Ετοιμάζεις τον καφέ, διαλέγεις φως να χτυπάει ανάλογα της ηλικίας την πλάτη ή το φύλλο της εφημερίδας, αφήνεις και κάτι από τα απομεινάρια του πρωινού να σου κάνουν παρέα και αφήνεσαι στην ανάγνωση του Κυριακάτικου φύλλου. Νομίζεις ότι ελέγχεις την κατάσταση, όμως, όπως σε τόσες άλλες βεβαιότητες, υπάρχει η ανατροπή.
Κι ανατρέπονται οι σκέψεις, οι πεποιθήσεις, κυρίως οι βεβαιότητες.
Δεν θα γινόταν κι αλλιώς αφού αφήνεις τόσους ανθρώπους με ένα ξεφύλλισμα ανάμεσα σε αντίχειρα και δείκτη να παρεισφρήσουν πρώτα στην κάμαρα και ύστερα στις βάσεις δεδομένων του εγκεφάλου σου.
Μία μία οι σελίδες και οι στήλες σε πάνε αλλού, στη Λιβύη, στον Καντάφι, στον καρκίνο του Ούγκο Τσάβες, στην επιχείρηση διάσωσης νεαρού αυτόχειρα. Γρήγορα περνάς τις ειδήσεις για να φτάσεις τελικά σ’ αυτό που για τον καθένα αποτελεί η κάλυψη του ελεύθερου χρόνου.
Θεατρικά.
Αρχή ούσας περιόδου και το πρωτοσέλιδο στο ΤΕΧΝΕΣ κ ΓΡΑΜΜΑΤΑ μονοπωλούν οι απολογισμοί «κατά γενική ομολογία η περυσινή θεατρική σεζόν δεν πήγε άσχημα – οι θερινές περιοδείες ″δεν πήγαν″ όπως αναμενόταν, ειδικά…» και νέες αναμονές «σύμφωνα με εκτιμήσεις τα θεάματα φέτος θα επηρεαστούν πολύ από τον παράγοντα μετακίνηση», συμπαραγωγές…εκτιμήσεις έχουν προγραμματιστεί για φέτος παραγωγές με ″μινιμαλιστική″ διανομή, κάποιες νέες, κάποιες σε επανάληψη.
Και να, φτάνεις στα εικαστικά.
Επετειακή έκθεση του Wallraf-Richartz της Κολωνίας, το οποίο συμπληρώνει φέτος τα 150 χρόνια ζωής. Στο άρθρο δεσπόζει ένας μέγας πίνακας του Gustave Courbet, μια κυρία φαίνεται να απολαμβάνει σ’ ένα μπαλκόνι τον καφέ της, θέα ένα δάσος. Η έρευνα απέδειξε πως ο ζωγράφος αρχικά είχε σχεδιάσει και έναν κύριο, ο οποίος έπινε μαζί με την κυρία καφέ. Τι μεσολάβησε και ο Courbet εξαφάνισε αργότερα τον κύριο και τον έκανε μέρος του δάσους, δεν έμαθε ποτέ κανείς. Ούτε βέβαια μπορούσε να φανταστεί πως σχεδόν 153 χρόνια αργότερα θα αποκαλυπτόταν…στα περίεργα μάτια μας με την βοήθεια της τεχνολογίας.
Εκεί ήταν που η εφημερίδα έχασε το ενδιαφέρον και συμβαίνει το «αφήνεις τόσους ανθρώπους με ένα ξεφύλλισμα ανάμεσα σε αντίχειρα και δείκτη να παρεισφρήσουν».
Το δικαίωμα στο μυστικό ήταν ο κώδικάς τους. Από την ημέρα που του το είπα ανακουφίστηκε. Ώρες περνούσε στο κυλικείο της να πίνει τον καφέ και ύστερα το ουζάκι του βλέποντάς της, θαυμάζοντάς της, ελέγχοντας τις κινήσεις της. Ποτέ του δεν της εκμυστηρεύτηκε το πάθος.
Όταν του επισήμανα το πλάνο που είχε τοποθετηθεί εκμυστηρεύτηκε τον έρωτά του. Αυτή την ευχαρίστηση να μοιράζεται τον πρωινό καφέ και το μεσημεριανό ουζάκι μαζί της. Αυτό το λίγο ζητούσε από τη ζωή της. Αυτό το λίγο έκαναν τα μαύρα μάτια του να λάμπουν και να χάνονται πίσω μου, ενώ μου μιλούσε για την κυρία του κυλικείου. Το πρόσωπό του κοκκίνιζε από το πάθος, την ντροπή και τις ενοχές.
