y matices.
En este sentido, la imagen que
emplea Joseph Beaudin en su trabajo
sobre el barrio de Once de la ciudad
de Buenos Aires es conceptualmente
eficaz: la realidad como a través
de un caleidoscopio. El modo en
que esas figuras se refractan, se
disgregan y vuelven a juntarse
While it is necessary, the offcentering involved in starting to
learn a foreign language – in this
case Spanish– is not simple, as the
same thing happens regarding our
culture that we carry, as naturally
as our language (it will never not
be pertinent to emphasize that to
learn a language –which is never
the simple sum of grammar rules– is
also to learn its culture, in a broad
sense, and not only as a collection
of artistic or literary manifestations
or the aggregation of preconceived
notions and objects). Indeed, moving
off-center implies accepting the
existence of other possible centers
and the consequent dissolution of
a pre-established hierarchization.
International education thus takes
precedence in providing students
with the opportunity to deeply
understand and value that what is
different is not necessarily opposite,
but simply other ways of being in
the world. This is even truer given
that the value of learning a language
while being immersed does not only
mean being in contact with real
speakers, but quite especially being
in contact with real speakers within a
real culture.
In this sense, the image used by
Joseph Beaudin in his piece on the
neighborhood of Once in the city
of Buenos Aires is conceptually
effective: reality as if seen through
a kaleidoscope. The way that these
figures refract, split up and join
together again to form others, could
very well be telling us that, just by
barely changing our point of view,
para formar otras, bien puede estar
diciéndonos que, con apenas cambiar
nuestro punto de vista, otra cosa será
perceptible: esa “mezcla de todo” que
“representa el mundo real”.
something else will be perceivable: this
“mix of everything” that “represents
the real world”.
Silvia Luppino
Language Coordinator NYU BA
Silvia Luppino
Language Coordinator NYU BA
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Si bien necesario, este
descentramiento que involucra
aprender una lengua extranjera,
español en este caso, no es simple,
ya que lo mismo ocurre en relación
con la cultura que portamos, con
tanta naturalidad como el idioma
(nunca resultará ocioso enfatizar
que aprender una lengua -que no lo
es nunca como sumatoria de reglas
de gramática- es aprender también
su cultura, entendida en un sentido
amplio, y no solo como conjunto de
manifestaciones artísticas o literarias
o agregación de conceptos y objetos
preconcebidos). Precisamente,
correrse de un centro implica
aceptar la existencia de otros centros
posibles y la consecuente disolución
de una jerarquización preestablecida.
La educación internacional
resulta prioritaria para que los
estudiantes tengan la oportunidad
de comprender y valorar en
profundidad que lo diferente no es
necesariamente lo opuesto sino otras
formas de ser y estar en el mundo,
tanto más porque la riqueza de
aprender una lengua en situación de
inmersión no consiste únicamente
en estar en contacto con hablantes
reales, sino muy especialmente en
estar en contacto con hablantes
reales dentro de una cultura real.
Rebecca Mondshein
Mi familia porteña
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El apellido de mi familia de Buenos Aires es Serra. El padre se llama Juan
Carlos y la madre se llama Raquel. Los dos son amables. Viven en una
casa linda en Recoleta. Ellos tienen tres hijas, pero solo una queda en casa.
Las dos mayores tienen esposos e hijos. Algunas veces los nietos visitan
nuestra casa. El nieto mayor tiene una bici pero toda la familia la llama una
“moto”. ¡Qué mono! Juan Carlos es profesor de psicología y tiene opiniones sobre muchos temas. Raquel es muy cariñosa y siempre me sirve más
comida de la que puedo comer. Juan Carlos es muy bromista. El otro día
estábamos hablando sobre el bife de lomo, una carne típica de Argentina.
Le dije que era mi carne favorita porque “no tengo huesos y no tengo
grasa”. Él sonrió por mi error de español y me pellizcó la panza. Me dijo,
“¿No tienes huesos o mucha grasa?” Tan pronto como me di cuenta del
error, nos reímos juntos.
Generalmente nosotros cenamos juntos. Siempre intento volver a mi casa
a las nueve de la noche para que ellos hablen sobre sus días. Me importa
que ellos me vean como una parte de su familia. Hay algunas similitudes
entre los Serra y mi familia de los Estados Unidos, pero no hay ninguna
familia que sea igual a la mía. Aquí tienen una chica para limpiar la casa y
preparar la comida. En los Estados Unidos, ¡yo era la chica que limpiaba!
A mi padre le encanta cocinar. Tan pronto como yo vuelva a los Estados
Unidos, él me prometió que iba a cocinar todas mis comidas favoritas.
Comeré hasta que mi estómago esté repleto de comida.
Mi padre es también bromista, como Juan Carlos. Extraño a mis padres
pero no voy a verlos hasta que termine esta aventura. Busco una vida que
sea rara, emocionante, y llena de personas y lugares. Los Serra son algunas
de estas nuevas personas. Estoy alegre de vivir con ellos como una parte
de su familia. Dudo que encuentre una familia como esta en otro lugar. ❉
Razia Sahi
Mi familia porteña
Vivo con una familia porteña en un apartamento en el barrio de Recoleta.
Recoleta es un barrio muy lindo y más limpio que otros barrios. Vivir en
Recoleta es más caro que vivir en otros barrios. Me gusta vivir allí porque
hay muchos buenos lugares para comer y está muy cerca de la Universidad. Además, todos mis amigos viven en Recoleta cerca de mí. Vivo con
una mujer sola que se llama María. Su familia visita el apartamento con
frecuencia. María es muy amable y divertida. Charlamos mucho. No cenamos juntas todas las noches pero me gusta eso. Puedo comer en cualquier
momento del día. Usualmente me despierto temprano y desayuno antes
de clase. Siempre nos saludamos por la mañana mientras nos preparamos
para el día. En la noche, hablamos sobre el día pero como en mi habitación. Todos los lunes su familia la visita y todos comemos juntos. Me
gusta jugar con el nieto de María cuando nos visita. Es un bebé muy lindo.
