Mistress of Arts

This is me right now. 

Fair rustlers of petticoats! It has been too long... And partly because I am cooking up some really great posts... but also because, in three short weeks, I will take my comprehensive exams for my Master's degree. That means I've been boning up on a couple of books... namely everything significant that was written from the year 1100 till the year 2000 in either the Iberian peninsula or Latin America. If I pass these exams, I will move on to take an oral exam, where I will face the firing squad...er... committee of professors that will ask me questions on pretty much anything they fancy. Finally, if I pass all of those tests, I will become a Mistress of Arts.

In the meantime, I will be absent from the blog but have you, my band of wild petticoats, ever in my mind. The things I'm reading are oh-so-wonderful and there are many posts in the wings...

Medieval marginalia

I will leave you with a taste of something I read this weekend... it is from an incredibly naughty, raucous poem written by a picaresque little priest from Medieval Spain. Juan Ruiz, the Archpriest of Hita, in El libro de buen amor (The Book of Good Love) offers most inventive and wild advise--in lyric form--for how to be successful when seducing shepherd girls, married women, nuns, and go-betweens. The text is full of bizarre fables in which anthropomorphic woodland creatures provide the reader (or listener, as they were traditionally sung in court or homes) with a strange and often less-than-obvious moral.

Here is a little morsel of one of his rhymes, taken from the "Parable of Two Lazy Men Who Would Marry One Woman" (translation by Elisha Kent Kane), in which a woman being courted by two ugly old men, slyly asks them who is more lazy. They fight over which of the two of them is more lazy- at which point the clever girl declares they've tied and, because she can't marry two men, will have neither. This parable (and several others before and after it) are used by the Archpriest to show how the 7 deadly sins not only kill your soul, but also your ability to have an active amorous life...

The moral to this tale, Messire, I beg you to remember
Because it shows how hateful sloth is to the female gender,
Since sloth can never passion fan into a glowing ember,
Hence, be not slothful anywhere--above all in your member.

Ahem. Right, then. 

Until next time, fair petticoat rustlers! (Wish me luck!)

Let 'Er Buck

What is a Cowboy? 

I have always had a wistful, romantic vision of the rough-around-the-edge, tobacco-chewing, cattle-roping, bow-legged, sunburned, lonesome Cowboy-- riding through deserted crags and valleys in what was once an untamable West.

"A Typical Cowboy" 

The vision of the American Cowboy embodies a particular brand of "americanness" that now lives only in nostalgic memory: rugged individuality complete with a code of ethics operating outside of (and above) the law of the state.

The Cowboy was a man who chose to live without any more protection from the unknown than his own wits. He lived without the comforts of regular bathing, soft pillows, clean clothes, the company of women. This was a man who lived intensely in his environment: a breathing, moving piece of the painted backdrop. And he wouldn't trade all the comforts in the world for his life of expansive, terrifying freedom.

But did the American Cowboy spring, fully developed, from the a concept of "americanness"? Was he merely a symptom of the economic necessity for horse-men and ranch hands? What brought about the mythic narrative that has been ascribed to the Cowboy? Is the Cowboy even American? Who is the Cowboy?

Vintage image of a ropin' cowboy

The highly romanticized image of the American Cowboy that I have cultivated over the course of many years of watching Westerns is a very narrow and specific definition that excludes a much broader (and more interesting) narrative of Cowboys. The handsome, muscular, highly skilled, man-of-few-words that I envision when I hear or read the word 'cowboy' is an important part of the Cowboy narrative, but it is certainly not the whole story, nor even the half of it.

Charles Wellington Furlong wrote Let 'Er Buck: A Story of the Passing of the Old West in 1921 to chronicle the evolution of the Pacific Northwest's rodeo competitions that eventually became the famous Pendleton Round-Up, which still exists and is going strong.

Almost a century ago, Furlong dedicated this book to the same Cowboy that, today, lives in my imagination: "...and to the Cowboy, the West's firstborn ... through an intrepid faith and unhampered belief, high ideals and dynamic gogettedness, epitomized the spirit of America and cemented the Great Northwest into our national body politic." Furlong credits the Cowboy with a heightened (if not perfected) understanding of americanness and with having an uniquely close relationship with the land--so close, in fact, that the Cowboy's very presence makes the land more American.

