All posts by viceversaonline

Imagination… A curse in disguise?

February 15, 2015 viceversaonline

15190222775_f14ef58a58_z — © copyright – click on photo for details

Ralph Chidiac

Foresight, anticipation, hope, all proceed from one basic human feature….. Imagination . It’s appearance in our human realm has very little evolutionary purpose outside conventional instinct behavior and genetic blueprinting. Undoubtedly it has created tremendous advancement in human activity, but how necessary is that notion in the grander scheme of life in general? No other life form has exhibited that requirement for its own survival and adaptation to its environment.

Humans on the other hand, have never achieved a sense of equilibrium and contentment within their own context and state of affairs since the dawn of civilization. Once propelled by imagination, the sense of equilibrium is never achieved as no situation remains unscathed.

What ever the achieved conditions, “Things“ can always be better, therefore, expectations are nudged that much further outside the containment of the actual achievement. YES, achievements have been outstanding, yet levels of contentment have not adapted accordingly.

If imagination leads to many human advancements, creativity, and discovery beyond the simple call of curiosity (it’s all about abstract thinking) it also has one erosive attribute…. Discontentment with the Status Quo, no matter what that status is.

Simply put:” One era’s utopia is the next ages redundancy”.

A La Une, Ficciones

The Ride Home

February 1, 2015 viceversaonline

Patricia Vergeylen Tassinari

She always rode the same bus because she liked the exotic smells which travelled back and forth as the doors opened and closed. She had always loved the exotic. As a child Mary had longed for something unusual, strange; she had wanted her parents to be different from the others. However, the only exotic aspect of her childhood had been a Chinese wallpaper which hung above her bed. At night, she would escape and join the kimonos in the gardens. Now at twenty she lived alone in a run-down part of the city, the furthest from home. Her parents never came to visit, they couldn’t understand this daughter who had always been so quiet, a daughter they had never known.

Mary liked to sit in the middle of the bus and on the side with the single seats. She always tried to sit alone now, ever since that man sitting beside her had whispered the word “blood” to her. She had been too afraid to look at him and everything around her became red for a few minutes. She still didn’t know, what had he meant? her blood? his? the world’s? She was always afraid now of other words whispered to her between one bus stop and another. Tonight she stood and began to play her usual game. She would chose a passenger, it had to be someone from a distant country, close her eyes and imagine him back home. She would undress and dress him, make him smile and leave him in a significant setting. She hadn’t travelled yet so she would always place the Greeks on the Acropolis and the Italians at the Colosseum. Her eyes were still closed when she felt someone tugging at her sleeve.

“Signorina, signorina, look“.

An old couple were handing her a yellowish photograph of a little girl sitting on some steps. The woman kept on pointing to Mary’s hair, her eyes, her worn out fingers would run from the photograph to Mary’s face. Mary thought she recognized herself, once she too had that smile. The woman wrapped her arms around her and lead her off the bus. The old man followed with bags.

Mary walked along with them on streets which were becoming less familiar. The sky too had never seemed this bright. She followed them into an apartment full of colour. The walls were ocher. Gold and silver angels with the little girl’s face were strung over the furniture and across the windows. Mary was delicately led into a bedroom, she was handed a large white starched night gown. Blinds came rolling down and white sheets stood almost upright as the old woman prepared her bed. Mary was soon tucked in and the old woman stroked Mary’s hair until she fell asleep. That night she dreamt of churches, piazzas and angels. The next morning she woke to the sound of shuffling feet and the smell of coffee. As she entered the kitchen the couple smiled at her and invited her to sit between them. A big pink cup foaming with milk was handed over. Mary felt happy. She liked this old couple, the pink and blue plates, the angels flying about. It felt like home. She would stay. •

(Published in ViceVersa n.40)

A La Une, What Am I Doing Here?