Cenamos una gran comida con postre los lunes, pero en verdad la comida es muy rica todos los días. La criada se llama Olga y es una cocinera
impresionante. No conozco a nadie que prepare empanadas como ella.
A veces tomo mate con Olga cuando ella trabaja en la cocina. Me siento
muy cómoda con esta familia. Al principio fue difícil comunicarme con la
familia pero María habla inglés y me ayudó mucho con mi español. Ahora
es más fácil y puedo hablar con toda su familia. Eso es una ventaja de vivir
con una familia porteña. Es bueno para practicar español y también para
aprender costumbres de Argentina. Los porteños son muy cariñosos y
me gusta mucho tener una familia en un país donde no conozco a muchas
personas. Recomiendo que los estudiantes vivan con familias porteñas en
vez de vivir en residencias. Extrañaré a mi familia porteña cuando vuelva
a los Estados Unidos. ❉
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Intensive Spanish for Advanced Beginners
Kerra Vick
A Poseidón, el Rey del Mar
De Ankara, la Princesa del Mar
Consigna de escritura: Insertar en una carta el siguiente fragmento.
“Si hubieras pensado mejor cómo reaccionar, no hubiéramos enfrentado
esta situación. Nadie puede soportarlo todo, pero a veces hay que ceder a
tiempo para evitar males mayores. Miro el mar que nos acompañó tanto
tiempo y no puedo sino sentir que perdimos una oportunidad.”
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Querido Papá,
Te estoy escribiendo esta carta para decirte que voy a casarme mañana con
Roberto Reates, el capitán del barco que trataste de destruir hace dos meses. La boda va a ser en el puerto, cerca del mar. Sé que tú estás muy enojado conmigo porque no voy a casarme con el Príncipe del Océano Pacífico,
y voy a vivir en la tierra, pero amo a Roberto y nosotros somos felices.
La familia de Roberto piensa que yo soy una mujer de España. Piensan
que no tengo una familia porque nunca he hablado sobre mis hermanos
ni sobre ti. Las personas del pueblo piensan que Poseidón y las sirenas
son personajes de los cuentos de marineros. No quiero contar la verdad
porque no van a creerme. Pero te voy a contar la historia.
Hace dos meses había un barco que trató de cruzar el mar, pero hiciste una
tormenta horrible. Roberto, el capitán y mi amor, se cayó en las olas del
mar e iba a ahogarse, pero yo lo rescaté. Lo llevé a la playa, e iba a irme,
pero él me preguntó por mi nombre y me invitó a su casa en el pueblo
cerca del mar. En realidad, caí en el amor a primera vista. No tenía piernas
para caminar sobre la tierra, pero le prometí verlo otra vez.
¿Recuerdas que yo te pedí piernas? Quería piernas por solo una semana
para visitar a Roberto. Pero te negaste y trataste de obligarme a casarme
con el Príncipe del Océano Pacífico. Me dijiste “no” porque tenías miedo de los humanos. Los humanos mataron a mi madre cuando era niña,
para que tengas motivos para odiarlos. Haces tormentas porque ya estás
enojado con los humanos, pero hay personas que no son malas. Roberto
y su tripulación son amables. Aman el mar y las criaturas que viven allí.
Si me hubieras concedido piernas durante una semana, no habría visitado
a la bruja. Ella no tenía tanto poder como tú. La bruja me decía que ella
no podía transformarme en humana por poco tiempo. Debía vivir toda
mi vida como humana. Si hubieras pensado mejor cómo reaccionar, no
hubiéramos enfrentado esta situación. Nadie puede soportarlo todo, pero
a veces hay que ceder a tiempo para evitar males mayores. Miro el mar
que nos acompañó tanto tiempo y no puedo sino sentir que perdimos una
oportunidad. Perdimos una oportunidad de perdonar y vivir juntos con
los humanos en paz. Si no me hubieras negado, no habría buscado a la
bruja y no habría usado magia negra. Pero estaba enamorada y quería ver
a mi Roberto. Ahora voy a casarme con él y voy a vivir mi vida fuera del
mar y fuera de mi familia. Pero es mejor vivir con Roberto en la tierra que
vivir con el Príncipe en el océano.
Por favor, Papá, ven a la boda. Te extraño.
Tu hija con amor,
Ankara.❉
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Intermediate Spanish II
Joseph Beaudin
Salida a Once
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Caminamos por Once. Veo barahúnda, todo tipo de personas, todo tipo
de tiendas, todos los colores. Es como si estuviera viendo por un caleidoscopio. Acá parece haber de todo. Y, quizás, haya de todo. No puedo
saberlo, ésta es mi primera vez en estas calles. En uno de los barrios más
dinámicos, más intrincados de la ciudad, el turista no puede hacer más que
ver y quedarse abrumado.