Vaquero painting by Frederic Remington

The 1920s generated significant romanticized versions of the life of the Cowboy, as we can see from Furlong's dedication. But in May of 1931, the working American cowboy, J. Frank Dobie, published an article called "Ranch Mexicans" that laid out, for the first time in print, the indispensable influence of Mexican vaqueros on the creation of the American cowboy. The very word "cowboy" is an English translation of vaquero. 

Dobie writes that the American Cowboy owes his name, much of the rest of his vocabulary, talents, techniques, and hobbies to his Mexican brother. He also ascribes the same qualities associated with American Cowboys to the Mexican vaquero, saying that he "...goes beyond the average human being in faithfulness." Almost using the same words that Furlong uses to describe the American Cowboy, Dobie describes the vaquero as a heightened or perfected version of a man.

Here, however, it is not americanness perfected in the Cowboy, but rather something specific to his lifestyle; the qualities that cowboys and vaqueros share, irrespective of national borders, make them mythic figures with a special bond: "...if he [the vaquero] were in want, I should go far to relieve him; and if I were dying and he could by going to hell save me, he would go."

Vaqueros and Cowboys on a ranch in Texas, 1890s. Image source.

For all the similarities between the American Cowboy and the Mexican vaquero, a sweeping variety of legends about horsemen extends across every plain of North, Central, and South America. From Canada to Southern Chile, the Cowboy myth roams-- sometimes with only subtle nuances to what I've described above, other times vastly different. Occupying the place of hero or villain, the Cowboy's narrative plays an important role in many American countries, as one portrayed to be a larger-than-life man with an almost magical connection to his horse.

Cowboys of the Americas (1990) by Richard Slatta

In researching these many manifestations of the Cowboy, I came across Richard L. Slatta's 1990 book, Cowboys of the Americas. This book is one of the only books I could find that attempts to provide a contiguous narrative of Cowboys throughout the Americas. He talks about the Chilean huaso, the Argentinian gaucho, the Venezuelan llanero, the anglo and the black cowboys of the United States, the cowboys of Canada, the Mexican vaquero, the paniolo of Hawaii, and the Brazilian vaqueiros. Slatta attempts to trace the origins of the Cowboy-- that is, the practical, economic factors that begat the lifestyle-- and describe the fictions and legends that sprung up around them.

I like how Slatta, while highlighting the particularities of each country's Cowboy, retains a sense of continuity, of universality connecting all of these disparate cowboy cultures: "Colorful, often dangerous men on horseback have awed and fascinated pedestrians through the ages. ... One view held that cowboys were paragons of national virtue--patriotic, honest, principled. An opposing image presented cowboys as lazy, immoral, backward, low-class drifters. As is often the case, reality lay somewhere between these two caricatures."

The "caricatures" of all these cowboy cultures have emerged throughout the Americas in the form of literature, music, painting, photography and film. Cowboys themselves are responsible for adding the extensive oeuvre of cowboy myth and art.

I have decided, therefore, to dedicate several posts to exploring these artistic embodiments of the Cowboy spirit in various American countries. This is the first post of a series in which I hope to wrangle a better understanding of what a Cowboy is, why he is so important, and why I love him so much.

Argentine gaucho. Photo by the incredible Luis Fabini. 

***
Who is your favorite Cowboy? Gaucho? Vaquero?

Until next time, fair rustlers of fluffy petticoats-- git along little doggies!

Bad Man, Good Dog

My dog, Buju, in 2010. Photo by Patrick Manning.

~Abandon hope all ye dog-haters who enter this post.~

Dogs have been an extraordinarily momentous force in the lives of humans since we lived in caves. As hunting partners, as lookouts, and as stoic companions, dogs have offered people throughout the ages a special brand of love and attention. As a result, dogs have found a their way into art and literature quite frequently.

In literature, it makes sense that dogs appear as friends (and much less frequently as adversaries) for the novelistic hero and antihero alike. The relationship between a dog and a person is almost universal; because dogs "speak" the same language anywhere, it is possible to translate the relationships characters have with dogs across practically any cultural boundary.

From Argos in Homer's Odyssey to Tock of The Phantom Tollbooth, dogs have been written as utterly loyal friends for their human counterparts, even when the journey proves to be harrowing. But what's more is that dogs will remain loyal to us even when we are wholly undeserving of a dog's silent, reassuring gaze.