And this is how I saw the “Near East”

February 1, 2015 viceversaonline 4 Comments

Giuseppe A. Samonà

Città d’oriente tripudio di moschee di chiese polidosse di solitarie sinagoghe di viuzze che si intrecciano l’una con l’altra d’improvvisi spazi sontuosi piazze grandi alberi tropicali di nuovo stradine viuzze un odore stordente di seta di spezie e tutte tutti formicolanti di gente stretta in una tremenda morsa di caldo, ma ci hanno detto per carità non bevete mai l’acqua solo acqua minerale e noi siamo così giovani così belli: non vogliamo non possiamo morire.

Quel sole sopra le nostre teste però che brucia martella, quell’aria che sembra bagnata e non un filo di vento non una traccia d’ombra, noi appoggiati esausti sul muretto che delimita la grande pianura pietrosa intarsiata d’arabeschi vuota di umani, quell’arsura la gola secca un bisogno un’urgenza la sete ci divora ci uccide ma non un bar un chiosco un venditore ambulante – solo, in lontananza, al limite opposto, i carrozzoni sonnecchiosi di un circo disposti in semicerchio; con di fronte, nel mezzo, una fontana di marmo che vomita potente senza mai interrompersi: acqua, acqua tersa limpida trasparente profumata scintillante di frescura e purezza – com’è possibile che tanta bellezza sia un subdolo inganno, una trappola? Pure, sappiamo: un sorso, anche uno solo, e saremo morti. Morti.

Allora ci avvicina un uomo, un giovane, ma più vecchio di noi, più maturo (porta infatti dei folti baffi neri). Avete sete? (sì, ce lo dice nella nostra lingua segreta: ma come avrà capito?) E senza attendere la risposta, indica la fontana. Per aggiungere rassicurante – intuisce il nostro esitare – che possiamo bere senza timore: lui è medico. E sa. Con certezza. Non c’è inganno, trappola – quell’acqua è proprio come sembra: tersa, limpida, pura… Mentre noi rassicurati siamo già con le mani sul marmo della fontana (lui ci ha seguito, spiegando), e beviamo beviamo, avidi, insaziabili. Felici. Quindi, ancora gocciolanti, lo guardiamo, lui, l’amico, il nostro salvatore – che spostando il suo dito indicante verso la sinistra rivela finalmente – e il tono della sua voce si fa perentorio – l’inoppugnabile prova: Ci ha bevuto l’orso!

L’orso. Che dalla sinistra, sul fondo, l’estremità d’una catena alla zampa (l’altra estremità è tenuta da un omaccione, anche lui baffuto), trotterella docile, si dirige verso di noi, la fontana. La morsa di caldo è tremenda, e ha di nuovo sete.

…

N.B. The “Near East” is the geographical area more commonly referred to today as the “Middle East”. It is the term generally employed by archaeologists and historians of the Ancient World. For biographical reasons I prefer it to the more contemporary appellation, especially when dreaming about the past and revisiting memories. The title is a near quotation from Joseph Conrad, one of my favourite classical writers.

(Vedi anche: Et c’est encore ainsi que le Proche-Orient m’apparaît)

A La Une, Urania

How the Vice conquered me

January 23, 2015 viceversaonline 1 Comment

Karim Moutarrif

I remember it was in the Nineties. Juste à un moment où le monolinguisme commençait à m’étouffer. Je sortais déconfit d’une thèse de Phd où je ne comprenais pas pourquoi la terminologie de l’anthropologie raciste, la vraie, celle du XIXe et des colonies où les blancs partaient civiliser les autres infras de la planète, continuait de régir les classifications des différents ressortissants de la Terre, atterris au gré des crises, en Amérique du Nord, au Canada ou aux États-Unis. Je ne comprenais pas pourquoi on arrivait avec un passeport et une nationalité, dans deux pays qui adhèrent aux ‘nations’ unies et on se faisait ré-identifier dans une appartenance à une ethnie, à une « minorité visible », on parlait de race blanche caucasienne.

