Modern art

 

    Foto divulgação

                  On concluding my article of the series “The age of mediocrity”, I classified Pablo Picasso more as a skillful psychologist and expert in marketing and advertising than a painter. I never envisaged him as a great painter because - in my sinful ignorance - I believed, and still believe that a necessary qualification of any painter is the ability to draw very well indeed. I repeat: very well. A talent that is not widespread and perhaps inaccessible solely through “muscular” obstinacy. Something like the “musical ear”, a gift. In reality, it is not easy to reproduce a true likeness of a face, a galloping horse, a human figure in a less than conventional position, the movement of waves on the sea, a waterfall, etc. 

However, of all the items of a generic “age of mediocrity”, that which gave me the most work in order to arrive at some kind of conclusion - on my own account - was the definition of what art is; how to interpret the reaction of the public when faced with a painting or sculpture; the difficult “explanation” of the sensation of beauty and the vast nomenclature that arose following classicism. Anyone who wants to understand the meaning of Impressionism, Post-impressionism, Fauvism, Cubism, Expressionism, Futurism, Dadaism, Surrealism, Concrete Art, Abstraction, Primitivism, Pop Art, Minimalism, etc., will face great difficulty in establishing boundaries between these various “schools”. And to further complicate such a slippery subject, the “post-” variations should also be taken into account, given that the artistic species is highly mercurial. 

There is, however, a common thread in all these movements: the more modern the work, the less the need for the physical and mental “sweat” of the artist. To put it another way: the more modern the painting, the greater the degree - dispensing with effort - of abstraction, subjectivism, valorization of quantity over quality, and absolute need of advertising for sale of the “product”. Without advertising, nobody is a “genius”. Actual genius is the brain behind the promotion of the painter. 

If, just for fun, someone who had never before wielded a paintbrush - and even despised the art of painting - made some quick marks on a canvas, with closed eyes, and asked Picasso to sign it, the painting in question would be worth millions of dollars, thus proving that it is not the picture that is important, but the “brand”. In this hypothetical experience, so-called and perhaps naive “connoisseurs” of the style of the famous painter - seeing the authenticity of the signature, by Picasso himself, a joker - would say that, with this canvas, the “genius” once again showed the versatility of his talent. 

Vincent Van Gogh only sold one painting in his lifetime. Those few people who purchased his paintings, for next to nothing soon after his death, had the maximum financial interest in exalting the genius of the painter. The more highly they praised his work, the greater the value paintings would have that were acquired after his passing. Without doubt, Van Gogh was an extraordinary person, but it is strange to think that his pictures only came to be so highly valued after his death. Further proof that “financial psychology”, so to speak, has an immense influence on the valorization of works of art. The question must be asked whether the genius of the Dutch painter, when he was alive, was so non-apparent to connoisseurs of the time, that it was necessary for his pictures to change hands in order to be worth a fortune? Do “art dealers”, who are only familiar with the business of “dealing in art”, have a better “eye for art” than real scholars of art?

I would feel more comforted if I knew that the genius of Van Gogh had been recognized when he was still alive. He was a tragic man who suffered greatly, which only inspires our sympathy. And with a detail: he knew how to draw. His good character, sensitivity and personality deserve the greatest respect, but his example is proof of the fact that money has contaminated and dominates the world of the arts. Paintings and sculptures have become more of a financial issue - just like the actions of corporations -, than an issue of actual art. Here lies the explanation of why I have included visual arts in my series of articles on mediocrity in general. Money has introduced mediocrity into the arts. 

Leonardo da Vinci took five years to paint the “Mona Lisa”. He painted for just a few hours in a single day, continuing little by little on others, striving to achieve perfection in details. In any case, a considerable amount of time to paint a single picture. In counterpart, Picasso even said, according to quotes on the internet, “Give me a museum and I'll fill it”. 

As any museum is always vast, only a fast-working and roguishly “abstract” painter could fill it alone. With some twenty or thirty paintings a day, Picasso would be able to deliver the goods in a few months. Proof of the fact that it was quantity that interested him, and the mere declaration, by the artist himself, of the existence of  a deeply emotional “meaning” in those few brush strokes. So profound that it was only felt by him. Believe it if you want to.  

Tom Stoppard, an observer of modern art, even said that the only criterion for distinguishing a painting from a modern sculpture would be the following: “if it hangs on a wall it's a painting, and if you can walk around it it's a sculpture”. 