Lost World by Patrícia Melo. 2009. 

Patrícia Melo, a contemporary Brazilian author, writes about a relationship between her antihero, Máiquel, and a street dog, amid darkness and violence in her book Lost World. A sequel to her wildly popular The Killer (a novel which has been adapted for the cinema as Man of the Year), the narrative of Lost World follows Máiquel's relentless and coldblooded footsteps as he searches for an ex-girlfriend and the pastor who took her under his wing, so that he can murder them both.

Máiquel's tragedy begins in the first book, The Killer, where he is manipulated by wealthy and corrupt personages of his neighborhood in São Paulo and turned into a contract killer, used to "clean up" the "crime" of the neighborhood's streets. Soon Máiquel goes from being an anonymous guy with a crappy job to a morally bankrupt murderer. In Lost World, Máiquel is a fugitive, a detective, and an impulsive killer attempting to recover the "lost world" of his life before he became a monster.

Along the way, Máiquel hits a dog with his car. The killer is stunned--he feels instant remorse and rushes to save the dog's life. He nurses the dog back to health and names him Tiger. Máiquel decides that the dog is really just an old hippie who took too much acid and turned himself into a dog, humanizing his canine friend.

Tiger silently and without judgement makes his master aware of the barbaric nature of the journey they're on, and that the likely outcomes of such a journey can only be darkness or death. Nevertheless, Tiger remains with the killer, the animal acting as the last thing on earth capable of humanizing Máiquel.

"Look here, you old hippie, I told Tiger, today you're going to suffer. You're going to walk a lot. You're going to get a lot of sun. You're going to see a lot of ugly things. But there's no choice. I can't leave you..."

There is an honesty and a certain tenderness in the way Máiquel relates to this once-stray dog (with whom he seems to have much in common). Tiger doesn't have to "save" his master, he simply needs accompany him, farting and vomiting everywhere they go. The dog's company is the last thread of love in the world to which Máiquel can cling.

Walkin the Dog by Walter Mosely. 1999.

Although Máiquel may consider himself too far gone for salvation, other "bad men" seek the company of feeble dogs on their road to restitution. In Walter Mosley's book Walkin the Dog, Socrates Fortlow is an ex-con living in the infamous Watts neighborhood of Los Angeles. He is constantly harassed by the law and criminals alike, tempting him to return to a violent life he wishes to be rid of after years in prison. He holds down a job at a supermarket and cares for a two-legged dog he's named Killer.

He saved the dog when its back legs were crushed, and the dog's presence in his dingy apartment gives Socrates a reason to go to work in the morning and return home every night. "When he got home Killer was so sick that he couldn't propel himself on his halter to greet his master. ... He took the dog back to the veterinarian who ... told him that he would have to put the dog in a hospital where he'd have to undergo an operation. Socrates had never heard of an animal being operated on but he trusted the doctor and cared more about that dog than he cared for most people."

So there are two literary examples of a "bad man" needing a good dog. And there are plenty more examples of this phenomenon available in novels from around the world. But--- why this combination? Why does it seem natural for sweet, fragile dogs to accompany world-worn, sometimes violent masters?

I proposed that dogs serve as witnesses to human activity. They watch us closely, with a steady, contemplative gaze, registering the range of our affections from love to hate. Without asking for protection, we give it to them, because we need someone to quietly behold our world and remember who we were in it.

Tiger and Killer don't "save" their masters, nor do they seem inclined to consciously do so. Their presence alone offers assurance that there is indeed someone present-- watching, recording, remembering their master, for better or worse.

The Call of the Wild by Jack London. 1903.

We come to think of dogs as completely dependent upon the gifts of their masters, but rarely is a dog depicted asking for protection, entertainment, or more than what it has been given during its life. Perhaps this is because we feel purpose in offering these creatures space in our lives, only expecting their gaze in return; we take comfort in our belief that if we did not pat their heads and dish out food, they would be as lost as we were without them.

Dogs are animals with aggressive instincts, a strong will to survive and a wild history. Though they are domesticated, they retain their own ways and their own world. They reflect our own inherent tension with the civilized, domesticated world... and there is always a small ember of desire, burning to return us to a life of instinct and the freedom of the wilderness. Buck, of Jack London's The Call of the Wild teaches us so much of these fettered (yet ever-present) longings to answer the "call."

