Many of my writings here in Sondo Saudade have been about being a stranger in a strange land—about being a Brazilian in the U.S., or becoming less American and more Brazilian, or just trying to make oneself understood no matter what the geography or nationality. During this time I have also been gathering photos, writings, and other materials and using them to create digital collage portraits that illustrate the blurred lines, hazy glows, and overlap of thoughts and memories that come with true transformation: Reassemblage of self, redefinition of identity, and relinquishment of control.
Three of these images were recently accepted for inclusion in a public art program in Perm, Russia. They will be included as one of many installations of art in bus stops and stations throughout the city.
Here are the images as well as some related sketches.
.
…… ….. ….. ….. …..
.
"Portraits: Rita" by Andrea Bonifacio
.
….. ….. ….. ….. …..
.
"Where You At?" by Andrea Bonifacio
.
….. ….. ….. ….. …..
.
"Portraits: Carol" by Andrea Bonifacio
.
….. ….. ….. ….. …..
.
"Handout" by Andrea Bonifacio
.
….. ….. ….. ….. …..
.
Portraits: Sandra
.
….. ….. ….. ….. …..
.
"Untitled" by Andrea Bonifacio
.
Muitos dos meus escritos aqui no Sondo Saudade foram sobre ser um estranhonuma terra estranha, especificamente, um brasileiro em os EUA, ou tornar-se menosamericano e mais brasileiro, ou apenas a tentar fazer-se entender que não importa a geografia ou a nacionalidade. Durante esse tempo eu também estive reunindofotografias, textos e outros materiais e utilizá-las para criar retratos colagem digitalque ilustram as linhas borradas, brilhos nebuloso, ea sobreposição de pensamentos e lembranças que vêm com a verdadeira transformação: remontagem de redefinição, auto de identidade, e devolução do controle.
Três dessas imagens foram recentemente aceitos para inclusão em um programa de arte pública em Perm, na Rússia. Eles serão incluídos como uma das muitas instalações de arte em paradas de ônibus e estações de toda a cidade.
Aqui estão as imagens, assim como alguns desenhos relacionados.
A little glass-blown pitcher arrived last week from the West Coast, a gift from my father, mailed by my mother. It’s in the colors of the Brazilian flag, of course. I admit I had higher hopes for it when the glass blower was creating it: Covering a ball of white-orange liquid glass with colored scraps, puffing the bottom out with a quick breath through a metal pipe, spinning the buffer around its bulbous base, sculpting a curved handle with a deft flourish. I watched the process eagerly and anticipated something equally hot, vibrant, and fun: A little jar of Carnival.
It doesn’t look like that. It looks like a pale green glass pitcher with a few blobs of yellow and white and a cobalt streak for a handle. It does not have the delicious, blended hues and graceful patterns of the other pieces that stocked the studio shelves; it almost looks like student’s work. But that’s not the artist’s fault, and I can’t complain: I am the one who picked the shape and the colors and instructed the artist on how I wanted it made. I had a picture in my mind, imagined yet untested; I planned the Before and envisioned the After, not discerning the In Between: Heating and bending, rolling in glass shards, thrust into the oven, twisting with iron tools.
I had another dream in my heart: Eu quero falar Português. I asked for it and it was given to me. I wasn’t aware of how much it could change me or my world. I did not recognize its value and what the end result could possibly be.
The last of my close American church buddies moved out of New York City this past fall. It was sad for me when she left, yet while I knew she was the one leaving town, it seemed as if I was the one who was standing in the boat as it sailed away from shore.
Her move forced me to suddenly recognize how much had changed—and to realize that, without knowing it, I’d been preparing to board that ship for some time. I’ve been learning new forms of navigation and communication—stocking up on provisions, maps, tools—met the captain and crew—found my post and my bunk. I was ready to go, I just didn’t feel the floorboards under my feet until that moment.
Some people move to a foreign country to immerse themselves in its language and culture: I’ve managed nearly the same right here at home. Almost all of my social time is spent with Brazilians or other folks with South American roots. I watch A Grande Família and pregadores poderosos on YouTube; listen to music by André Valdão and Gilberto Gil; configured my keyboard with the tilde and the cedilla; chat weekly with Tia Linda via Skype and keep up with cousins on Orkut. Not even God gets a break—half the time I pray in one language, half the other. I need a passport just to enter my own apartment.
I’m in Brazil as much as I can be without leaving Queens—and it’s are starting to feel normal. I don’t even think about it: With strangers or friends, I slip in and out of conversations in Portuguese fairly confidently. I still learning some subtleties—the subjective mood, the imperfect tenses—but in general I get by pretty well. It’s not the effort it used to be.
