25.11.06
Casas
Houses
Gosto de casas.
Quando eu era menino, havia mães de amigos ou de conhecidos que eram tão obcecadas com limpeza, que nos obrigavam a tirar os sapatos e andar deslizando sobre recortes de tapete, para não arranhar o parquete, o assoalho, como se diz hoje em dia. Algumas chegavam ao paroxismo de cobrir os sofás e poltronas com plástico, para que não estragassem. Conheci também fanáticos que faziam o mesmo com bancos de carros.
Lembro de sentir que havia uma inversão aí: as pessoas é que se adaptavam às coisas e não o contrário, como seria natural.
Prefiro casas usadas.
Não me incomodam as paredes descascando aqui e ali, as manchas levemente escuras produzidas pelo calor das lâmpadas nas paredes e nos tetos. Até gosto. É sinal de casa habitada por gente há muito. Com histórias acontecidas entre os acenderes e os apagares dos dias e das luzes.
Sofás puídos, marcas de brasa de cigarro ali e acolá, poltronas destruídas por unhas de gatos ou mordidas de cachorros, tapetes manchados, marcas de copos em mesas – tudo ligeiramente disfarçado, decorado melhor dizendo, com um quadro, uma colcha, uma tapeçaria ou o que quer que seja. Uma torneira que pinga (politicamente incorreto, bem sei), marcas em batentes indicando o progresso do crescimento das crianças. Livros e discos empilhados fora do lugar. Jornais lidos. Tudo isso dá vida. Mostra que há moradores, que a vida transcorre com seus mil pequenos desastres seguidos de suas pequenas e cotidianas imprecações.
Afinal, as coisas são feitas para serem usadas.
Compro coisas usadas com muita freqüência. Na verdade, quase que só. Mobílias, roupas, coisas de cozinha, objetos que acho curiosos, como uma bengala espanhola ou um telefone militar, por exemplo, comprei ao longo dos anos. Procuro sempre pelo que me diz alguma coisa, que se relacione com alguma parte de mim, que ache particularmente belo ou interessante.
Carro novo, que me lembre, comprei pela última vez em 1976. Assim mesmo porque meu pai estava por trás da história. Acho bobagem comprar carro zero. Um seminovo, vá lá, tem-se que procurar, levar a mecânico e funileiro para avaliar o estado, discutir preço e tal, mas podem ser, e freqüentemente são, ótimos. Com 10 ou 20 mil quilômetros; além de mais baratos já vêm amaciados.
Mas, de volta às casas.
Sabem essas casas modernas, construídas e decoradas por medalhões, com tudo no seu lugar perfeito, simétricas, bem planejadas, nada destoando? Não parecem casas de vitrine? Estáticas como fotos. Para mim é essa a impressão que passam.
São de vários estilos, é claro, e existem até aquelas que são decoradas propositadamente, como se os objetos, móveis, tapeçarias tivessem sido escolhidos pelos donos ao longo da vida. Mas logo logo, o que é falso, falso se revela. Pelo modo como as coisas se comportam. Em casas habitadas, as coisas migram. Mais ou menos, conforme o gosto do dono, mas migram. Naquelas outras nada migra. Nada troca de lugar. Os quadros são medidos cuidadosamente para as paredes onde provavelmente vão morar para sempre. Têm que combinar com os móveis, com o ambiente programado e por aí vai.
São casas opacas e não têm histórias. Nada de aconchego, de passagem humana por lá. Não sei vocês, mas a mim não deixam à vontade, esta a verdade.
Jardins também podem ser planejados hoje em dia. Não mais aquele jardineiro da vizinhança, seu Fulano, que ia combinando as plantas de acordo com a disponibilidade e o gosto do freguês. E que, de tanto em tanto tempo, virava um mato só e era preciso esperar seu Fulano passar para dar um jeito, isso se coubesse no orçamento do mês.
Gosto de freqüentar e morar em casas assim, cheias dos truques, das histórias, dos objetos migrantes. Quadros, por exemplo, quando migram, são incríveis. Dão uma nova perspectiva a qualquer lugar. Instituem novos ângulos, novas belezas na vida de todo o dia.
Afinal vivemos em um mundo usado, e muito.