Buck is the dog that reminds us how capable these animals are-- how little time it would take for them to take their lives back into their own paws and live free of the messy, self-serving whims of man.

When Buck understands the deep relationship he can have with his wild ancestors (wolves) and with man (Thorton), he does not choose one world or the other-- he is able to remain fully a part of both worlds, living fully for himself and fully for his companion--in life and death.

When a dog chooses to commit himself to witnessing a man's life, then, when he chooses to remain by the side of a "bad man," we can be all the more assured it is more for man's benefit than for the kibble the dog receives as payment.

The ears of a domestic dog will perk at sounds we cannot hear, perhaps turning in the direction of an intrinsic wildness we both long for, but only they can still hear. Their eyes record our adventures and gaze into our hearts as they silently accompany us, as sentries of our souls.

***
What do you think about bad men and their good dogs? Who are your favorite literary dogs?

Until next time, fair petticoat wearers--keep ruffling!

My dog, Buju. January 1, 2013. 

Fist City

Loretta Lynn will hurt you. 

There is something about this song that is incredibly satisfying. It is self righteous and powerful, without losing a provocatively cool sweetness, yet it ultimately promises real and possibly ugly violence. In fact, the violence implied by these lyrics is palpable, becoming its own space: "fist city" is a place that you could wind up, a place where Loretta Lynn is going to "grab you by the hair 'a your head and lift you offa the ground..."

I love this song and am a big fan of Loretta Lynn. I think a major element of what makes this particular song so appealing is its ability to invoke a sense of personal power through controlled, justified violence. When we hear a song like this, watch a fight scene in a film, or read a passage in a book that happens to take place in "fist city," we become fascinated by the control with which something scary-- and unpredictable and perhaps uncontrolled-- is being portrayed to us. The feeling we get from this controlled depiction of violence is different than watching, say, an artless bar brawl, which is sloppily uncontrolled and likely not initiated under the auspices of a struggle between Good and Evil.

Growing up on kung fu movies (that my brother watched forward and backward so many times I began learning Mandarin), I have always enjoyed a good fight scene.

This clip from the movie "Kids from Shaolin" has all of the elements of a good fight scene. (How were bullies defeated before the days of Facebook? Flying kicks. Duh.) Those important elements include: an underdog who represents humility and honor, an adversary who thinks they are undefeatable, and a great amount of fighting skill--exhibited by both the bad guy and the good guy--to make it interesting.

Magda says "bring it" in Soulstring by
Midori Snyder

There are so many superb fight scenes in literature to chose from it's a little overwhelming. I immediately think of my favorite heroines, kicking ass in a whole host of different fantastic worlds.

Aerin of The Hero and the Crown (1984) was probably my first love, as I read the book as a child. Making fire-proofing kennet, slaying dragons, saving the day with her blue sword, and having the most dreamy man (Luthe--yes, I had a total crush on him) fall in love with her... I want to cheer just thinking about it!

Then there is Magda of Soulstring (1987) which I read fresh out of high school. She is a complete badass, freeing herself of the forces of an oppressive patriarch (her father), with the tender gaze of her husband --who's been turned into a stag-- to keep her company. There are so many great fight scenes in this little novel-- all of which solicit more cheers from me!

Then in college, I read Tolkien's masterpieces, The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings trilogy with their epic battle scenes, exciting in the novels and brought to life recently on the big screen.

Don Quijote/Windmill painting by
Octavio Ocampo

And finally, as I prepare to take exams this spring on Iberian Golden Age literature, I have the hilarious "fight scene" fresh in my mind between Don Quijote and those ferocious windmills: "Those are giants, and if you are afraid, turn aside and pray whilst I enter into fierce and unequal battle with them." The parody of a fight scene here is like the exception that proves the rule; here there aren't two opposing forces meeting in violence but rather a man too assured of his good will to notice it has turned into senseless aggression.

Fight scenes in literature and film seem to be reflections of our deep desire of witnessing Good prevailing over Evil. It is what makes the violence in these scenes not only tolerable but admirable. Vastly different from scenes of torture or cruelty (in which there is a sense of hopelessness and pervasive darkness), these fight scenes show the forces of oppression meeting the forces of freedom on the battlefield, and the fight itself reveals the weaknesses and strengths of both sides.