Nuestro paseo por Once me animó a contrastar el barrio con mi ciudad
en los Estados Unidos. Hay tantos estímulos diferentes allá en Once que
me forzaron a pararme e imaginar cómo es mi ciudad ahora. Soy de Evergreen, en el estado de Colorado – un lugar montañoso y apartado, sin
mucha gente, sin muchos coches, sin mucha diversidad, y, en realidad, sin
problemas. Evergreen es el campo y el ritmo de vida allá es lento, casi
inmóvil. Básicamente, solo se va a Evergreen si se quiere esquiar y relajarse. Once es lo opuesto. Evergreen y Once existen en dos paradigmas
diferentes –urbanismo y vida rural, prisa y lentitud. Este contraste me fascinó. Para mí, Once representa el mundo real –una mezcla de todo, una
metrópoli. Hoy en día, para mucha gente del mundo, para la mayoría en
muchos sitios, ‘Once’ es la única realidad. Hoy en día, la urbanización
densa es la tendencia. Entonces, cuando vi Once, y cuando veo algún sitio
de urbanización fuerte, recuerdo por qué he venido a estudiar en la ciudad:
porque es necesario. Creo que si quieres saber algo del mundo, tienes que
pasar tiempo en las ciudades. Y por esto, tal vez Once sea uno de los mejores ejemplos –un lugar de inmigración histórica e integración extrema, un
lugar que ilustra la esencia de un centro urbano. Creo que uno solo puede
confundirse si trata de poner este sitio en palabras. ❉
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Topics in Latin American Literature
and Culture: Argentina Today
Courtney Bush
La película biográfica como ilustración de la política de un país
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Durante este semestre, hemos estudiado varias películas biográficas sobre personajes políticos de los países latinoamericanos para abarcar una
comprensión compleja de la historia política de la región. Estas películas
nos proveen de un modo de acercarnos al personaje como un individuo
y también de situar a las figuras históricas en un contexto visual. Pero,
como todos los medios educativos, el estudio de las películas biográficas
sobre héroes nacionales en América Latina para abordar la historia política
de un país o una región, y no la historia específica de un individuo, tiene
algunas ventajas y desventajas. A través de la comparación de dos ejemplos de tratamientos muy distintos de biografías cinemáticas (Cocalero, un
documental sobre Evo Morales y su campaña presidencial en Bolivia, y
Lula, una representación cinematográfica tradicional de la vida de Lula da
Silva, el presidente de Brasil) en este ensayo trataré de explicar cómo, y en
qué extensión, la película centrada en un personaje político puede lograr
representar una idea de la política detrás de la historia personal, y también
en qué maneras puede fracasar.
Una diferencia importante entre estas dos formas de presentar la historia de la política de un país es el período temporal que las películas representan. Cocalero presenta un período de la vida de Evo Morales muy
específico y limitado –solo algunos meses. Este periodo de tiempo corto
nos permite entrar en la historia de una manera más profunda que en un
periodo de tiempo más largo. Por ejemplo, podemos acceder a la situación
política de Bolivia durante esta elección tan profundamente que podemos
ver cómo funcionan concretamente las elecciones en este país. Los espectadores se dan cuenta de los problemas específicos de los partidos políticos
en Bolivia, como que hay que tener en cuenta que una gran parte de sus
votantes no pueden leer, y cómo adaptar métodos de votación (y de educar
a la gente sobre cómo votar) a formas que satisfagan las necesidades especificas de la gente. En una película como Lula, donde no hay tiempo para
explorar estos procedimientos pequeños y tediosos, los espectadores pierden la oportunidad de tener un conocimiento detallado y más completo.
Pero podemos ver la situación desde otro ángulo también. El hecho de que
Cocalero nos presente un periodo de tiempo corto y fijo solamente nos da
una mirada localizada en una elección. Vemos los problemas del país y su
situación en la región solamente a través de la campaña de Morales. Aunque esta mirada es detallada y más completa que una mirada de un periodo
de tiempo más largo, la historia más extendida representada en Lula nos
presenta una idea general de la política en Brasil durante las décadas de
la vida de Lula. No vemos cómo son las votaciones de las elecciones en
Brasil, pero percibimos una idea del ambiente político de Brasil en general,
durante tiempos de elecciones y tiempos políticamente más tranquilos.
También el asunto de la temporalidad de la película es importante en la posibilidad de ver la situación política en relación a la formación del personaje principal. A través del tiempo, en una historia tradicional, los personajes
cambian. En Lula, una gran parte la atención descansa sobre la formación
emocional e ideológica del personaje. Seguimos a una persona durante casi
toda una vida y no podemos prestar bastante atención al fondo político
cuando estamos demasiado concentrados en estas historias individuales
(el casamiento, la educación, etc.) del personaje de Lula. Un transcurso
corto nos da un personaje principal estático, que no experimenta sobre la
pantalla experiencias muy personales. En el caso de Cocalero no vemos
una iluminación y un transformación de un hombre a un héroe. Vemos
a nuestro protagonista como una figura fija, algo que nos permite verlo
principalmente en su contexto político, como parte de un movimiento más
grande en Bolivia. Y como en este ensayo consideramos estas dos películas en el contexto de sus capacidades de educar sobre temas políticos,
es importante reconocer la ventaja de minimizar la historia personal para
iluminar una historia compartida.
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Myths, Icons, and Invented Traditions: A Cultural
History of Latin America
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Finalmente, como la política de una región o país es algo cercano a la realidad, los procedimientos considerados “cinematográficos”, o los que usan
los cineastas para crear la realidad de una película, que es una realidad con
un sistema de lógica diferente al del mundo real, desmerecen la experiencia
de aprender sobre la situación política representada en la película. Lo que
quiero decir es que los hechos políticos se pierden en los efectos del cine
en las películas tradicionales como Lula. Una ventaja de Cocalero, gracias
al hecho de que es un documental y algo actuado por actores, es que estamos muy fijados a la realidad. No hay una sobre-dramatización ni un
sentimentalismo de una película tradicional y esto nos hace pensar en las
imágenes en la pantalla como hechos políticos de la realidad.