Existem lugares na minha cidade hoje em dia, que só reconheço por uma velha grade de bueiro, por paredes velhas descascando, por uma casa de gente antiga, que talvez não ligue mais para estas coisas, talvez não tenha dinheiro ou energia para mexer nelas. Fazem-me bem. Saber que são usadas há muito tempo, que muitos passaram por ali. Gosto de lugares assim, com o chão gasto pelos passos, poltronas afundadas por horas de leitura agradável e quadros itinerantes.
Também eu pertenço ao universo dos usados. A casa da minha alma, meu corpo, traz as marcas e os arranhões da vida escritos em seu assoalho, mostrando, ao menos para mim, a minha vida que passou e vai passar.
Foi bem mal usada, por vezes, esta casa que sou. Mas bem usada também, pois que já viu muita festa, já teve muitos visitantes e, embora sempre a pedir reparos como qualquer casa antiga que se preze, é organizada e agradavelmente usada naquilo que realmente importa.
Como disse, gosto de casas usadas.
***
I like houses.
When I was a boy, there were mothers of friends or acquaintances who were so obsessed with cleanliness, that they made us take off our shoes and go about the house sliding on pieces of carpeting not to scratch the parquetry, the floor, as it is said nowadays. Some went as far as covering the couches and armchairs with plastic, so they would always look new. I also met fanatics who did the same with car seats.
I remember feeling there was an inversion there: people adapted to things instead of the other way around, as would be natural.
I prefer used houses.
Walls peeling here and there or the slightly darkened spots produced by the heat of the lamps in the walls and ceilings are not unpleasant to me. I even like them. It is a sign of a house inhabited by people for a long time. With stories that took place between the turning on and off of the lights and the days.
Worn out couches, cigarette burns hither and thither, armchairs destroyed by cat nails or dog bites, stained rugs, glass marks on tables – everything slightly disguised, decorated to put it more kindly, with a painting, a quilt, a tapestry or whatever. A dripping faucet (politically incorrect, I well know), marks on doorsills showing the growth of the children. Books and records piled up out of place. Papers already read. All this speaks of life. It shows that there are dwellers; that life goes on with its thousands of small disasters followed by their small and daily imprecations.
After all, things are made to be used.
I buy second-hand things very often. In fact, almost only. Furniture, clothing, kitchenware, objects that I find curious, such as a Spanish walking cane or a military telephone, for instance, I bought along the years. I always look for things that speak to me, that relate to some part of myself or which I find particularly beautiful or interesting.
A brand new car, that I remember, I bought for the last time in 1976. And even this one because my father was behind it. I think it is foolish to buy a brand new car. A second-hand car, alright, you have to look for, take to the mechanic and repair shop to evaluate, bargain the price and all, but they can be, and often are, excellent. With 10 or 20 thousand kilometers; besides being less expensive they come already broken in.
But, back to the houses.
You know these modern houses, built and decorated by experts, with everything perfectly put, symmetric, well planned, nothing out of place? Don’t they look like shop window houses? They’re static like photos. That’s the impression they give me.
They come in different styles, of course, and there are even those that are purposefully decorated, as if the objects, the furniture, the tapestries had been chosen by the owners along their lives. But very soon, what is false, false is shown to be. By the way things behave. In inhabited houses, things migrate. More or less, according to the taste of the owner, but they migrate. In those others nothing migrates. Nothing changes place. Paintings are measured carefully for the walls where they will probably stay forever. They have to match the furniture, the programmed ambiance and so on.
They are opaque houses and have no stories. No coziness, no signs of human passage there. I don’t know about you, but they don’t make me fell comfortable, that's the truth.
Gardens can also be planned nowadays. No more that gardener of the neighborhood, Mr. So-and-so, who went around matching the plants according to availability and the taste of the client. And which, from time to time, became a jungle and it was necessary to wait for Mr. So-and-so to pass by and fix it, this, if there were funds in the budget of the month.
I like to visit and to live in houses like these, full of tricks, of stories, of migrating objects. Paintings, for example, when they migrate, are amazing. They give a new perspective to any place. They institute new angles, new beauties in everyday life.
Ultimately we live in a very used world.
There are places in my city today, which I only recognize by an old manhole lid, by old peeling walls, or by a house of aged people, who maybe don’t care for these things any longer, who lack either the energy or the money to deal with them. They make me feel good. To know that they have been used for a long time, that many have passed by them. I like places like these, with the floors worn by the steps, armchairs sagged by hours of pleasant reading and moving paintings.