Yet these fight scenes are not purely allegorical, they are not simply a metaphor for the victory of light over darkness. If they were meant only as metaphors, then there would be no reason to take pains to write a fight scene--the battle could be a game of chess, or an argument over tea. The violence in these fight scenes is real and necessary, it does not simply point to some other meaning, it has its own meaning.

I believe that the violence of a fight scene demonstrates what, to us humans is the potential of total sacrifice (putting one's life on the line). A willingness to die--and to kill--for the benefit of others is one of the most visceral and controversial of all human instincts. That's why a fight scene is exciting-- not because it is a metaphor-- but because it is really the event in which our very mortality is subjugated by a cause.

***

What are your favorite fight scenes? Who do you cheer on in books, music, film? ...


Until next time-- keep the petticoats rustling!

The Importance of Being Stylish

Hats: the spike of life.
 Photo via my Pinterest

Anja Rubick in 2010 Vogue Paris

For those of us who tend to spend most of our time behind a book and the computer screen instead of in front of a camera lens, it may seem odd, even superfluous, to concern ourselves with the composition of our outfits. For the majority of my adult life, I've found fashion to be a vapid pursuit that only succeeded in emptying one's purse for the sake of a (subjectively) pretty thing that was, above all, fleeting.

I believed that fashion photography only depicted women doing useless things like staring blankly off into the distance with her mouth hanging open, or clutching a garish handbag while balancing on insensible shoes or allowing themselves to be draped with exotic animals. To me, these photos represented a collection of tangible evidence of the stupidity and susceptibility of some women (and men). I thought fashion and the pursuit of outward style detracted from the "real" work that being done elsewhere.

Recently, however, I have completely changed my mind about how I view the art of adornment and I've come to view style as an important--if not indispensable-- element of culture.

Collegiate cuties from 1949, Wellesley College.
Life magazine, photos by Nina Leen. 

This reversal in my opinion sprung initially from a basic need for new clothes and evolved rapidly as I became ever more aware of the many details of dressing and the broader implications of fashion in art and literature.

For several years in my early 20s, I amassed a collection of drab, ill-fitting clothing that I thought I needed in order to look "professional" in my job. When I left that job to pursue a Masters degree, one of my first acts was ridding myself of all of those hideous pieces. But, alas! I was now a starving grad student living on student loans and earnings from my part-time Spanish teaching position at the university--how was I to replenish my closet?

I had never given much thought to my style and had no idea what I was going to do about my dismal clothing situation (I couldn't very well go around nude). So I did what any academic would do: I began the process of intensive research.

Initially, my objective was practical: I needed clothes fast and cheap. I began reading personal style blogs, fashion blogs, books on Western fashion history... I scoured the Internet for answers on how to get good quality clothing inexpensively. What I found surprised me.

1940s ladies' fashion

I discovered that I had been missing out on having a personal style, and that I wanted one. I also discovered I loved women's fashion from the 1930-40s and that vintage clothing was, if you knew what you were doing, far cheaper and more durable than most modern clothing. As a bonus, vintage clothing always comes with a story-- some woman before me wore these clothes while she went about, cleaning her house, attending the opera, meeting friends for tea... I wanted those stories! And I wanted the outrageous detail from past eras: hats, pin curls, gloves, brooches, dress clips, shoe clips, earrings and bangles, petticoats (!) and slips, bras that "lift and separate," bed jackets, night bonnets, fur stoles and muffs, pencil skirts, lightly puffed sleeves, handbags without cellphone holders, and oh! LIPSTICK!

1940's ad for ladies' hats - I love how
the shadow of the brims "foreshadows"
the return of the wide brim!
Photo via my Pinterest.

Since discovering the delights of vintage-hunting in thrift stores (ah the thrill of finding something truly unique and beautiful amongst a pile of cast-off, shapeless sacks!), I have begun noticing the importance of style in literature-- both the style of writing and the style each character possesses when we meet them in their world.

For me, some of the most delicious descriptions of fashion come from Raymond Chandler (perhaps because of my love of WWII-era fashion). He constructs a character by attending to the details of their outfits, while showing how they move around in their clothes. He also makes it obvious that what a character is wearing is an important part of the plot-- with their clothes, a character could be attempting to deceive or reveal themselves to Philip Marlowe (and subsequently you)...