"Glass Rose" by Andrea Bonifacio
The big Brazzy crush is not over, but from what I know of romance, this feeling of “normal” means something has changed. Puppy love has grown up; the rollercoaster has settled to a steady cruise, a continual current of confidence curbed by occasional clumsiness.
When I first started learning Portuguese, I was hungrier for it. I would enter the N train, volume low on my headphones, one ear open to catch the sound of it. When I heard it, my heart would jump, I’d turn off the music, and listen in: Education by eavesdropping. Sometimes I would try speaking with those strangers: Waiting for a pause in their conversation, I’d gently start with geographical small talk: Ask if they are Brazilians, what city they are from, how long they have been here. Even if I misspoke horribly, they’d smile, correct, and encourage me: “Você fala muito bem!” For all my mistakes, each experience was a victory and a confirmation of progress.
Yet now the path is less a trail in the Adirondacks than a walk down the Las Vegas Strip. It’s as if I can’t help but see it—I cannot board a train without hearing that language somewhere nearby. I catch myself thinking, “Brazilians. Of course,” and frequently do not bother to talk to them.
I must remind myself: It wasn’t long ago that none of this existed. For years, I genuinely ached for this gift—to have this language, this family, this entire world. I knew it was missing in my life and I wanted to have it, but I felt powerless to fill the gap. Now, it’s been filled to overflowing, and somehow keeps on filling. And yet, you can get so used to a gift that you forget it was ever given; if you take something for granted, it can be taken away from you. May I never forget that this is a gift; may I constantly hunger for what it will require of me next.
I’d be foolish to think I did this myself—I have help and I know it. And my Helper will not let me forget, as long as I do my part. After all, are there really so many Brazilians around that I just never noticed before? Is it so strange, given the course my life has taken in just two years, to think that some divine directive is drawing them to my path? It was once a solitary stroll, but now it’s a marathon, and the occasional helpful passerby has become a cup-bearing crowd of water-station volunteers. I keep listening, they keep talking; I grow thirsty, they bring water; I keep running, they keep cheering… and no finish line in site.
"Glass Rose" (detail) by Andrea Bonifacio
Now I want to be one who hands out the cups. I’m keeping my eyes open for something new: When I reach out to speak to Brazilians, I see that many of them want to share something of themselves. Some seem lonely, hungry for interaction; their appetite is broadcasted by their language, with its grammatical openness, and their culture’s emotional availability. By asking them to help me speak their tongue, and by showing them I need their guidance, I give them a chance to help someone hungrier than they. I’ve been a New Yorker for many years now, but linguistically speaking, I’m the stranger in town, and they are the streetwise locals, comfortably quoting from their mental maps. Seeking out their stories and speaking with their words, I use my need to learn to help them grow. And in the end, we both feel at home again.
As discussed in my last entry, these are the paintings commissioned by Dinha Bonifacio.
Both paintings are of watercolor, markers, and collage on paper, with glossolalia script.
Ao cumprir-se o dia de Pentecostes, estavam todos reunidos no mesmo lugar. De repente veio do céu um ruído, como que de um vento impetuoso, e encheu toda a casa onde estavam sentados. E lhes apareceram umas línguas como que de fogo, que se distribuíam, e sobre cada um deles pousou uma.
–Atos 2: 1-3
Linguas de Fogo (Tongues of Fire)
Detail:
Chegou a Dia de Pentecost (The Day of Pentecost Arrived)
Detail:
When the day of Pentecost came, they were all together in one place. Suddenly a sound like the blowing of a violent wind came from heaven and filled the whole house where they were sitting. They saw what seemed to be tongues of fire that separated and came to rest on each of them.
–Acts 2: 1-3
My brothers and I grew up in a very non-Brazilian household. We ate hotdogs and sloppy joes, watched Mork and Mindi and the Sound of Music; we listened to Rick Dees’ American Top 40 and played Atari and Pong. We went camping in the summer, made snowmen in the winter, and raked pine needles all year round.
And of course, we spoke English—a necessary decision on Mom’s part, as she struggled to adapt to American life while managing a household, husband, and three children. She taught us a few easy phrases in Portuguese—Durma bem! (Sleep well!) Até amanhã! (See you tomorrow!)—but for the rest, it was English, inside the home and out.
During those years, o universo brasileiro was mostly limited to letters, photos, and phone calls. The letters, written in a bulky, heavy script on crinkled tissue paper, came in envelopes with yellow-and-green striped borders. The photos of Mom’s family—properly posed, well-dressed, and smiling warmly—often featured my grandmother (minha avó), whose hair was always a dark chocolate brown, no matter her age.