Para concluir, podemos ver que las películas biográficas sobre figuras políticas pueden ser eficaces en el objetivo de abordar la historia política de un país
o una región, pero que no hay una forma de realizarlo perfectamente, porque
siempre hay una tensión en cómo representar al personaje en relación con
sus alrededores políticos. Por ejemplo, si se presenta como en Lula, perdemos gran parte de la intimidad y el acercamiento a la situación política de un
momento fijo y detallado, pero si se representa en la manera contraria, como
en Cocalero, también perdemos algunos elementos importantes en la representación de la historia política más general. Lo único que podemos decir
que es definitivamente una desventaja de una película sobre una figura política (con el objetivo de mostrar la historia política) es cuando los elementos
cinematográficos, como una actuación sobre-dramática y una banda sonora
sentimental, predominan y la impresión de la realidad de la política se pierde.
Dos medios de la ilustración del imperialismo norteamericano
Un elemento integral en el estudio de la política latinoamericana hoy en
día es el problema del imperialismo norteamericano. Es casi imposible
hablar del programa político de una figura del gobierno latinoamericano
sin hablar de su posición sobre la influencia de los Estados Unidos en su
propio país. Se ha abordado esta idea a través de dos documentos críticos
sobre el tema del imperialismo norteamericano en la historia (y la situación actual) de América Latina: el documental de Oliver Stone, South of
the Border, que se trata de las figuras políticas principales del continente
y sus ideologías, y también algunos pasajes del libro de Eduardo Galeano,
Las venas abiertas de América Latina, una representación de las injusticias
en América Latina desde su colonización hasta hoy.
Los dos ofrecen miradas fuertemente contrarias a la influencia de Norteamérica en América Latina, pero estas miradas son diferentes en sus perspectivas y en los aspectos del imperialismo norteamericano que ataca como
enemigo de la prosperidad de América Latina. El imperialismo ofensivo en
Las venas abiertas de América Latina es el imperialismo norteamericano
de las empresas internacionales y el control exterior de la industria. El
imperialismo más atacado en South of the Border es el imperialismo moderno y específico de nuestra época de los medios, y la influencia capital
de los medios norteamericanos en la percepción y el funcionamiento de la
política (y los políticos) de América Latina. Las dos obras críticas tienen
eficacia en el objetivo de criticar el fenómeno y el peligro del imperialismo,
pero también hay en ambos casos puntos de debilidad en la presentación
de sus mensajes.
Un factor común que comparten estas dos obras (aparte del hecho de que
las dos tienen como propósito principal advertir sobre el peligro del imperialismo en América Latina) es que al mismo tiempo de ser informativas,
ellas tratan también de ser entretenidas y también son declaradamente subjetivas. Ninguna de las dos finge ser objetiva, como un texto o documento
académico. Para mí, esto representa una de las fortalezas que tienen estos
dos documentos como crítica. En los dos casos, la audiencia ve claramente
que los “autores” (Oliver Stone y Eduardo Galeano) quieren presentar la
historia desde solo un lado para demostrar su lealtad a su argumento, un
elemento apasionado que falta en los textos académicos e imparciales. El
estilo emotivo agrega un elemento humano a la información. Cuando podemos ver que alguien (en este caso el autor o el director) tiene un punto
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Sin embargo, podemos reconocer cómo este foco en un tiempo muy fijo
en la vida de Evo Morales puede ser desventajoso en el proceso de educar
sobre la política de un país porque solamente vemos al protagonista en el
contexto político y no cómo las políticas lo habían afectado durante su
vida, cuando representaba a otros sectores demográficos de la población,
como los niños, los que viven en los barrios pobres, los trabajadores jóvenes, etc. En Lula, tenemos la oportunidad de ver cómo la esfera política
afecta a la gente de Brasil en una manera personal porque vemos al personaje principal, nuestro héroe, en varias posiciones de la sociedad antes de
llegar a su futura posición política. La cercanía al protagonista en películas
que siguen a alguien durante toda una vida nos acerca a los mundos distintos que el protagonista habita durante momentos específicos de su vida, y
por eso los espectadores obtenemos un entendimiento privilegiado de las
distintas esferas de la población bajo las políticas del gobierno.
Pero las dos obras también tienen sus debilidades que desmerecen la fortaleza de su argumento. En el caso de South of the Border, Oliver Stone
no abre la escena representada en la película a la gente latinoamericana.
El documental se enfoca solamente en los líderes latinoamericanos desde
el punto de vista de estos líderes sobre sí mismos. En este caso particular, podemos considerar que esta parcialidad emocional (que presentan los
políticos) tiene motivos políticos para sus campañas. No tenemos una visión de estos gobernadores excepto la que ellos mismos presentan en las
entrevistas con Stone, esto quiere decir en la película que gran parte del
destino de América Latina depende de su situación en los medios norteamericanos. Deben ser incluidos los personajes también importantes en la
historia, los del pueblo.
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Un debilidad de Las venas abiertas de América Latina es que Galeano, a
veces, usa demasiado libremente sus capacidades literarias para crear metáforas y ejemplos muy exagerados que impiden a los lectores comprender
lo que presenta en su obra como parte del mundo real y no del mundo literario. Por ejemplo, él dice sobre la corrupción incluida en la ayuda
extranjera que los Estados Unidos da a América Latina, “‘Aid’ funciona
como un filántropo que tiene que dar una pierna de madera a su cochinillo
porque la come poco a poco.” En este caso, la metáfora literaria nos lleva
a una imagen que no tiene nada que ver con el tema de esta metáfora, la
ayuda extranjera.
