Tropici più tristi
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Sempre achei bobo chamar de 'imperialismo cultural' o fato da gente conviver com o fato bruto e enorme da cultura gringa, que chega pra gente desde moleque aos baldes, aos contêiners. Tudo bem que tem que dar nome pra essa coisa, e até acho que tem que ser um nome feio (o fato em si é principalmente feio), mas chamar de 'imperalismo' que fique eternamente passando Um Maluco no Pedaço e tocando UB40 no rádio parece um esbravejamento meio mal direcionado (ou pouco convincente), até desrespeitoso com a cabulosidade de Imperialismo 4 real.
Na maior parte do tempo, existe um lado bastante tranqs de como o povo engole e assume essas coisas de fora, dubladas, em figurações próprias (Goku desenhado na fachada de uma lanchonete de beira de estrada em Tocantins, adesivo do Calvin dando dedo e fazendo xixi). Deus sabe o que é que o povo assiste quando assiste Simpsons dublado (principalmente os episódios mais recentes, onde nem metade do que se passa deve fazer sentido), mas certamente não é uma recepção passiva e inocente, não é só engolir um apresuntado e pronto. O De Certeau saca isso melhor do que a maioria, mas essencialmente a virada que ele parece dar é aquilo quase qualquer moleque esperto saca com naturalidade e alguma rapidez, que os filmes e desenhos todos acontecem em algum lugar que não esse, que existe uma distância ali, e que essa distância pode (e deve) ser manipulada.
De fato existe um alheamento possivelmente sério aí rodando ao redor da galera que vive através de uma cultura geograficamente alheia. Mas esse alheamento só parece realmente triste, realmente doído, em quem veste algum elemento da cultura alheia como plenamente sua, algo tão forte que lhe parece devido. E veste tanto que nem consegue ficar de boa no lugar onde vive. Friends é um objeto mais inofensivo e vazio do que qualquer coisa, um entretenimento que nunca nem finge de real ser algo além do que é, mas dá pra ver uma galera que se sente pilhada daquilo, da origem daquela maquinação, de uma forma doída e séria. Que sente um pertencimento clivado e sério diante daquele outro lugar que lhes parece tão mais bonito, tão mais chique.
Friday, October 19, 2012
Monday, October 08, 2012
O livro goiano dos mortos
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He was by turn of his spirit oddly indifferent to the actual and the possible; his interest was all in the spent and the displaced, in what had been determined and composed round about him, what had been presented as a subject and a picture, by ceasing - so far as things ever cease - to bustle or even to be. It was when life was framed in death that the picture was really hung up. if his idea in fine was to recover the lost moment, to feel the stopped pulse, it was to do so as experience, in order to be again consciously the creature that had been, to breathe as he had breathed and feel the pressure that he had felt.
The truth most involved for him, so intent, in the insistent ardor of the artist, was that art was capable of an energy to his end never yet to all appearance required of it. With an address less awkward, a wooing less shy, an embrace less weak, it would draw the foregone much closer to its breast. What he wanted himself was the very smell of that simpler mixture of things that had so long served; he wanted the very tick of the old stopped clocks. He wanted the hour of the day at which this and that had happened, and the temperature and the weather and the sound, and yet more the stillness, from the street, and the exact look-out, with the corresponding look-in, through the window and the slant on the walls of the light of afternoons that had been. He wanted the unimaginable accidents, the little notes of truth for which the common lens of history, however the scowling muse might bury her nose, was not sufficiently fine. He wanted evidence of a sort for which there had never been documents enough, or for which documents mainly, however multiplied, would never be enough. That was indeed in any case the artist's method - to try for an ell in order to get an inch. The difficult, as at best it is, becomes under such conditions so dire that to face it with any prospect one had to propose the impossible. Recovering the lot was at all events on this scale much like entering the enemy's lines to get back one's dead for burial; and to that extent was he not, by his deepening penetration, contemporaneous and present? "Present' was a word used by him in a sense of his own and meaning as regards most things about him markedly absent. It was for the old ghosts to take him for one of themselves.
H James, the sense of the past.
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He was by turn of his spirit oddly indifferent to the actual and the possible; his interest was all in the spent and the displaced, in what had been determined and composed round about him, what had been presented as a subject and a picture, by ceasing - so far as things ever cease - to bustle or even to be. It was when life was framed in death that the picture was really hung up. if his idea in fine was to recover the lost moment, to feel the stopped pulse, it was to do so as experience, in order to be again consciously the creature that had been, to breathe as he had breathed and feel the pressure that he had felt.
The truth most involved for him, so intent, in the insistent ardor of the artist, was that art was capable of an energy to his end never yet to all appearance required of it. With an address less awkward, a wooing less shy, an embrace less weak, it would draw the foregone much closer to its breast. What he wanted himself was the very smell of that simpler mixture of things that had so long served; he wanted the very tick of the old stopped clocks. He wanted the hour of the day at which this and that had happened, and the temperature and the weather and the sound, and yet more the stillness, from the street, and the exact look-out, with the corresponding look-in, through the window and the slant on the walls of the light of afternoons that had been. He wanted the unimaginable accidents, the little notes of truth for which the common lens of history, however the scowling muse might bury her nose, was not sufficiently fine. He wanted evidence of a sort for which there had never been documents enough, or for which documents mainly, however multiplied, would never be enough. That was indeed in any case the artist's method - to try for an ell in order to get an inch. The difficult, as at best it is, becomes under such conditions so dire that to face it with any prospect one had to propose the impossible. Recovering the lot was at all events on this scale much like entering the enemy's lines to get back one's dead for burial; and to that extent was he not, by his deepening penetration, contemporaneous and present? "Present' was a word used by him in a sense of his own and meaning as regards most things about him markedly absent. It was for the old ghosts to take him for one of themselves.
The Yale anthology of rap
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Se de fato é verdade que neguinho derrubou a distincao de arte erudita e popular (o que parece bem muito discutível), entao não foi pra fazer crítica de cultura popular, foi pra tratar tudo como cultural studies. Isso significa, quase sempre, tratar cultura como uma aparatosa ilusão coletiva, e essa disposicao torna impossível tratar seu objeto como intencional e expressivo (que é o que a crítica tenta ou tentava fazer). O que resulta disso aí pode, claro, ser muitíssimo interessante, bacana, emancipador para os tios e as tias, articulador disso e daquilo, mas vai articular o que for, quase certamente, com a voz do crítico como principal origem de emanação discursiva, o crítico mostrando como o objeto expressa, quase apesar de si mesmo, isso e aquilo.
Grafite pode ser levado pra dentro do museu, arte contemporanea pode permitir basicamente qualquer forma expressiva como válida, o rap estudado por gente usando casaco com remendo nos cotovelos, série de televisao resenhada em revista prestigiada, mas quando passa de cultural studies isso quase sempre significa aplicar convencoes interpretativas inapropriadas, ler tudo como quadro, poesia lírica e romance. Qualquer que seja o valor que voce de para Warhol, é certo que nao faz sentido trata-lo como Cézanne (fazendo retrospectiva em salinha branca com as obras originais (originais!) expostas pra gente fazer fila entrar e achar bonito). Qualquer que seja o tipo de valor que neguinho quiser assinalar pra musica pop, quadrinho e perfil do twitter, ele precisa levar em conta as especificas circunstancias retóricas das suas expressividades, suas convencoes proprias, e todo esse bagulho. Carimbar na NYer não é a mesma coisa que explicar direitinho como que algo é bom, e como que merece a nossa atenção.
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