J’étais perdu devant le conformisme de masse des chercheurs! Et pour cause, la guerre de sécession a laissé les USA exsangues et en retard pour leur révolution industrielle. La Grande Bretagne avait lancé le bal dès 1830 et la France suivit, une vingtaine d’années plus tard. C’est la Prusse qui fut retenue avec l’envoi de près de 10000 étudiants, qui furent formés en langue allemande. En même temps qu’ils prirent l’ingénierie, ils raflèrent la pseudo science nommée anthropologie raciste, ce qui leur permettait de régler le sort de ce qu’ils appellent les Premières Nations et celui des Africains. Les sciences humaines nord-américaines ont été bâties sur ces préceptes là. La catégorisation raciste persiste dans le modèle statistique au Canada comme aux États-Unis, elle transpire dans le langage des fonctionnaires. Dans le quotidien, sur les journaux il est constamment fait référence à la race.

Quelqu’un m’a donné un coup de pouce sans le savoir. Dans un texte qu’il a publié dans la Revue Internationale d’action communautaire, un certain Lamberto Tassinari disait que le mot race avait été remplacé par le mot ethnie dans le traitement de l’altérité. Pour la première fois, je lisais quelque chose qui était dit d’une franchise déconcertante et qui convergeait avec ma pensée.

Quelques années plus tard, j’eus la charge d’une étude sur la «communauté » italienne de l’ile de Montréal. Parmi les personnes à rencontrer, il y avait les responsables des journaux et magazines italiens. Sur la liste figurait, à tort, Vice Versa que je m’empressais de visiter pour enfin rencontrer l’inconnu qui m’avait stimulé dans ma recherche.

Le bureau était alors dans un immeuble étrangement nommé Balfour, sur la rue Saint-Laurent, au coin de la rue Prince Arthur à Montréal.

C’était deux pièces en enfilade, au deuxième ou troisième étage. Dans la première, aveugle, il y avait deux bureaux. Dans celle du fond, il y avait une fenêtre sur toute la largeur. Près de celle-ci se tenait le bureau du boss. Le long du mur de droite, il y avait un autre bureau. Enfin, au milieu, une table servait aux réunions d’équipe. Je me souviens aussi d’un alignement d’horloges qui donnaient l’heure sur différents continents, sur le mur opposé.

Lamberto était disponible, nous avons longuement parlé d’immigration de transculture . Je lui confiais mes doutes et il conclut notre conversation par : « écris un article » sous entendant qu’il le publierait. C’était le résultat de notre première rencontre. Je suis sorti, sur la rue Saint-Laurent, heureux et reconnaissant. Quelqu’un venait de me faire confiance et c’est ainsi que j’ai embarqué dans cette touchante aventure entre métèques.

Depuis lors j’ai pris le Vice et je l’ai gardé. Since then, I recognized myself as a Transcultural for ever.

A La Une, Urbania, What Am I Doing Here?

Água de Rebelião

January 8, 2015 viceversaonline

Jeremy Lester

The human river that flowed along the asphalt through the night, discharging at the gate of the plantation, stops and backs up like the waters of a weir. The women and children are quickly sent to the rear of the ‘dam’, while the men take positions at the front of the imaginary line to prepare for the possible confrontation with the plantation’s jagunços.

With no reaction from the latifundio’s small army, the men in the vanguard break the padlock and the gate opens wide. They enter. Behind them, the human river begins to move. Scythes, hoes and banners are raised in the unrestrained avalanche of hope in this re-encounter with life – and the repressed shout of the landless sounds as one voice in the brightness of the new day…

Sebastião Salgado

La Terra Prometida (The Promised Land). Oh, how many times has this name been solemnly and proudly pronounced only to be found inexistent in reality; nothing more than a dream or a well-named utopian ‘no place’. Yet occasionally, just occasionally, dream and reality do coincide. This is the case here, or so it seems to me. To be sure this is no land of Kenites, Kadmonites, Hittites, Rephaites, Amorites and Jebusites. If this really is a New Jerusalem, it is as far distant from the old one as one can possibly imagine. Yet as one looks at the land that stretches out before us, one realises just why the two Old Testament books of Genesis and Exodus are invoked so frequently even here. The space before us seems not only endless, but remains for the most part untouched by human hands and human toil. It is a virgin space if ever there was one, a space of eternal genesis, of constant becoming, or, to use the terminology of Alain Badiou, an ‘event site’, a ‘point of exile where it is always possible that something might [and will] happen.’[1]