Si bien existe la idea de que el contenido y la forma de un documento o
un mensaje están vinculados inextricablemente, necesitamos también examinar las formas diferentes de estas dos obras críticas y las desventajas
y ventajas de ellas con el propósito de trasmitir una representación del
peligro de imperialismo. En este caso, tenemos que examinar las formas de
un documental y un libro de análisis apasionado. En principio, podemos
pensar en las ventajas de la forma cinematográfica para informar a su público sobre un tema. La forma de la película tiene la posibilidad única de
presentar visualmente su tema, algo que hace más comprensible porque el
acto físico de ver algo nos hace asociarlo con nuestro mundo real. La representación visual de una idea la hace más concreta que la representación
escrita que puede solamente existir en nuestra imaginación, aunque sea sobre algo de la realidad o la actualidad. Y en el caso de un documental, esta
conexión entre lo que vemos y la realidad es otra vez más relacional para
los espectadores porque vemos imágenes verdaderas que son visiblemente
parte de nuestra realidad. Por ejemplo, South of the Border empieza con
varios fragmentos reales de los medios norteamericanos que representan
la realidad radical de algunos de los medios estadounidenses y cómo los
líderes que vemos en el resto del documental están representados verdaderamente en los medios. También, la presentación visual de los medios que
hicieron posible la coup en Venezuela es mucho más fuerte porque podemos ver, a través de fragmentos reales de actualidades norteamericanas, las
etapas de la influencia imperialista en este evento histórico en vez de leer
esta historia como si fuera la creación de un escritor. Tenemos la tendencia
a creer lo que vemos, y para ser una obra crítica eficaz, es necesario que el
público tenga mucha confianza de que lo que presenta la obra es la verdad.
Pero la forma de libro analítico posee también sus ventajas: como obra
crítica eficaz, los libros presentan la información en una manera menos
espectacular que las películas. Distinta de la experiencia de ver imágenes
visuales como pruebas y evidencias que apoyan un mensaje critico, la experiencia de leer información factual da al lector la libertad de entender
los hechos y los procedimientos retóricos en una manera más personal
e individual que cuando los hechos son presentados en una manera visualmente concreta. Este acto de leer nos permite leer la información en
nuestro propio estilo y crear un entendimiento del documento personal,
y en efecto, una relación y opinión individual con el asunto presentado (el
imperialismo en este caso). La forma de libro también tiene la ventaja de
la posibilidad de situaciones hipotéticas o metafóricas que no pueden ser
capturadas fácilmente sobre una pantalla. En un libro, un autor puede evocar fácilmente cualquier imagen que sea necesaria para demostrar un punto, por ejemplo la imagen de millones y millones de personas, poblaciones
completas de un país. En el caso de Las venas abiertas de América Latina,
esto hace posible la evocación de la imagen de todo el continente lleno de
personas-víctimas, y cada lector tiene la posibilidad de ver esta imagen en
su propia manera, en la manera en que la imagen tenga mayor fuerza.
Finalmente, estos dos documentos críticos tienen propósitos levemente
diferentes. La obra de Galeano ataca el problema de imperialismo norteamericano en una manera mucho más detallada y total que la película de
Oliver Stone, que está concentrada principalmente en un tipo muy especifico de imperialismo que no existía en la misma manera durante la época
de Galeano –el imperialismo de los medios. Entonces sería difícil declarar
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de vista muy fuerte, sentimos que el asunto es algo que merece una repuesta emocional e inmediata que no existe solamente en la esfera intelectual.
que uno de los dos es más eficaz en su propósito, porque cada uno es muy
eficaz en su propio propósito. Pero a través de una comparación más general y teorética sobre la eficacia de una forma de obra crítica, una obra
escrita parece más eficaz que un documental porque tiene la posibilidad de
trasmitir conceptos, ideas, y situaciones hipotéticas y metafóricas que son
importantes en el desarrollo de un argumento formulado para criticar a
una institución en un ámbito mucho más expansivo y abstracto que lo que
podemos ver en una colección de audio y video de la realidad. ❉
Critical Approaches:
Reading, Writing and Textual Analysis
Maritza Montañez
La liviandad del terror
Obras citadas
Cocalero. Dir. Landes, Alejandro.
Argentina, Bolivia: 2007. Film
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South of the Border. Dir. Oliver Stone.
Estados Unidos: 2009. Film
Galeano, Eduardo. Las venas abiertas
de América Latina. Buenos Aires: Siglo
XXI, 2010. Print.
El cuento de Mariana Enríquez, “Cuando hablábamos con los muertos,”
tiene como contenido temas oscuros y sobrenaturales, pero a la vez no
es un cuento que dé miedo. El tono del cuento, especialmente el lenguaje
cotidiano y la voz narrativa, es liviano y divertido, en lugar de ser serio o
terrorífico. En sus entrevistas, Enríquez insiste en que la función de los
cuentos de terror no es necesariamente causar terror, sino que el género
“cura de cierta solemnidad” y da la oportunidad de tratar temas pesados
de manera diferente y más divertida (Cabezón Cámara). El cuento de Enríquez parece que no debe dar miedo, y más bien se nota que lo sobrenatural –lo que normalmente se asocia con el terror– funciona del lado del
lenguaje y la voz narrativa para darle liviandad al cuento.
El cuento se enfoca en la experiencia de la narradora y de sus amigas al
conseguir una tabla ouija para jugar el juego de la copa. La narradora explica los detalles prácticos del juego de manera organizada y en un tono
natural y calmado. Enumera las dificultades que tuvieron para encontrar
dónde jugar después de que la mamá de su amiga la Polaca las descubriera,
incluyendo razones personales y prácticas (209). Se dice: su mamá “estaba
enferma, y no quería a nadie en casa, apenas nos aguantaba a la abuela y a
mí,” en el departamento de su amiga Julia, no porque no tenía suficiente
espacio, y en el de su amiga Nadia, tampoco, porque vivía en una villa
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Lula, the son of Brazil. Dir. Barreto,
Fábio y Santiago, Marcelo. Brasil: 2009.