Richard Schmid, probably a connoisseur of the subject - because he is mentioned on art sites - said that “I honestly believe students of painting in the next century will laugh at the abstract art movement. They will marvel at such a drawn-out regression in the plastic arts”. 

Al Capp, in his distinctive, more brutal and direct style, said that “abstract art is produced by the talentless, sold by the unscrupulous, and bought by the utterly bewildered”. 

Another harsh critic of modern art even said that “trying to understand modern art is like trying to follow the plot in a bowl of alphabet soup”. 

And, finally, what did the prince of painters, Leonardo da Vinci, say? He said that “where the spirit does not work with the hand, there is no art”. Elitism? No, simple recognition of the fact that the artist should add some emotion to the perfect technique of drawing and painting. 

In other words: without the “hand” of the true artist, the subjectivism of the painter is just not enough, however much he sincerely feels excited - the great excuse for the modern painter who only trusts in what he feels, not in that which may be sincerely felt by the public. 

The bottom line is that the essential function of art is to give rise to pleasure. Real pleasure, not the false pleasure required by fashion. At a piano concert of classical music, a pianist, even cold in feeling but endowed with an uncommon technique - so uncommon that it overwhelms the audience - will be a better piano artist than a key-hammerer, tremendously excited, sweating, groaning, eyes on target, but by playing everything wrong, almost punching the keyboard. 

If, in the case of modern art, that which matters is the emotion of the artist - and not the effect of the product of his hands on others - it is possible to imagine that science has invented a device capable of recording the degree of emotion and inspiration during performance of a musical piece. A device, of proven effectiveness, similar to that used today to measure blood pressure. Or similar to a current lie detector. The difference is that the latter indicates the existence of lies, whereas the other, more modern, would prove the real sensitivity of the artist. Let us continue, giving an example. 

The arrival in London of a new musical genius is announced with great fanfare; a foreign pianist - so brilliant that few listeners would have the ability to “understand” the profound nature of his art. His manager would say that the artist’s inspiration cannot be feigned, given that the aforementioned infallible device would be attached to his arm, showing evidence of the maximum degree of feeling that a human being can endure.  

In the advertising that would precede the inaugural concert of this newly discovered genius, there would be a warning that individuals lacking an exceptional degree of musical sensitivity should not even purchase tickets, as they would probably not be able to “capture” the depth of the art hidden in simple appearances. The presence of the great artist in the country would even be doing a favor to Brazilians. It would show our own people an artistic wealth that they had not noticed in their old folklore. Such a lack of interest in selling tickets to people without any artistic sensitivity would even stimulate demand for such tickets. Everyone buying tickets would be demonstrating how sensitive they are to artistic beauty.   

On the announced day, with a packed Royal Festival Hall, a “sincere emotions detector” would be attached to the pianist’s arm. After an impressive silence, the artist would begin to play, using only one finger: “Oh, can you wash a sailor's shirt, Oh, can you wash it fine? Oh, can you wash a sailor's shirt and hang it on the line?” 

The audience, dumbfounded, wanting to laugh but dreading being considered ignorant, would maintain a straight face but continue to observe the immense electronic panel - connected to the “sincerity detector” - in the hope of seeing an inadequate “sincerity” result that would authorize the booing imprisoned in everyone’s throat. The device, however, would confirm the maximum level of artistic emotion felt by a human being. The extraordinary inspiration of the pianist would thus be duly demonstrated. With this, those in the audience would only complaint silently to themselves: “I really am extremely ignorant, but I would not confess this to anyone. I will give a standing ovation”.

 And if the artist suffers a stroke, his heart unable to withstand so much emotion, and drops dead on completing the special concert? There would be a long theoretical discussion on the brilliance of pianist and the mysterious reasons that made the artist choose this style and not another. Among others, the questions raised would include “Why was it necessary to ask whether someone can wash a sailor’s shirt? What is the symbolism involved?”, and so on. 

Of course, I am exaggerating in this example; however, in substance, it is that which occurs with the excuse that artists only have to think about what they feels in order to express their art. Only think about themselves. They are not concerned whether or not the public felt authentic pleasure. If there is pleasure on the part of the public, it will be the pleasure of “being up-to-date, one of the crowd, a follower of fashion”. 