Where, you might ask, am I? Well, I am in the still largely barren rural landscape that continues to dominate much of the peripheral borders of the state of Rio de Janeiro in Brazil, and the purpose of the visit is to lend a hand in being a midwife to a ‘birth’. As you might gather, this is no ordinary birth. What has been conceived here is a new ‘occupation’, and the proud parents of this birth are the local activists of the Movimento dos Trabalhadores Rurais Sem Terra (MST); a movement that during the course of its thirty year existence has increasingly come to be recognised, and rightly hailed, as not just one of the largest, but also one of the most astute, modern, dynamic, moral, integral and ambitious social movements anywhere in the world today. Such eulogies, I can assure you, are not misplaced and stem directly from its actual record of achievement. As a direct result of its land occupation strategies – in a country renowned of course for having one of the most unjust, unequal land distribution systems in the world[2] – it has helped to settle hundreds of thousands of families across more than eight million hectares of formerly unproductive land. Not only that. With a membership not far short of two million people and with a strong presence in all but three regional states and in several hundred municipalities, it also runs several hundred production, commercialisation, and services associations, many of which are organised into collective and semi-collective production cooperatives. It carries out all of its own training activities and it administers no less than two thousand schools, in which several thousand students teach basic literacy to 50,000 children, teenagers and adults. It also has its own university and partnerships with fifty-nine other universities throughout the country, and has won much recognition, as well as awards, from UNESCO and UNICEF for all its educational activities. In the areas under its control, it has virtually eliminated child mortality (which is certainly not the case elsewhere in the country), and has won much acclaim for many of its other community policies, particularly in the sphere of culture.

What lies before me, then, is a landscape waiting to be formed out of vacant space; a becoming landscape in the creative distance of space-time. I say waiting to be formed, but ‘carved’ would be a more appropriate term. For isn’t this what peasants are: sculptors of time, sculptors of earth, modelling a realm of culture out of nature? And isn’t an occupation of this kind like a work of art; one whose task is not to reproduce what is visible, but to make things visible?

The occupation itself, fortunately, had gone very smoothly, and already there were the usual signs and images that accompany an encampment in this very early stage of its development: the hastily constructed shacks (lonas pretas) with their black plastic protective covering, the endless hustle and bustle, toing and froing, and of course the rippling red flag marking its entrance, emitting a glow as if it were a ‘great bonfire, announcing that [here] the slaves seek freedom and inviting others like them to forge together their own destiny.’[3] If the scene in front of me could be painted, it would take, I think, a Bruegel – that ‘Shakespeare of popular life’[4] – to do it full justice. Both the landscape and the people in it lend themselves naturally to someone of his talent, ability and wit. Above all, no one more than he would best be able to capture the image of these people as they truly are in themselves. And do not get me wrong. I am not implying that there is a large degree of naivety and innocence here; far from it. But there is a simplicity about the scene which is certainly not equivalent to innocence. In one corner of the ‘canvas’, illuminated by the early morning sun, there is a man sitting on the ground sharpening and preparing the tools that he needs for the forthcoming day’s labour, with such a smile on his face that he looks fit to burst with joy. In another corner, there are the men grooming the horses in preparation for their own exertions of the day. Nearby, there are women hanging out washing on a makeshift line. While elsewhere, in a scene wonderfully reminiscent of Bruegel’s ‘Children’s Games’, the young boys and girls of the encampment are busy in their own activities, no doubt dreaming of the day when the little school will be ready for them, whose terrain has already been chosen and marked out. And what I would want my Bruegel to do more than anything is to capture all of their jovial, roguish, animated faces and expressions, as only he could do with such economy and flare, in strong colours and bold compositions, so as to lend the scene all of the epic humanity – and indeed the frailty of it as well – that it so deserves.