Film
conversación con diálogo. Hay mucha explicación de las conversaciones,
pero esas explicaciones están dadas totalmente desde el punto de vista de la
narradora. La narradora dice que Julita quería contactar a sus papás desaparecidos, dice que las jóvenes decidieron buscar información sobre gente vinculada a ellas que también eran desaparecidos, y cuenta que las conversaciones con los muertos durante el juego de la copa no les daban los resultados
que querían porque, según uno de los muertos, una de las jóvenes molestaba
a los muertos por razones desconocidas. El lector no lee estas conversaciones -tiene que confiar en que la narradora esté explicando todo bien.
Lo otro que ayuda a crear un tono natural es el lenguaje de la narradora
a lo largo de todo el cuento. La narradora usa lenguaje coloquial o un
lenguaje de conversación para hablar de sus experiencias. Los momentos
en que este lenguaje cotidiano es más evidente incluyen un lenguaje muy
informal, maldiciones, o insultos. Por ejemplo, al principio del cuento, la
narradora dice que “Mara, la hermana de la Polaca, le tenía miedo a los
fantasmas y a los espíritus, le tenía miedo a todo, bah, era una pendeja
estúpida” (207). El uso del “bah” da la impresión de que la narradora está
en el medio de una conversación informal, y esta impresión se hace más
fuerte al ver que la narradora dice que Mara era “una pendeja estúpida”.
La única conversación que sí se reproduce es la conversación más enigmática, la que las jóvenes creen que ocurre entre la Pinocha y Leo, su hermano.
Al leer esa conversación, inicialmente parece ser la conversación más cotidiana de todas las que ocurrieron hasta entonces. Aunque las jóvenes se
sorprenden al ver que Leo visita la casa de sus padres, lo reconocen y les da
vergüenza que las vea con el juego de la copa (218). La conversación parece
muy natural, y termina con Leo pidiendo ayuda a la Pinocha con algunas
cosas que trajo en su camioneta. En cuanto se termina el diálogo, lo que
ocurre en el cuento pasa rápidamente. Cuando las jóvenes se preocupan
porque la Pinocha tarda mucho en regresar al juego, el juego de la copa de
repente se mueve solo y las jóvenes oyen a la Pinocha gritar desde la calle.
El lenguaje cotidiano parece aún más importante porque Enríquez, la autora, ha dicho que le interesa el uso de este lenguaje. En una entrevista,
habla de su interés en el habla conurbana y dice:
No hago una investigación; más bien, es una cuestión de oído. En mis novelas,
que son realistas y bien “fronterizas”, me interesa trabajar con los bordes del lenguaje. Con formas de hablar despreciadas, supuestamente poco eficaces y líricas
para hacer algo bello. (Graziano)
Aunque aquí habla del lenguaje en sus novelas y no necesariamente en sus
cuentos, el interés por la manera en que se habla es evidente en el tono de
la narradora. Además, aunque el lenguaje de la narradora a veces sea fuerte
y contenga insultos, su tono es seguro y confiado. La confianza de la narradora en el uso del lenguaje le da autoridad y hace que el lector confíe
en su cuento y no dude de ella. Eso es esencial en este relato, ya que está
explicado desde el punto de vista de la narradora.
También llama la atención que el cuento contenga muy pocos diálogos.
Aunque todo el cuento está escrito en tono conversacional, solo leemos una
Entonces es cuando se explica lo sobrenatural del cuento. La narradora
reconstruye lo que pasó: la Pinocha quedó espantada y con ataque de nervios al descubrir que no era su hermano quien la había visitado porque
en realidad él estaba en su casa, y que el ser que la había sacado afuera no
podría haber sido él, aunque todas claramente lo habían visto (219-220).
La narradora no parece contar esto para espantar o aterrorizar al lector.
Primero dice que encontraron a la Pinocha con su mamá, y luego explica
cómo pasaron las cosas, y el ordenar la explicación de esa manera hace que
el lector sepa que la Pinocha ya no está en peligro.
Lo que sí deja esa explicación es la curiosidad por saber por qué pasó lo
que pasó. Las jóvenes parecen quedar convencidas de que el ser que se
parecía a Leo vino por ella porque era la única que no conocía a ningún
desaparecido, y que eso era lo que molestaba a los muertos del juego de la
copa. La narradora dice: “Pero todas sabíamos que (...) la habían venido
a buscar porque, como nos dijo el muerto Andrés, ella molestaba. Y así
terminó la época en que hablábamos con los muertos” (221). Aunque entonces sabemos todos los datos del cuento “qué pasó y cómo decidieron
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(210). Se decidieron por la casa de su amiga la Pinocha, porque ahí tendrían espacio, aunque quedaba muy lejos. La narradora se dedica a explicar estos detalles que pueden parecer muy cotidianos, y al hacerlo les da
importancia, como en un cuento corto donde cada detalle está por alguna
razón. Al mismo tiempo, explicar el proceso de cómo se organizaron las
jóvenes le da al cuento un elemento cotidiano y hace que parezca que el
juego de la copa fuera una parte natural y normal en la vida de la narradora. Así el juego no es algo extraordinario, sino que es algo que se organiza
como cualquier quehacer o cita de las jóvenes.
explicarlo”, el lector se queda con las mismas inquietudes que la narradora. ¿Quién era el ser que se parecía tanto a Leo? (221)
Hasta cierto punto, el núcleo del cuento es el tema de los desaparecidos.