Going back to painting, everything was going very well in Classicism, until a technical novelty arose, outside the art world, which shook the pacific panorama that emphasized the art of drawing things as they are seen by the eyes: photography. With a simple “flash”, anything could be “drawn” with an accuracy of line and balance of proportions that only a Leonardo da Vinci could achieve. The spread and improvement of photography was the saving excuse of many artists who, despite their enthusiasm for painting, could not draw. 

The path - or shortcut - was open for the man who admired the arts, identified himself emotionally with them, and would like to be part of that mysterious world, full of temptations. The women of the time - the late 19th century and early 20th century - felt a special attraction for artists, generally impetuous and free of restrictions in matters related to other men’s wives. Today, they probably prefer the “artists of finance” and mass sports; far more profitable, or should I say attractive to them. Painters were, then, almost always men. 

The art world - when sincere and authentic - really has an interesting facet. Its insights are frequently right. Freud confessed that he rarely made some kind of discovery without  some poet having been there first. True art is good in this respect: it attains “without deliberately wanting to”, by intuition, areas not yet reached by science. It flies, although falling frequently, whereas the scientist goes on foot. 

With the advent of photography, there was also the emergence of “smart painters”, who only wanted a quick and easy path to fame and its by-product: money. It was artistic “democracy” that would allow any audacious artist, without any drawing talent, to bold facedly “appear” and draw attention. “The order now is to scandalize!”. The more shocking his work - in non-conformance with the normal appearance of objects - the greater the “scandal” capable of attracting attention, with good business consequences. 

With as view to confronting the most distrustful or skeptical observers, who said that there was only audacity in the work, not art, there were two clever excuses: 1) those who want the exact reproduction of a landscape or object should take a photo; and 2) in the arts, what really matters is the feeling of the artist, not the visible physical product of this emotion. 

It was Pablo Picasso who, with great frankness, raised the argument that, in painting and sculpture, what really matters is the emotion of the artist, not what we know as “mere reality”. In his opinion, the painter can even paint with his eyes closed, provided that he is “inspired”. The general public should not be concerned with appearances. It should only “feel” the same as that “felt by the artist”. He stated this nonsense with such conviction - extraordinary psychologist that he was - that some millionaires began to buying his paintings, thus giving rise to immense valorization of any picture with the signature “Picasso”. He afforded himself the luxury of saying that he was not sufficiently rich to have a “Picasso” in his home. 

There follow some of his quotes, taken from the internet: 

“I paint objects as I think them, not as I see them”. 

“Painting is a blind man's profession. He paints not what he sees, but what he feels, what he tells himself about what he has seen”. Remark: he was a joker. 

 “The people who make art their business are mostly imposters”. 

“The world today doesn't make sense, so why should I paint pictures that do?” 

“To draw you must close your eyes and sing”.  

“Who sees the human face correctly: the photographer, the mirror, or the painter?” 

What explains, then, the permanence of modern art and its high economic value, even though easy, brief, shocking and out of touch with visible reality? 

In my opinion, the explanation lies in the personality of the artist. In audacity, firmness, bold faced effrontery, “charisma” and “marked personality”, as was the case of Picasso, a great psychologist. Or in integrity and compassion, as in the cases of Vincent Van Gogh and his friend Paul Gauguin. It is impossible to read the biography of these two without being touched by such sensitive souls. Did they know how to draw? They knew enough; more than the average attained by people who are not artists. However, they were people of immense integrity.  

The character of artists “contaminates” their work positively or negatively. It has a great influence regarding their acceptance by the public. Including their political leanings. Picasso himself benefitted from this. He had interesting ideas and was frank in his opinions, as we can see in the above quotes. If he had been a man of right-wing sympathies or a Nazi, he would never have been considered a famous painter. “Guernica” gave him a boost. The same occurs in other arts: the personality of the artist “contaminates” his or her work, for better or worse. 

Abstraction is more appropriate ground for philosophy, not painting. I think that, at least for a long time, human beings will still require some degree of virtuosity, difficulty and hard work on the part of all painters. In sports competitions, the circus, cinematographic performances and the writing of tales, novels, chronicles and poems, it is expected that artists express themselves with an extraordinary degree of skill. I cannot accept that a writer just “feels” refined emotions in his mysterious head, only writing nonsense, or even things that are incomprehensible to the writer himself. Hence the general well-founded prejudice against modern art that is not pleasing to look at and can mean anything: - “It’s too easy. Based on this, even I deserve a prize...”, more sensible people think.   