But the most prominent part of this ‘canvas’ must be reserved for another scene altogether, a Bruegelesque ‘allegory of hope’ if ever there was one. There before us is a small group of people who have been working away since the crack of dawn on the most important task of all. A spring has been located and by the end of the day a makeshift pump needs to be constructed so as to give the occupants of the encampment a ready supply of ‘blue gold’ close to their new homes. It is this scene that will shape the destiny of the lives of these people for as long as they live. And it is not a vain destiny of fleeting images, but an essential destiny that will endlessly change the substance of being.[5] As W.H.Auden so aptly put it: ‘Thousands have lived without love, not one without water.’[6]

Everything commences with water. All things are flowing. How right the ancient sages were. It is by means of water that we measure time and structure space. And is it any wonder that there were so many cults of water in ancient times, many of which remain alive today. It is the source of everything in life. It is in itself, in its very essence, the closest thing to a ‘god’ as one can possibly get. Is it not for this reason that it is the bearer of life and of hope; the hope of something to come?

Every space, meanwhile, has its own ingrained form of resistance. Every occupation of space must find ways of overcoming this resistance. But for the occupation to succeed, there must also be a communication with that space. The construction of the pump represents precisely this. It is a ‘communicating vessel’ with the land, which literally plumbs the depth of primitive and eternal being, as well as the wellspring of the deepest emotions possible. And what emotions are on display in this immanent space. You can see the anticipation in their eyes. You can see their thoughts taking shape and their dreams carrying them off down the flowing streams of consciousness. And being immanent, it is a space that is ‘actualised at every moment in terms of the whole of one’s “affections” (which are nonetheless in constant variation).’[7]

The time of waiting is a fertile time, especially here where time seems to languish, affording one the luxury of time (and space) to contemplate, to create; magic time fending off the conquistadors of ordinary, insipid time.[8] As the men labour away to create the simple pumping mechanism that will connect the virgin spring to the virgin community, it is inevitably the material consequences of having a permanent water supply that initially dominates everyone’s thoughts. Our perspective, in other words, remains grounded in relation to the earth. But as the day wears on, a strange sensation starts to take hold. The imagination begins to dominate matter entirely, and the seemingly ordinary (sic) event that we are witnessing moulds us as visionaries. As a consequence, the waiting is gradually transformed, metamorphosed. It is now as though we are waiting for the arrival of someone after a long peregrination, a long adventure. And by the early hours of the evening, when the work is finally completed, the transformation of our thoughts and reflections is absolutely profound.

As the handle is turned, the waiting seems endless. Time itself has been eclipsed. When, at long last, the first drop appears and seems to hang there in elastic suspension, trembling, clinging to the end of the pipe before the inevitable descent, it is not so much joy, but a strange sort of primitive sadness and melancholy that grips me. Sadness, because one can sense what sacrifice is being made here by the water; one can feel a sense of loss. Melancholy, because it is the destiny of all water to suffer the most acute form of homesickness. Once it leaves its source, it will never be able to return. It is a permanent emigrant. The pain of water, it is often said, is infinite, for all living water is on the point of dying. Indeed, not for nothing is water often traditionally viewed as a sort of confine, a limen, between life and death.[9] And yet for all this, the sadness and the melancholy are not oppressive. They rest lightly on the mind, because one also feels that the sacrifice is voluntary. If in the ‘eye of the water’ one can detect a tear, it is not necessarily a tear of anguish, but perhaps also of contentment, satisfaction, liberation.[10] For let’s not forget that water is also permanently young. It never grows old.

As the first drop turns into a slight trickle it takes on the form of a hand reaching out to embrace the earth. When the trickle turns into a slow but steady flow, the embrace is transformed into a dance. And then, finally, when the flow is transformed into a veritable gushing forth of water, it is like a beautiful voice singing a cool, liquid melody in radiant harmony. It is a playful voice, more playful than even Ravel or Liszt could ever imagine; one that smiles as it sings, one that echoes our own inextinguishable thirst for life.[11]

And so the bonding between water and earth is complete and the reproductive cycle can commence. From the downward flow of water from Mother Nature’s breast, new life can surge upwards. But just as importantly the land, as it had once been, has likewise been purified, and through its purification it has become truly liberated. Newly cleansed and refreshed, the energy of youth has been returned to it. Not only did we all drink the water in celebration, we kissed it. And as we did so, it was like looking into a mirror of our soul.

