PURSUING PESSOA
12. "Nobody truly admits the existence of someone else."
In the Rua Garrett of the Chiado, there is a bronze statue of Pessoa seated at a table outside one of his favorite hangouts, A Café Brasileira. The table and chairs of ca. 1910 design are part of the composition.
I go inside to the bar, order and espresso and advise the woman (I refuse to adopt the fatuously inflated post-modern term, "barista" for someone who in this case is surely an immigrant from Luanda, or in other countries, would be either a dropout from a state university or a private university graduate with a degree in something like Peace Studies or Sustainable Horticulture) that I will be sitting outside.
Once I have deposited my book/camera bag and changed to clear distance glasses I take out my old Olympus SLR and position myself less than 4 feet from the sculpture, raise the camera to my eye and--just as I depress the shutter button--a short woman in a black jacket manages to squeeze herself between Pessoa and me, ruining the shot.
Because it is my birthday I have vowed to be generous and kind, and therefore resist telling her "Gracias, pendeja", as I would have if someone had pulled that agressive move in Mexico City, but under my breath I mutter "Thanks, asshole", and hope that she hears me--which, clearly, she will not, as she had admitted neither my existence nor the immortalized existence of Pessoa.
12. "Nobody truly admits the existence of someone else."
In the Rua Garrett of the Chiado, there is a bronze statue of Pessoa seated at a table outside one of his favorite hangouts, A Café Brasileira. The table and chairs of ca. 1910 design are part of the composition.
I go inside to the bar, order and espresso and advise the woman (I refuse to adopt the fatuously inflated post-modern term, "barista" for someone who in this case is surely an immigrant from Luanda, or in other countries, would be either a dropout from a state university or a private university graduate with a degree in something like Peace Studies or Sustainable Horticulture) that I will be sitting outside.
Once I have deposited my book/camera bag and changed to clear distance glasses I take out my old Olympus SLR and position myself less than 4 feet from the sculpture, raise the camera to my eye and--just as I depress the shutter button--a short woman in a black jacket manages to squeeze herself between Pessoa and me, ruining the shot.
Because it is my birthday I have vowed to be generous and kind, and therefore resist telling her "Gracias, pendeja", as I would have if someone had pulled that agressive move in Mexico City, but under my breath I mutter "Thanks, asshole", and hope that she hears me--which, clearly, she will not, as she had admitted neither my existence nor the immortalized existence of Pessoa.
No comments:
Post a Comment