"She was worth a stare. She was trouble. She was stretched out on a modernistic chaise-longue with her slippers off, so I stared at her legs in the sheerest silk stockings. They seemed to be arranged to stare at."

Raymond Chandler had style.
Photo from Life magazine. 

"She wore brownish speckled tweeds, a mannish shirt and tie, hand-carved walking shoes. Her stockings were just as sheer as the day before, but she wasn't showing as much of her legs. Her black hair was glossy under a brown Robin Hood hat that might have cost fifty dollars and looked as if you could have made it with one hand out of a desk blotter."

"She was so platinumed that her hair shone like a silver fruit bowl. She wore a green knitted dress with a broad white collar turned over it. There was a sharp-angled glossy bag at her feet."

[All quotes from Chandler's 1939 novel The Big Sleep.]

These moments in literature, in which an author hovers over a character and looks at them, are an essential part of what makes a rich and compelling narrative--and more importantly, it is at the heart of literature's purpose. James Wood remarks on this in his book How Fiction Works (2008): "Literature differs from life in that life is amorphously full of detail, and rarely directs us toward it, whereas literature teaches us to notice..." The act of noticing is crucial in writing and reading literature.

Marlene Dietrich, 1940s.
Photo via my Pinterest.

Visual details in a narrative are not just metaphors for who or how a character is, then, but rather they form part of the overall aesthetic metaphor of a novel as a whole. Ursula K. Le Guin notes in her introduction to her novel The Left Hand of Darkness that a writer is essentially a painter that uses words as their palette: "The artist deals with what cannot be said in words. The artist whose medium is fiction does this in words. The novelist says in words what cannot be said in words." (Sigh. I love her for writing that.) 

So to my formerly-frumpy self, I say may you be forgiven, for you knew not why you dressed. To delight in a style of one's own and the bright possibilities of dressing oneself every morning is not a vapid pursuit, rather it is to participate in an important process of noticing. Furthermore, in literature, noticing provides the method by which a writer can say "in words what cannot be said in words."

Paying attention to the outward details of a real person or a fictional character is an art. I make my own little efforts to notice the styles of others, now, and to for-heaven's-sake match my gloves with my hat, handbag, and brooch.

What is your style? What author writes your favorite descriptions of their characters' style?

***
This post was partly inspired by the recently opened exhibit of Mexican painter, Frida Kahlo's wardrobe, 58 years after her death. If I could go to Mexico right now and see this exhibit, I would. Instead, I'll content myself for now with this sneak-peak video of the exhibition:

Until next time, my fair petticoat rufflers!

The Sins of the Fat Capon: Brazilian Marginal Literature

Ferréz - the Brazilian author of "marginal literature," including his novel Capão Pecado [Sins of the Capon], based on life in the favela Capão Redondo [Fat Capon]. 

The 2002 Brazilian film "Cidade de Deus" ("City of God") depicted an epic drug-gang war in a Rio de Janeiro favela (slum). The narrative was based on the real and violent events that occurred in the favela of the same name during the late 70s and early 80s. Nominated for 4 Oscars and named 6th best action/war film of all time in 2010 by Britain's publication, The Guardian, this film's popularity soared internationally and drew broad interest in Brazilian culture and narrative.

City of God - the movie

Aside from historic events, this film was also heavily influenced by the 1997 novel by Brazilian author, Paulo Lins (also called Cidade de Deus). Lins, as well as several other newer Brazilian authors, make up a burgeoning contemporary group of Marginal Literature authors. These authors, themselves raised in the favelas on the periphery of Brazilian society, write about life in the margins and center their fiction around these "invisible" lives filled with great love and hate, tenderness and violence.

Poet and Founder of Cooperifa, Sergio Vaz.
Photo source

The movement of Brazilian Marginal Literature has picked up steam in the past decade, leading to the inauguration of organizations like Cooperifa, a cooperative of poor and blue collar writers, led by poet and group founder, Sergio Vaz.

This cooperative hosts open mic events in São Paulo during which audience members can share their own original poetry or short fiction as well as recite poems by other authors. Viewed as a way of developing one's own writing/reciting skills and a way of generating interest in literature, this cooperative is only one example of the grassroots initiatives that have sprung up as a result of the marginal literature movement.