Now a brief word about music. Of all the arts, I think that it is the less susceptible to deceit. Musical mediocrity cannot stay afloat for very long, as it can be assessed in a matter of minutes. It sinks because there is no financial advantage in keeping it afloat, when it pleases practically nobody. It is only necessary to listen to a new piece of music for one minute in order to decide whether it is worthwhile to continue listening. The scale of its production and the size of its public are such that it is not worth spending on advertising for music that nobody wants to hear, or even less buy in disc form. On the other hand, in the case of modern painting, there is a restricted market of rich buyers, the paintings functioning as a store of value, when the name of the painter is very well known. The painting is physical, palpable, concrete and exists, as if it were a negotiable instrument. On the other hand, music that nobody wants to hear is mere noise, of no interest to anyone; there is no way that it can be turned into a gemstone. 

There only lingers a doubt with respect to jazz. Most people do not like it, as there is no identifiable melody. In my opinion, jazz should only be used as a composing technique. The musicians would continue improvising without an end in sight, but when, by chance, the errant instrumentalists “stumble upon” a new melody, they would develop it, thus composing a “normal” piece of music. 

Summing up, modern art has its use in the manufacture of decorative items, toys, furniture, book covers, etc. Not as great painting or sculpture. 

This article was written in Portuguese and translated by John Upson      (upson@translations.pro.br) 

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To contact the author please use the following e-mail,
oripec@terra.com.br 

Francisco Cesar Pinheiro Rodrigues
retired judge

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Poupança trágica

 

 Foto divulgação 

    João, metalúrgico, parece reunir coragem, olhando a marmita de alumínio que se encontra no colo, destampada. — “Hoje ou amanhã? — questiona-se. Está com medo — e não é para menos —, mas sabe que terá coragem de fazer o que considera necessário. Na verdade, necessário não é, mas quem consegue enfiar juízo na cabeça de um homem, na sua situação? Hesita apenas quanto ao momento de agir. Mas se deixar para amanhã, a tensão será a mesma ou maior. Quanto mais depressa resolver o problema, melhor.

  Neste exato momento, encontra-se sentado no chão da fábrica, pernas estendidas, costa apoiada na parede. É hora do almoço e, à sua volta, cerca de quinze colegas comem o almoço que trouxeram de casa. O operário mais próximo, o “Canhoto” — que ele considerar um mau caráter — está saboreando, com exibicionismo, uma sobrecoxa de frango grelhado. Dos presentes, é o que sempre come melhor. Frequentemente se dá ao luxo de almoçar na lanchonete da esquina, sem preocupação com o preço, às vezes até pagando a despesa de alguns colegas. Tem prestígio dentro do sindicato. — “O que está acontecendo com ele? Matou a tia rica solteira e recebeu a herança”?

   A visão do frango grelhado aguça involuntariamente o apetite do João que passa a olhar o ovo frito, montado no arroz, que trouxe de casa. A sobremesa será uma banana. Não compreende como possa sentir fome num momento tão difícil quanto este. Pelo jeito, corpo e alma, nele, vivem separados.

 Teme vomitar se logo após o almoço fizer o que pretende. Mas, se agir antes permanecerá com fome, pois não conseguirá comer em seguida.

Enquanto hesita, confere seu “extrato bancário”, que não está escrito em papel, mas em carne, ossos e unhas: sua mão esquerda, um membro grande, moreno, ossudo. Mão de homem alto. Difere anatomicamente da normalidade pela falta de duas falangetas. E também difere em seu significado econômico porque ela é sua “caderneta de poupança”.

Explico: nosso homem, quando em dificuldade financeira, esmaga “involuntariamente” na prensa rápida da fábrica um pedaço de dedo, recebendo a indenização acidentária.

A primeira “aplicação dedal”, lembra-se, foi uma falangeta que serviu para pagar aluguéis atrasados, evitando o despejo. A segunda — pasmem, mas com cautela, porque o consumismo inventa coisas do arco da velha — para comprar uma televisão a cores, pressão das duas filhas, já mocinhas, que alegavam passar muito tempo na rua porque não havia televisão “que prestasse” em casa. Elas nunca souberam do sacrifício.

A ideia de obter recursos “aplicando” pequenas frações de sua anatomia surgira por acaso, quando de um acidente — verdadeiro, involuntário — sofrido por um colega. Este, no fim do horário de trabalho, distraído, não afastara a tempo a mão. Apenas levara um susto quando a prensa baixara, com força e velocidade. Retirando o membro de imediato, esse colega chegara a pensar: “Quase pegou minha mão!”  Mal pensou viu dois dedos bem amassadinhos na placa de aço. Aí, quase desmaiara. Não de dor, mas de susto. A dor veio depois.