Fresh water awakens and gives youth to one’s face, that place where a man sees himself growing old and where he would like to keep others from seeing him age! But fresh water does not rejuvenate our faces for others so much as for ourselves. Beneath the awakened brow gleams a new eye. Fresh water puts fire back in the eye. There lies the principle of inversion that explains the true freshness of the contemplation of water. It is our outlook that is refreshed.[12]

As the light of the approaching evening is filtered not just through the sight of water flowing, but its sound as well, the two senses become united into a single perception. Our sense of smell is also altered as water and night unite their gentleness. ‘For a soul at peace with itself, water and night together seem to take on a common fragrance; it seems that the humid shadow has a perfume of double freshness. Only at night can we smell the perfumes of water clearly. The sun has too much odor for sunlit water to give us its own.’[13]

Was it just my imagination or did everything already look greener, more fertile? And what liquid quality was now given to our speech? No doubt it was the effect of the celebratory eau-de-vie – the marriage of water and fire – for we were now back in the domain of Bruegel: in the Land of Cockaigne.

__________

*I would like to express my sincere thanks to the journal ViceVersa. It was after seeing their very interesting documentary, Ô Saint-Laurent: une histoire d’eau et d’appartenance, that I was moved to send them this contribution on the theme of water and its primary public role in all our lives. When treated with the proper respect not only does water serve our human needs of basic survival, but it can also actively respond to our call for human dignity, community and solidarity.

Água de Rebelião (Rebellion Water) is the title given to a collection of poetry by Hamilton Pereira (Petrópolis: Vozes, 1983).

NOTES

[1] For a very good overview of Badiou’s ideas, see Peter Hallward, ‘Order and Event: On Badiou’s Logics of Worlds’, New Left Review, 53, 2008, pp. 97-122.

[2] According to official statistics, the landmass of Brazil is 850 million hectares, of which half is considered cultivable. However, in practice, only 60 million hectares have thus far been exploited for agricultural production. In terms of ownership structures, meanwhile, 1.6 per cent of private landowners possess 46.78 per cent of the land.

[3] See Ademar Bogo, ‘The Culture of the Sem Terra’, http://www.landless-voices.org, p.4.

[4] This description of Bruegel is by Max Dvorak. See also his History of Art as the History of Ideas (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1984).

[5] See Gaston Bachelard, Water and Dreams. An Essay on the Imagination of Matter, trans. Edith R. Farrell (Dallas: Pegasus Foundation, 1983), p. 6.

[6] W.H. Auden, ‘First Things First’ (1957) in Edward Mendelson (ed), W.H. Auden: Collected Poems (London: Faber and Faber, 1976), p. 445.

[7] D.M. Smith, ‘Deleuze and Derrida, Immanence and Transcendence: Two Directions in Recent French Thought’, in P. Patton and J. Proteri (eds), Between Deleuze and Derrida (London: Continuum, 2003), p. 62.

[8] For more on the peasant conception of time see Michel Onfray, Les Formes du temps. Théorie du sauternes (Paris: Mollat, 2009).

[9] See Vito Teti (ed), Storia dell’acqua. Mondi materiali e universi simbolici (Roma: Donzelli, 2003), p. 24.

[10] There is a spring in the desert that the Tuaregs call ‘the eye of the water’ (shet-n-aman).

[11] Ravel and Liszt are arguably the two classical composers most inspired by the element of water.

[12] Bachelard, Water and Dreams, p. 145. Underpinning these reflections is the manner in which water, and especially springs, ‘is an irresistible birth, a continuous birth. The unconscious that loves such great images is forever marked by them. They call forth endless rêveries… impregnated with mythology.’ (Ibid, pp. 13-14). If I am influenced predominantly by Bachelard here I make no apologies at all. For one thing, he is the most peasant-like of philosophers. And for another thing of all the places where his works have made such an impact outside of France, Brazil is second to none.

[13] Ibid, p. 104.

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