In 2004, Alessandro Buzo opened the doors of the first and--thus far-- only bookstore carrying exclusively Brazilian marginal literature. The bookstore, called Suburbano Convicto publishes local authors and regularly hosts events in which these authors do readings from their latest book, promoting themselves as authors or poets and generating interest in literature.

Alessandro Buzo, founder of Suburbano Convicto,
a bookstore in São Paulo that exclusively
sells/publishes marginal literature. Photo source

Beyond this, though, Suburbano Convicto seems interested in promoting an entire subculture around the books it sells: the store also carries locally designed apparel, local music, and local amateur films. Inviting young rap artists to come and be a part of the store links poetry and rap, literature and the community. (Side note: if you read Portuguese, you must read this wonderful article by Brazilian critic, Marcelo Schincariol, in which he shows how a literary adaptation of the practice of "sampling" used in rap music is a major structural feature in Lins' City of God.)

By creating a lifestyle around the literature, those that have decided to dedicate themselves to literature can then also "rep" that decision outwardly: the bookstore's clothing marks them as a poet/rapper/writer just as certain colors can mark gang affiliations in the same neighborhoods.

Cover art for Capão Pecado

Several authors writing marginal literature have gained a good deal of notoriety. As I already mentioned, Paulo Lins' work is now known internationally, due large part to the cinematic adaptation one of his novels. But within Brazil, another author shares the spotlight with Lins: Ferréz. In 1998, Ferréz published his first novel, Capão Pecado [roughly translates to "Sins of the Capon"] a reference to the southern São Paulo favela he grew up in called Capão Redondo [Fat Capon].

The book opens with a free-flowing and rhythmic introduction by Mano Brown, a well-known Brazilian rapper.

This introduction is followed by a page-long, poetic dedication by Ferréz, in which he dedicates the book to the illiterate and those who are too poor to own their own books.

Then the narrative begins, moving through quotidian events of the Capão Redondo favela, following an adolescent boy named Rael, the novel's protagonist. Rael aspires to be a writer, but needs to confront the many "distractions" of the favela, the doubt of his family and friends in the ability of a favela boy to become a writer, and a dangerous conflict he initiates with his former best friend by falling in love with the friend's girlfriend.

As you can imagine, the novel doesn't have a warm-fuzzy ending with everything turning out all right. Justice does not prevail-- rather, what prevails is a sick, twisted vigilante form of justice wielded by the weak over the weaker.

But the novel approaches these subjects delicately and with a great degree of artistry. Making abundant use of the free indirect discourse, the narration successfully provides a kaleidoscope of perspectives. This free indirect style has an unsettling effect on the reader: one finds herself casually accepting circumstances that she would normally be horrified by. Ferréz has been accused of not knowing how to craft a novel, because the narration in his books can shift rapidly between perspectives-- but this seems to me to be the most efficient way to force his readers into the sense of helplessness and confusion often thriving in the favela.

The very title foreshadows the deconstruction of symbolic power that is to come in this book: a capon is a castrated rooster. Normally a symbol of male aggression, violence, and power, the symbolic rooster here is castrated, fattened, and awaiting the drop of the ax.

I have not found any English-language translations yet of Ferréz's books, but the author also happens to be a rapper (!!!) so you can still appreciate the sound of his words, even without understanding them.....

On a final note- I would just like to say that I would absolutely love it if bookstores in this country were as proactive about generating interest in local literature as is Suburbano Convicto. Wouldn't you love to meet up with you neighbors at the bookstore down the street, hear their poetry, listen to their music, and share recite your favorite poems for them?! Who's with me!? ...Or does something like this already exist?

Until next time-- keep those petticoats rustling!!!

Off the String and Onto the Wall: Northeastern Brazilian Poetic Graffiti

Brazilian graffiti artist, Derlon Almeida, and a work in progress

"Literatura de cordel" or "Stories on a String" refers to a genre of poetry from Northeastern Brazil. 

Image source

This literary tradition has its origins in the European chapbook traditions of the 16th and the beginning of the 17th century, where the“pliegos sueltos” and “literatura de cordel” circulated in Spain, “broadsides” in England and “literatura do cego” in Portugal. Although it is very difficult to trace when the first of these chapbooks arrived in Brazil, it is generally agreed upon that it came as early as the 1500s, along with the first wave of settlers. Over time, the chapbook tradition in Portugal lost its novelty and gradually obtained a reputation for being a poor man’s literature, leading to Charles III of Spain prohibiting the distribution of these pamphlets due to their “harm to public morals”. 