 Por se tratar de um típico acidente de trabalho, a indenização foi paga imediatamente, sem burocracia ou contestação na justiça. Houve ainda, no caso desse colega, um período de afastamento do trabalho, remunerado. Quando o acidentado retornou ao trabalho, não parecia infeliz, porque, com o dinheiro da indenização, comprara uma lambreta usada, o que lhe permitia passear e escapar dos ônibus superlotados. Vendo-o partir motorizado nosso João, ficara refletindo sobre a utilidade de certos “acidentes”. Um ano depois do acontecido com o colega, na iminência do despejo do imóvel por falta de pagamento, João sacrificara parte do dedo mínimo da mão esquerda. Foi um ato de desespero, certo, mas precedido de alguns cálculos. Um ano depois, “perdeu” parte de outro dedo, vizinho do primeiro. E de tanto calcular, tornara-se quase um especialista em matéria de indenização por perda de membros. Uma espécie de gerente de banco, que conhece, na palma da mão, digo, nos cotos dos dedos, o rendimento de seus “papéis”.

O homem que neste momento se domina para não almoçar — pretende perder algumas falanges, mas não a vida, com uma congestão, esmagando um dedo estando com o estômago cheio. Ganha mal, mas não tão mal assim. Recebe três salários-mínimos brasileiros, o que lhe permite uma subsistência cautelosa, difícil, mas não impossível. Razoável, portanto, que o leitor se pergunte qual a terrível necessidade que o empurra para tão absurdo e doloroso “investimento”.

A explicação é simples. Nosso homem sofre do “coração”. Se ele fosse mulher berbere, no Marrocos — segundo um livro de curiosidades antigas —, e estivesse apaixonada, diria que seu “fígado” tinha sido “roubado”.  Para esse povo marroquino, a sensação do amor nascia no fígado, assim como hoje falamos em “coração”, embora sabendo que a “coisa” age no cérebro. Enfim, ele está amando. Sabe-se apaixonado, escravizado por sensações de adolescente de cem anos atrás. Mas a consciência desse ridículo não o alivia nem um pouco. Está de tal modo caído por uma mocinha de nome Neusa, que quando não a pode ver sente uma espécie de garra apertando o coração. A todo momento, pensa nela, uma “durona”, porque até agora não se entregou a ele. Por duas vezes, distraído, com dolorosa saudade, João quase perdeu a mão em acidente verdadeiro na mesma “agência bancária”, a prensa. Está casado há quinze anos, tem sido um marido noventa por cento fiel, mas ao contrário de seus colegas de “fraqueza”, cada vez que “pula a cerca” se apaixona como um adolescente romântico.

Neusa é uma mocinha bonita e decidida, que gosta de pôr “os pingos nos is”. Aliás, ela usa e abusa dessa expressão. Desde que começou seu “flerte” com nosso “investidor” — na opinião dela, um “coroa” bonitão — vem sofrendo uma terrível guerra psicológica, auditiva e até mesmo braçal dentro de casa. Sua mãe mantém uma vigilância constante e desagradável contra esse flerte ou namoro com um homem casado. Aliás, com qualquer homem que não demonstre desejo de casar e fazer tudo direitinho, no cartório e na igreja, com bom emprego e sem vícios. Ameaçou-a de expulsão, caso não parasse com aquilo. Presume que sua filha ainda é virgem. E se ela for expulsa, para onde irá?

Neusa precisa urgentemente sair de casa. Mas morar onde? Na casa dele, juntamente com sua mulher? Não chegaria viva até a cozinha. A esposa do João é uma senhora vigorosa, até musculosa, trabalhadeira, moralista e corajosa. Certa vez, saíra no tapa com um cobrador de ônibus que pretendia iludi-la no troco. É muito mais enérgica do que o marido, um sonhador. Este sempre reconhecera o valor da sua mulher, sendo-lhe grato por muitas coisas. E tem-lhe medo até mesmo físico, devido à retidão e firmeza dela, não obstante seja um homem que não teme outros homens. Mas a força da nova paixão supera qualquer outro sentimento.