Τότε, όταν είδα το κόκκινο του προσώπου του, μίλησα για το δικαίωμα στο μυστικό. Το μικρό του αθώο μυστικό.
Να υπάρχει σ’ ένα πλάνο μυστικό. Το δικαίωμα να χαρίζει ρόλους στον εαυτό του, όταν η ζωή επιβάλλει τους δικούς της δύσκολους ρόλους εκεί που τον καφέ τον πίνεις μόνος σου και την ζάλη του ούζου την μοιράζεσαι μ’ άλλους άλλων μυστικών.
Στο μυστικό αφήνεις τις πρέπουσες αποστάσεις, τα βλέμματα διασταυρώνονται πέρα στο δάσος και ο ενδιάμεσος αέρας εισπνέοντάς τον κουβαλάει μόρια του αρώματος άλλου κορμιού.
«Ό,τι θέλει ας καταλάβει.» Στις κουβέντες μας μπαινόβγαινε στην ζωή της, έκανε σενάρια. Πρωταγωνίστρια αυτή, πρωταγωνιστής αυτός. Το σκηνικό χωρίς περιγραφή. Ούτε και το είδος των φαντασιώσεων. Δειλά άφηνε λουλούδια εποχής στον πάγκο, φρόντιζε για την κατανάλωση. Ζούσε για ένα τίναγμα των μαλλιών της για το άγγιγμα στα ρέστα, για το χαμόγελο που επέστρεφε με τα ρέστα.
Το δικαίωμα στο μυστικό του έδωσε αέρα. Αύξησε τον χρόνο μαζί της. Τον χρόνο που την έβλεπε, τον χρόνο που σιωπηλά έπινε τον καφέ παραδίπλα της. Όταν τον συναντούσα ανταλλάσαμε ματιές που ελάφρυναν τις ενοχές του, προστάτευαν το μυστικό του. Αυτό το μυστικό που ομόρφυνε τον χώρο με τις 3-4 καρέκλες κυλικείου, το άχαρο ψυγείο, το ψυγείο με τα αναψυκτικά, το τρανζιστοράκι, το ημερολόγιο και το εικόνισμα της Ελεούσας στον τοίχο.
Δεν ήταν το δάσος του Courbet, αλλά εκεί, ως ο άλλος κύριος, σήκωνε το φλιτζάνι του για το ρόφημα.
Μετά έρχονται άλλοι καιροί, και οι κύριοι σβήνονται είτε από τον καλλιτέχνη με εντολή της κυρίας ή του κυρίου της κυρίας ή με εντολή του άλλου, του μαύρου και άχαρου.
Μυστικά και δικαιώματα κάνουν τα πλάνα τους και η ζωή τα δικά της.
Το ποιος είναι στο πλάνο ένα μυστικό το καθορίζει.
Αφαιρεί και προσθέτει, κάνει την είδηση. Μόνο που κάτι είναι αληθινό. Αυτό που υπήρξε στις ματιές των ανθρώπων καθώς σαρώνουν το πρόσωπο του αγαπημένου πριν αργά, συμβιβαστικά κοιτάξουν πέρα στο δάσος, τον ορίζοντα, τον περαστικό, τον χρόνο που κλέβει μυστικά και δικαιώματα.
Στην άδεια αίθουσα του μουσείου και του κυλικείου οι θεατές θα κοντοσταθούν μπροστά στους κυρίους που αχνοφαίνονται να πίνουν καφέ με τις κυρίες και θα αναρωτηθούν αν υπήρξαν.
Γρήγορα θα προσπεράσουν εκφράζοντας μια δυο φράσεις απορίας και σχολιασμού και θα αναζητήσουν το δικό τους δικαίωμα στο μυστικό ως επιβεβαίωση ότι υπήρχαν.
Όμως η έκθεση, συνεχίζει το ένθετο, εξαιτίας του γρίφου είχε μεγάλη επισκεψιμότητα.
Ιδίως τις Κυριακές. Τα ένθετα των κυριακάτικων συμβάλλουν στην επιτυχία διάδοσης του συμβάντος.
English Translation
Title: The right to secrecy
(Written by Maria Toloudi)
I've been always asking myself how a human thought changes course.
You fix yourself a coffee, you then decide, depending on your age, whether you want the light to fall from above or shine on the newspaper directly, you pick some breakfast leftovers for companionship, and you withdraw into reading the paper's Sunday Edition. You think you’ve got a grip on the situation, but as is the case with so many points of view, there is always a setback.
Thoughts get reversed, same as convictions, and especially certainties.