In Brazil, however, this tradition survived through a process of adaptation. Not only were the European plot-lines adjusted to accommodate local interests, but its prose form was changed to poetic form, particularly influenced by the spontaneously composed verses of cantadores and repentistas, an influential element that has been credited with forging many of the unique features of the Brazilian tradition.

Woodblock print, "Moça Roubada" by José Francisco Borges

One of the particularly interesting features of the traditional and contemporary Brazilian manifestation of Literatura de cordel is the now emblematic woodblock print adorning the covers of the newspaper grade paper upon which the poetry is published. These woodblock prints (xilogravuras in Portuguese) served to attract potential buyers with alluring and sometimes perplexing images that usually but not necessarily related to the chapbook’s content.

Along with xilogravura developed a stylized method of reciting or singing the verses in public spaces. Although a musical element was present in the cordel’s literary predecessors of Europe, the Brazilian musical sensibilities that emerged in literatura de cordel's recitation were informed by various types of improvisational lyrical duels. For example, "repente" (literally meaning "suddenly") consisted of two participants, each with guitars, spontaneously composing verses for a traditional melody. Here is a brief example of repentista music style, as it survives today (remember, these guys are making it up as they go along!).

Now-- it is hard to believe that only 7 years ago, YouTube was created by 3 former PayPal employees. Since 2005, the video-sharing website has skyrocketed to popularity around the globe and has allowed people to publish a preponderance of movie clips, short films and home videos... making it possible for us to share in the live aspects of the repente improvisational art form that was once reserved for those that living in or traveling to Brazil. 

As a resource for new material that is constantly being updated, as well as serving as a popular cultural archive, YouTube has created a space in which creativity can build on itself in new and exciting ways. It is not surprising then, that in addition to the footage of cordelistas reciting their poetry online, artists have begun creating animated short films that use the musical tradition, animate the woodblock prints, and recite or sing cordelista poetry. Here is an example.

Debra Castillo notes in her essay, “http://www.LAlit.com,” that increased use of the Internet as a literary resource has allowed authors to expand their readership and audiences at an impressive rate: "Writers can get their works out to an ever-larger international community of casual readers, fellow writers, and literary scholars, and do it extremely rapidly and efficiently." This instantaneous distribution to international audiences ushers in a unique cordel expression, one that can be experienced in a completely digitized way that at once preserves and innovates. Castillo remarks: “Writers and critics can engage in dialogues heretofore impossible or exceptionally complicated [...] Through the increasingly pervasive computer network, underrecognized writers [...] can meet and share their works.” 

In another, less technological but equally as public a medium, the cordel aesthetic has been mimicked by several Brazilian graffiti artists. The graffiti is usually figurative, executed in a style that imitates the cordel’s xilogravuras as closely as possible and sometimes offers traces of a narrative.

Piece by Derlon Almeida - in Pernambuco, Recife. Image source

Piece by Derlon Almeida - in Pernambuco, Recife. Image source 

Piece by Derlon Almeida - in Pernambuco, Recife. Image source 

Piece by Derlon Almeida - in Pernambuco, Recife. Image source 

From what I can tell, there is also no official website or online archive dedicated to tracking and archiving these "xilografites." These temporary works of art will disappear eventually, as they are literally “published” on reclaimed ("stolen") public space. This beautifully fits into the literatura de cordel tradition, as the chapbooks were published on cheap paper that was available, without posterity as a first priority. 

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So, what can we make of this renewed interest in the cordel aesthetic and its ability to continue to adapt to Internet and graffiti outlets?

I propose that the cordel poetry has always presented itself in a moment in which the framework for a communal narrative has shifted. In a Brazil where travel agencies are shifting the meaning of the Pelourinho--a place where slaves were sold as chattel-- to accommodate the imaginations of tourists who find it charming and may not wish to recognize the space’s troubled, violent past; access to technology spreads; and internationally acclaimed film, prose and rap spring from favelas, the literatura de cordel poetic style has reemerged to construct a new narrative for an as yet unknown future. 

Your thoughts...???