El que Julita quiera hablar con sus papás les da a las jóvenes con quién
“hablar” durante el juego de la copa, y el que la Pinocha no conozca a
ningún desaparecido es, según las jóvenes, la razón por la que viene el ser
enigmático en busca de ella. En una entrevista, Enríquez dice que dudó al
escribir sobre el tema de los desaparecidos porque no “quería [subirse] a
ninguna ‘moda’” y no quería entrar en “discusiones que circulan sobre las
formas de contar esa época” (Orosz). En realidad, aunque el cuento esté
vinculado al tema de los desaparecidos, el tema no se trata de manera extensa, y más bien parece ser algo que se usa para hacer avanzar la historia
hacia adelante. Además, el tema se hace más liviano cuando está presentado como algo relacionado con los fantasmas -en el cuento, el tema de los
desaparecidos no es lo que les da miedo a las jóvenes, sino los fantasmas, y
más específicamente el fantasma parecido a Leo.
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El cuento no parece haber sido escrito para dar miedo. Los elementos de
lo sobrenatural no dan terror porque el lector sabe que los personajes del
cuento ya no están en peligro, aunque también sabe que la Pinocha queda traumada por lo que pasó. El lenguaje cotidiano y el tono de la voz
narrativa trabajan con el terror para darle al cuento una perspectiva más
liviana a los temas de los fantasmas y los desaparecidos -temas que fueron
terroríficos en realidad. ❉
Obras citadas
Cabezón Cámara, Gabriela. “Mariana
Enríquez: El género de terror puede
curar los temores de la infancia”.
Revista Ñ. 14 Enero 2010. Web.
<http://edant.revistaenie.clarin.com/
notas/2010/01/14/_-02119761.htm>
Enríquez, Mariana. “Cuando
hablábamos con los muertos”. Los
peligros de fumar en la cama. Buenos
Aires: Emecé, 2009.
Graziano, Martín. “Suburbio gótico”.
Revista G7. 2008. Web.
<http://www.revistag7.com/la-brujula/
suburbio-gotico/>
Orosz, Demian. “Cuentos de terror
de Mariana Enríquez”. La Voz. 3
diciembre 2009. Web.
<http://vos.lavoz.com.ar/content/
cuentos-de-terror-de-marianaEnríquez-0>
Institutional /
Institucional
Spring 2011
Courses
Inter American Relations:
Latin America and the US
Martín González
Cultura, Identidad y Política
en América Latina
Axel Lazzari
New York University
Buenos Aires
Director
Introduction to Economical Issues:
Argentine Political Economy
Gabriel Sánchez
Álvaro Fernández Bravo
Music of Latin America
Language Coordinator
Juan Raffo
Silvia Luppino
Reporting Buenos Aires
Marina Artusa
María Pirovano Peña
Argentine History and Culture
José Antonio Zanca
Assistant Director of Student Life
Alejandra Lombardo
Creative Writing
Anna Kazumi Stahl
Assistant Director Administration
Robert Mumford
Cinema in Latin America
Edgardo Dieleke
Student Life Coordinator
María Florencia Bergez
Readings in Spanish American
Literature
Student Life and
Administrative Assistants
Pablo Ansolabehere
Pedro Ferdkin
Christine Paiva
Tango and Mass Culture
New York University
Buenos Aires
Anchorena 1314 / C1425ELF
Ciudad Autónoma de Buenos Aires
Argentina / (+5411) 4828 5200
Contemporary Argentine Theatre
Edgardo Dieleke
Carmen Campanario
Internship and Fieldwork Seminar
Silvia Hirsch
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Assistant Director of Academic
Affairs
Intensive Spanish for Advanced
Beginners
Florencia Garramuño
Susana Benedek
Art and Visual Culture in Latin
America
Intensive Intermediate Spanish
Marta Penhos
Beatriz Autieri
Miguel Rosetti
During Spring 2011 the Site offered the following activities:
Literaturas de la Intimidad
Intermediate Spanish II
Tamara Kamenszain
Vera Cerqueiras
•A visit to the BAFICI (Buenos Aires Festival Internacional de Cine
Independiente) organized by Prof. Edgardo Dieleke, NYU BA.
Introduction to Latin American
Studies
Advanced Grammar
and Composition
Martín Sivak
Beatriz Autieri
Service Learning
Topics in Latin American
Literature and Culture:
Argentina Today
Silvia Hirsch
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Spring 2011
Special Events
Contemporary Latin American
History
Silvia Luppino
Flavia Fiorucci
Topics: The Language
of Buenos Aires
Latin American Global Scapes
Mariano López Seoane
Martín De Santos
Global Media Seminar: Latin
America
Critical Approaches: Reading,
Writing, and Textual Analysis
Pía Bouzas
Carolina Duek
Intensive Elementary Spanish
Inda Dinerstein /
Guadalupe Molina
Myths, Icons, and Invented
Traditions: A Cultural History
of Latin America
Mariano López Seoane
•A visit to the Evita Museum. The activity was coordinated by Prof.
Flavia Fioruccci, NYU BA.
•An open lecture on Argentine theatre by Director Vivi Tellas. The
event was organized by Prof. Tamara Kamenszain, NYU BA.
•A visit to Brukman, a textile factory under the control of a worker
cooperative. Brukman is among the most famous “recovered factories”
in the country. The visit was coordinated by Prof. Silvia Luppino,
NYU BA.
As part of the general course Issues on Contemporary Argentine and
Latin American Cultures, mandatory to all students, the following
activities were held at the Site during Spring 2011:
•A conference by Dr. Michelle Roberts on the health care system in
Argentina.
•The students went to see the play “Mi vida después” by Director Lola
Arias. In this play-documentary, six actors reconstruct their parent’s
youth in 1970’s Argentina by means of letters, photos, cassettes and old
clothes.