I also belong in the universe of used things. The house of my soul, my body, has the marks and the scratches of life written in its floors, showing, at least to me, my life that has passed and will pass.
It was very badly used, at times, this house that I am. But well used too, because it has seen a lot of parties, it had a lot of visitors and, though asking for repairs as any old house worthy of the title, it is organized and pleasantly used in what really matters.
As I said, I like used houses.
When I was a boy, there were mothers of friends or acquaintances who were so obsessed with cleanliness, that they made us take off our shoes and go about the house sliding on pieces of carpeting not to scratch the parquetry, the floor, as it is said nowadays. Some went as far as covering the couches and armchairs with plastic, so they would always look new. I also met fanatics who did the same with car seats.
I remember feeling there was an inversion there: people adapted to things instead of the other way around, as would be natural.
I prefer used houses.
Walls peeling here and there or the slightly darkened spots produced by the heat of the lamps in the walls and ceilings are not unpleasant to me. I even like them. It is a sign of a house inhabited by people for a long time. With stories that took place between the turning on and off of the lights and the days.
Worn out couches, cigarette burns hither and thither, armchairs destroyed by cat nails or dog bites, stained rugs, glass marks on tables – everything slightly disguised, decorated to put it more kindly, with a painting, a quilt, a tapestry or whatever. A dripping faucet (politically incorrect, I well know), marks on doorsills showing the growth of the children. Books and records piled up out of place. Papers already read. All this speaks of life. It shows that there are dwellers; that life goes on with its thousands of small disasters followed by their small and daily imprecations.
After all, things are made to be used.
I buy second-hand things very often. In fact, almost only. Furniture, clothing, kitchenware, objects that I find curious, such as a Spanish walking cane or a military telephone, for instance, I bought along the years. I always look for things that speak to me, that relate to some part of myself or which I find particularly beautiful or interesting.
A brand new car, that I remember, I bought for the last time in 1976. And even this one because my father was behind it. I think it is foolish to buy a brand new car. A second-hand car, alright, you have to look for, take to the mechanic and repair shop to evaluate, bargain the price and all, but they can be, and often are, excellent. With 10 or 20 thousand kilometers; besides being less expensive they come already broken in.
But, back to the houses.
You know these modern houses, built and decorated by experts, with everything perfectly put, symmetric, well planned, nothing out of place? Don’t they look like shop window houses? They’re static like photos. That’s the impression they give me.
They come in different styles, of course, and there are even those that are purposefully decorated, as if the objects, the furniture, the tapestries had been chosen by the owners along their lives. But very soon, what is false, false is shown to be. By the way things behave. In inhabited houses, things migrate. More or less, according to the taste of the owner, but they migrate. In those others nothing migrates. Nothing changes place. Paintings are measured carefully for the walls where they will probably stay forever. They have to match the furniture, the programmed ambiance and so on.
They are opaque houses and have no stories. No coziness, no signs of human passage there. I don’t know about you, but they don’t make me fell comfortable, that's the truth.
Gardens can also be planned nowadays. No more that gardener of the neighborhood, Mr. So-and-so, who went around matching the plants according to availability and the taste of the client. And which, from time to time, became a jungle and it was necessary to wait for Mr. So-and-so to pass by and fix it, this, if there were funds in the budget of the month.
I like to visit and to live in houses like these, full of tricks, of stories, of migrating objects. Paintings, for example, when they migrate, are amazing. They give a new perspective to any place. They institute new angles, new beauties in everyday life.
Ultimately we live in a very used world.
There are places in my city today, which I only recognize by an old manhole lid, by old peeling walls, or by a house of aged people, who maybe don’t care for these things any longer, who lack either the energy or the money to deal with them. They make me feel good. To know that they have been used for a long time, that many have passed by them. I like places like these, with the floors worn by the steps, armchairs sagged by hours of pleasant reading and moving paintings.
I also belong in the universe of used things. The house of my soul, my body, has the marks and the scratches of life written in its floors, showing, at least to me, my life that has passed and will pass.
It was very badly used, at times, this house that I am. But well used too, because it has seen a lot of parties, it had a lot of visitors and, though asking for repairs as any old house worthy of the title, it is organized and pleasantly used in what really matters.
As I said, I like used houses.
