Não há sombra qualquer que a ampare no tempo e a faça apagar as memórias incautas daquela manhã de janeiro. Ela é ela.
E ela é aquela que chora por lágrimas e loucuras irrealizáveis, por amores, violências, presenças. Sabe-se, eu sei. Nunca houve espaço para a delicadeza e a delicadeza precisa encontrar seu lugar, ou morre-se.
De horror.
Pintura: Chloe Early
Many can relate to a sense of disembodied franticness that expands across the landscape of our daily lives. We are busy people. We are plugged in to phones and computers, and constantly on the move. An elusive horizon—the purpose of our quicksilver existence—has been erased in favor of a go-to emotional state that is the result of a privatization of time. We are frantic workers even when we work against the very conditions that produce our franticness.
Inevitably, the fast pace of consumerism is accompanied by the tantalizing promise of slow time—Allen Ginsberg once complained of a heart attack en route to his weekly meditation.
Just as the arts were reinvented in the age of the camera, so too must they be in the age of accelerated time. If the internet and the touch screen represent the apparatuses of our age, then the material and the prolonged have become a niche for the discursive and formal role of the arts. Much like a spa, the arts play host to a malnourished subject eager to experience something nostalgically other. Slow time and tangible bodies become so rare experientially that their aesthetic value finds a home in the cul-de-sac of scarcity that is art.
Foto: arquivo pessoal. Espetáculo Danaides (2011) – Cia. Basirah Dança Contemporânea
A rosa branca de minha mãe já perdeu a alvura, mas ainda a mantenho dentro de um caderninho velho da época de escola. Cheiro de um ontem tão vivo quanto estranho, tempo que me absorve sem pedir licença. Estou longe do agora. Lembro dos passos, das vozes.