Incoming phone calls came spontaneously, at holidays and odd hours, while outbound calls were made at economically sensible times monitored closely by my father. Sometimes Mom would bring the phone to my ear to partake of my relatives’ parroty chatter. But for the most part, it sounded to me like just so much tropical noise. Minha avó may as well have been an aviary.
"Parrotphrase" by Andrea Bonifacio
As I grew up, those calls often made me feel uncomfortable: Locked out by language limitations, I couldn’t take part in the conversations, but neither could I sit and listen for very long before the accompanying emotional effusiveness overwhelmed me (Brazilians gush easily, and frequently with tears). There were times when the volume and speed of their syllables and the intense saudade on both ends of the line made me want to leave the room.
Over the years, Mom communicated with her clan via Vovó (the familiar form of grandmother, like “Granny” or “Grandma”) and Tia Dinha. Dinha, my mother’s only sister, is fun-loving, joyful, a little ditzy, and not at all intellectual. When my mother and I visited Brazil during my grade school years, I spent a lot of time giggling with her, and at her facial expressions, exuberance, and sometimes silly antics. I found her caring, affectionate, and highly entertaining, even if I didn’t understand a word she said.
Tia Dinha 2009
About two years ago, Tia Dinha began asking for me to send her some art to hang in her apartment in Brazil. For many weeks, Mom repeated this request to me, but I did nothing about it. I thought it was sweet, but at the time, I honestly felt I couldn’t be bothered, at least not bothered to respond quickly. I had all these other responsibilities–you know, a life–to deal with first.
Aside from just being busy, I found a number of unanswered questions to deal with around this request: Which painting did she want? What color and size? What about the medium—collage, glossolalia, watercolor? What about the theme or subject matter? I impatiently pitched each question at my mother, but she each time bunted back the same simple, pride-pricking answer: It didn’t matter. Tia had no opinion on my art at all–she just wanted a painting made by her niece. This was annoying–and a little insulting.
With all my excuses, it was easy to keep saying “later.” It’s only family, it’s just a hobby, she doesn’t care all that much what I send, she’s not going anywhere anyway, and I have more important things to do… But now I see there was something more: Over time, I had gotten used to holding the emotional handset away from my ear. I learned to practice a certain amount of long-distance-call moderation with both my culture and my family, and had gotten used to it. But what can I say? Estou aprendendo português, estou aprendendo o amor de Deus, e também o amor do Brazil. This language is making me fall in love with Brazil; it’s a tool of the Divine in the hand of the Carpenter. It is pulling the parrots back to my ear and the people into my heart whether I like it or not. And how could I know what I might miss if I continued to resist?
So I repented, pushed pride aside, and, just to spite my sense of self-importance, took the opposite tack: I decided to use this cross-cultural comission as an opportunity to improve; to re-learn generosity and un-learn self-indulgence; and to begin closing those long-distance gaps.
With this decision, it quickly became foreign language pop quiz time. Having exhausted my mother’s ideas for How Do You Send a Painting to Aunt Dinha, I exercised the little Portuguese I’d learned so far and contacted my cousin in Brazil. The emails may as well have been written in crayon.
"Dear Cousin" by Andrea Bonifacio
Meu primo is not an artist, but with his youth, and the time he’s able to spend visiting Tia at her apartment, it seemed right to make him my muse for this project. He patiently paddled through my addled acentos and quaky questions about colors, styles, and other details, and helped me to narrow down my options.
In the end, I created two new paintings, with watercolor, collage, markers, glossolalia and Pentecost references. Click here to see them.
After a couple of weeks’ travel under stars and over seas, they made it safely to Christmastown, Brazil. My aunt is delighted with them. I am happy to see my paintings on her wall, and a little startled to realize how far they have come from Astoria, Queens.
Tia Dinha's Ap-art-ment
Once I received this photo, the idea came to me:
Go to Brazil, and get into this picture.
And further: Get into this apartment and into this family. Continue changing the image you have of them in you heart, and how you fit in among them. Let their strangeness become familiar and their rough spots comfortable; learn from their mistakes and revel in their joyful appeal. Speak their language and listen to them speak yours, whether English, Portuguese, or parrot. And keep your heart open as you go.
“Ao cumprir-se o dia de Pentecostes, estavam todos reunidos no mesmo lugar.” –Atos 2:1 / Acts 2:1
When that day arrives… we’ll be all together, in one place.
sondo saudade 