Couldn’t be otherwise as you allow so many persons, by page flipping with a thumb and a forefinger, to be unleashed into the room first, and then enter the databases of your brain.
One by one, pages and columns transport you to some other region, to Libya and Gaddafi, to Hugo Chavez’s cancer situation, to the rescue operation of a suicidal youth. You fast forward through the news to eventually reach what is also known as a person's leisure waste of time.
The Theater.
At the start of a new season as it happens, front-page news in ARTS & LETTERS are dominated by stories like "arguably, the last theatrical season didn’t go that bad after all - summer tours "didn’t quite work out" as expected, especially..." and new prospects “per current estimates, entertainment this year will be largely affected by the factor of touring”, co-productions ... and assessments about how this year’s plays have been scheduled for "minimal" role distribution, a few new ones, and some reprises.
And then, you arrive at the visual arts section.
A Memorial Exhibition at the Wallraf-Richartz, Cologne, to commemorate 150 years since its inauguration. A great painting by Gustave Courbet dominates the article; of a lady who seems to be enjoying her coffee at the balcony, overlooking a forest. Research has shown that the artist originally painted a gentleman too, who was supposedly drinking coffee with the lady. Something had happened however, and Courbet made the gentleman disappear; he turned him into part of the forest, we never found out why. Nor could he possibly imagine that almost 153 years later this very fact would be revealed to our curious eyesight with the help of technology.
It was at this point that the newspaper lost interest, and where the "allowing many to escape by the page-flipping with a thumb and a forefinger" indeed occurred.
The right to secrecy was their code. Ever since I told him, he was relieved. He spent hours at her canteen drinking coffee and his ouzo, staring at her, admiring her, watching her movements carefully. He never acknowledged his passion though.
When I mentioned to him about the setting that became far too obvious, he admitted his infatuation. His indulgence of sharing morning coffee, and midday ouzo with her. Only that much had he been asking of her existence. That wee-little made his black eyes shine and withdraw sideways, while he was talking to me about the canteen lady. His face blushed of passion, shame and feelings of guilt.
When I saw the red in his face, I spoke about the right to secrecy. His tiny little innocent secret.
To subsist inside a secret plan. To own the right to propose to himself different roles, whereas life in turn imposes its own challenging roles, each time you sip your coffee alone, and you share your ouzo light-headedness with others, subsisting too in their own secrets.
When living with secrets, you maintain the necessary distance, while glances cross each other in the park, and the air that you breath carries with it the scent molecules of the other person’s body.
“Let 'er think whatever she wants to”. In our conversations he was flowing in and out of her life, he used to build story plots. Her at the leading role, him too. An undefined setting. Unspecified daydreams. He's been leaving season flowers behind, on the bench, humbly … he used to boost on his own her canteen consumption. He lived just to see her casually throw her hair sideways, touch the change, her smile that accompanied her handing back the change.
The right to secrecy encouraged him. He intensified the time he spent with her. The time that he looked at her, the time that he quietly sipped coffee next to her. Each time I met him, we exchanged glances that eased his guilt, and protected his secret. The secret that made the room appear picturesque with three to four canteen chairs, an unattractive fridge, the fridge with soft drinks, a little transistor radio, the calendar, and the icon of the Merciful Virgin on the wall.
It wasn’t exactly Courbet’s forest, but there as well, very much like the other gentleman, he also lifted his cup to drink from.
Then, different epochs came along, and gentlemen are erased either by the artist, following orders by a lady, or the lady’s husband, or by somebody else’s mandate, somebody more obscure and repellant.
Secrets and rights prepare their plans, and life prepares its own.
Who takes part in a plan is only defined by a secret.
Things are subtracted and augmented, and this is becoming news. However, one fact is truthfully genuine. That is what occurs in people's glances as they scan the face of a beloved before they slowly, but compromisingly stare the other way into the woods, the horizon, to a passerby, and into the passage of time that swallows secrets and rights.
In the empty space of a museum and a canteen audiences will stand by in front of those gentlemen, who distantly seem to be drinking coffee with ladies, and wonder if they ever existed indeed.
They will hastily pass by, uttering queries and comments in a few statements, and they will seek their own rights in secrecy as a confirmation that they ever existed.
However, the exhibition, the insert continued, enjoyed hefty attendance because of that riddle. Precisely on Sundays. Sunday Edition inserts contribute to the success of news dissemination about an event.
You fix yourself a coffee, you then decide, depending on your age, whether you want the light to fall from above or shine on the newspaper directly, you pick some breakfast leftovers for companionship, and you withdraw into reading the paper's Sunday Edition. You think you’ve got a grip on the situation, but as is the case with so many points of view, there is always a setback.