•A talk on indigenous languages in Argentina and Latin America given
by Prof. Graciela Salto, Universidad de La Pampa.
•Visit to the Museo de la Memoria at ESMA (Escuela de Mecánica de
la Armada), a former clandestine detention center during Dictatorship
and now a Cultural Center and Archive of Human Rights.
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Comparative Latin American
Literature
•A conference by Director Martín Rejtman, NYU, on his filmmaking
experiences and projects.
In Memoriam
Dr. Martín Abel González
•A conference by Adrián Gorelik, Universidad de Quilmes, on Urban
History in a Latin American context, and a talk on Urban Archaeology
in Buenos Aires by Prof. Daniel Schavelzon, Centro de Arqueología
Urbana.
•A talk on music and censorship by Argentine Rock Musician Nito
Mestre.
August 2011 was a sad month for NYU Buenos Aires as just weeks
before the Fall students were due to arrive Professor Martín Abel
González died in a tragic accident.
As well as his work at NYU Buenos Aires Martin was head of
the Masters Programme in International Relations at Argentine
Universidad del Salvador and was a respected scholar and awardwinning professor at London School of Economics where he was
awarded his PhD in May this year.
“Martín’s tragically early departure from us is a terrible loss. I grieve the
man I met all too briefly, all too fleetingly, but who embodied the hope
and potential of someone who wanted to understand the past to make
the present better for us.” Ulrich Baer - Vice Provost for Globalization and Multicultural Affairs
”Martin was a person who always had a smile on his face, he was
positive and generated great respect and enthusiasm in his students. It is
impossible to comprehend how this young, bright, and happy man is no
longer with us when his presence is so fresh in the minds of us all here at
NYU Buenos Aires.”
Rob Mumford – Assistant Director for Administration
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Martin joined NYU Buenos Aires in August 2010 and taught the course
Inter American Relations – Latin America and the US. He was highly
regarded by staff, students, and fellow professors for his thoughtful and
positive attitude as well as his passion for and knowledge in his area of
expertise.
“Algunos bares de la Ciudad fueron testigos de largas charlas de café en
las que Martín no paraba de deslumbrarme con su calidez humana, su
profesionalismo y su gran generosidad. ¡Tenía tantos proyectos e ideas,
cada conversación con él era un acontecimiento muy especial, algo que
jamás olvidaré!”
Florencia Bergez – Student Life Coordinator
Professor González was by far one of the best teachers I have had at New
York University. He is enthusiastic and interested in the material and
presents it in an interesting way. Martín was one of the best professors I
have ever had. He was so well-informed and approachable. Classes were
organized well. I especially liked the class debates.
The material was fascinating, Martín González is brilliant, passionate,
respectful, stimulating and awesome, everything was great.
Spring 2011 NYU BA Students
Our thoughts go out to the González family who suffered a double tragedy as both Martín and his brother Ariel died in this terrible accident.
SOLOMON, Isaac Barret, 23, died Saturday, October 1st, 2011, in
New York. Isaac was a graduated from NYU in 2011, with the Highest
Distinction (History Honors Program). He was fluent in Spanish,
Portuguese and Hebrew and wrote his NYU senior honors thesis on
Funk Music entirely in Portuguese. He spent a semester at NYU BA
on Spring 2008.
We will remember him.
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New York University-Buenos Aires notes with great sadness the death
of two former NYU BA students:
NYU BA Community.
REICHBACH, Hope, a 22-year-old rising star in city politics, died
on April 28th, 2011. Hope loved politics, journalism, and community
activism, which she pursued seven days a week as a community liaison
and spokeswoman for Councilman Steve Levin. She was part of the
NYU BA Fall 2008 cohort of students.
Eryn Park
Jade Edwards
Juan Pazmino
Jessica Epstein
Corinne Porter
Michal Flejsierowicz
Rhoen Pruesse-Adams
Melody Fu
Rachael Ross
Kastania Gleissner-
Erin Rudd
Rasmussen
Barbra Rudolph
Carolyn Goettler
Eli Rumpf
Stephanie Gomez-
Razia Sahi
Perez
Jorge Sanchez
Nicholas Grassi
Kayla Sargent
Lucas Green
Yael Schonzeit
Holly Guthrie
Cara Scozzafava
Molly Harris
Elizabeth Smith
Sheldon Hayes
Emily Smith
Naomi Hernandez
Sarah Stern
Robert Johansen
Jacob Stone
Akeesh Kameka
Andrew Sullivan
Aurora Kearney
Britie Sullivan
Catherine Kellogg
Michelle Tanaka
Rachael Anagbo
Grace Kim
Sloane Taylor
Tess Andrade
Yifei Kong
Emily Thomas
Joseph Audeh
Su Kyung Kwon
Jonathan Valdez
Olaya Barr
Jordan Landsman
Kerra Vick
Joseph Beaudin
Molly Lang
Ericka Ward
Courtney Bush
Dillon Long
Nathan Waters
Julia Caine
Kerry Lynch
Michael Way
William Carington
Ryan Lynch
Katherine Weinstein
Alexa Carrasco
Aakriti Malhotra
Alexander Zeleniuch
Valerie Carroll
Malory McDonald
Alexandra Chernow
Gabriel Mendez
Samantha Cook
Strider Mervine
Cloe Daneshgar
Rebecca Mondshein
Paulina Dean
Maritza Montanez
Elisabeth
Benjamin Murray
Deogracias
Stephen Nicholas
Jonathan De Young
Julia Nitsche
Ryan Doubiago
Jane O‘Hara
Maxwell Dubin
Hannah
Angus Dunk
Oppenheimer
Spring 2011
Students
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Erica Dye
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Edition 3.2 of Colectivo NYU

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