Thoughts get reversed, same as convictions, and especially certainties.
Couldn’t be otherwise as you allow so many persons, by page flipping with a thumb and a forefinger, to be unleashed into the room first, and then enter the databases of your brain.
One by one, pages and columns transport you to some other region, to Libya and Gaddafi, to Hugo Chavez’s cancer situation, to the rescue operation of a suicidal youth. You fast forward through the news to eventually reach what is also known as a person's leisure waste of time.
The Theater.
At the start of a new season as it happens, front-page news in ARTS & LETTERS are dominated by stories like "arguably, the last theatrical season didn’t go that bad after all - summer tours "didn’t quite work out" as expected, especially..." and new prospects “per current estimates, entertainment this year will be largely affected by the factor of touring”, co-productions ... and assessments about how this year’s plays have been scheduled for "minimal" role distribution, a few new ones, and some reprises.
And then, you arrive at the visual arts section.
A Memorial Exhibition at the Wallraf-Richartz, Cologne, to commemorate 150 years since its inauguration. A great painting by Gustave Courbet dominates the article; of a lady who seems to be enjoying her coffee at the balcony, overlooking a forest. Research has shown that the artist originally painted a gentleman too, who was supposedly drinking coffee with the lady. Something had happened however, and Courbet made the gentleman disappear; he turned him into part of the forest, we never found out why. Nor could he possibly imagine that almost 153 years later this very fact would be revealed to our curious eyesight with the help of technology.
It was at this point that the newspaper lost interest, and where the "allowing many to escape by the page-flipping with a thumb and a forefinger" indeed occurred.
The right to secrecy was their code. Ever since I told him, he was relieved. He spent hours at her canteen drinking coffee and his ouzo, staring at her, admiring her, watching her movements carefully. He never acknowledged his passion though.
When I mentioned to him about the setting that became far too obvious, he admitted his infatuation. His indulgence of sharing morning coffee, and midday ouzo with her. Only that much had he been asking of her existence. That wee-little made his black eyes shine and withdraw sideways, while he was talking to me about the canteen lady. His face blushed of passion, shame and feelings of guilt.
When I saw the red in his face, I spoke about the right to secrecy. His tiny little innocent secret.
To subsist inside a secret plan. To own the right to propose to himself different roles, whereas life in turn imposes its own challenging roles, each time you sip your coffee alone, and you share your ouzo light-headedness with others, subsisting too in their own secrets.
When living with secrets, you maintain the necessary distance, while glances cross each other in the park, and the air that you breath carries with it the scent molecules of the other person’s body.
“Let 'er think whatever she wants to”. In our conversations he was flowing in and out of her life, he used to build story plots. Her at the leading role, him too. An undefined setting. Unspecified daydreams. He's been leaving season flowers behind, on the bench, humbly … he used to boost on his own her canteen consumption. He lived just to see her casually throw her hair sideways, touch the change, her smile that accompanied her handing back the change.
The right to secrecy encouraged him. He intensified the time he spent with her. The time that he looked at her, the time that he quietly sipped coffee next to her. Each time I met him, we exchanged glances that eased his guilt, and protected his secret. The secret that made the room appear picturesque with three to four canteen chairs, an unattractive fridge, the fridge with soft drinks, a little transistor radio, the calendar, and the icon of the Merciful Virgin on the wall.
It wasn’t exactly Courbet’s forest, but there as well, very much like the other gentleman, he also lifted his cup to drink from.
Then, different epochs came along, and gentlemen are erased either by the artist, following orders by a lady, or the lady’s husband, or by somebody else’s mandate, somebody more obscure and repellant.
Secrets and rights prepare their plans, and life prepares its own.
Who takes part in a plan is only defined by a secret.
Things are subtracted and augmented, and this is becoming news. However, one fact is truthfully genuine. That is what occurs in people's glances as they scan the face of a beloved before they slowly, but compromisingly stare the other way into the woods, the horizon, to a passerby, and into the passage of time that swallows secrets and rights.
In the empty space of a museum and a canteen audiences will stand by in front of those gentlemen, who distantly seem to be drinking coffee with ladies, and wonder if they ever existed indeed.
They will hastily pass by, uttering queries and comments in a few statements, and they will seek their own rights in secrecy as a confirmation that they ever existed.
However, the exhibition, the insert continued, enjoyed hefty attendance because of that riddle. Precisely on Sundays. Sunday Edition inserts contribute to the success of news dissemination about an event.
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