Com o sacrifício que fará daí a instantes, poderá “montar casa” para a Neusa. Ela deixara claro que gostava muito dele, não obstante a diferença de idades, mas que não aguentava mais o ambiente de perseguição dentro de casa. Ameaçava fugir para outra cidade, em outro Estado, sem deixar endereço. E bonitinha como ela só, ele pensou, logo arranjaria outro homem. Assim, onde arranjar dinheiro urgente, de modo a mantê-la na cidade?

Nosso angustiado, vez por outra, lia em jornais, nos fins de semana, que um homem matara a amante, ou esposa, e depois se suicidara. Nessas ocasiões, quando seus colegas ou familiares censuravam, até com gracejos, tão louco sacrifício pelo amor de uma mulher, nosso homem respondia apenas com o silêncio. Conhecia-se. Sabia que, um dia, poderia chegar a tanto. Se teria coragem até para colocar sua cabeça debaixo de uma prensa, por que não poderia deixar ali apenas alguns dedos? Ouvindo, dias atrás, a expressão “Vão-se os anéis, fiquem os dedos”, ele intimamente adaptara o conselho para “Vão-se os dedos, fique a Neusa!”.

Não! Não tinha mais dúvidas. Para reforçar a decisão, tomar coragem, era só lembrar o rosto dela, sempre presente na sua alma. Mesmo que levasse um fora após um ano, dar-se-ia por recompensado. Aquilo já não era um caso de amor, mas uma doença, da qual só se livraria “comendo” a causa.

O horário de descanso estava se esgotando. “Afinal, almoço agora ou não?” —, ele se perguntou. Se comesse, o acidente planejado pareceria mais natural, pois ninguém pode imaginar que uma pessoa vá almoçar prosaicamente, sabendo que logo em seguida perderá os dedos, esmagados. Comeu rapidamente, procurando não pensar e, quando se dispunha a ir até o bebedouro, a campainha da fábrica tocou, anunciando o término do intervalo para o almoço. Tinha que ser agora! Desistiu da água e aproximou-se da prensa onde trabalhava.

Olhou em volta e percebeu que “Canhoto” o observava. Desviou a vista, mas quando olhou outra vez na direção do colega, este continuava fixando-o. — “O que quer esse desgraçado?” — perguntou-se. Teria adivinhado sua intenção?

Lembrou-se, então, que tendo sofrido já duas lesões na mesma mão, a esquerda, sendo destro, não seria melhor sofrer o “acidente” na mão direita? — Não, não deformaria sua mão direita, seu único ganha-pão. Melhor seria caprichar na “cena”, com a mão esquerda, dando um “escorregão” bem convincente. Para isso, precisava de um pouco de lubrificante nas solas dos sapatos. Pequenas manchas de óleo eram comuns no chão, naquele local da empresa.

Com forçada naturalidade, deu alguns passos para pegar o recipiente de óleo, mas, lembrando-se que a presença do recipiente, perto do “acidente”, poderia causar estranheza, decidiu utilizar apenas um pouco da substância na palma da mão, o suficiente para passar nas solas. Retornou para perto da prensa e fingindo amarrar o sapato, agachou-se, saindo do campo de visão do “Canhoto”. Agachado, besuntou as solas dos sapatos. Em seguida, limpou a mão em um pano sujo e pegou uma peça que precisaria realmente ser amassada, colocando-a na posição adequada. Preservaria o polegar, o indicador, e o dedo médio da mão esquerda. O resto podia virar bife com osso.

Para que não houvesse dúvidas, depois, quanto ao “escorregão” que explicaria o acidente, o operário posicionou suas mãos e pés — tal qual um meticuloso diretor de filmes — para que a cena ficasse bem convincente. Para isso, fez um “ensaio” de movimento antes de acionar a prensa.

Algo errado, porém, aconteceu no ensaio. Com o movimento rápido e deslizante de um dos pés, ele perdeu o equilíbrio e, instintivamente, tentando não cair, sua mão direita foi inteiramente esmagada.

Não houve dor imediata. Apenas um choque, seguido da sensação de horror, porque de forma alguma João queria aquilo. Sentiu um calafrio quando viu o sangue saindo do coto sangrento. Tentou correr, para pedir auxílio e estancar a hemorragia, mas por causa do óleo na sola escorregou de novo e caiu, batendo a testa na quina de uma caixa de metal. Permaneceu meio minuto desacordado. Socorrido por dois funcionários que trabalham no escritório e raramente transitavam pela área de produção, foi levado ao pronto socorro e dali para um hospital.

Alguns dias depois, já fora de perigo, mas deprimido por perder a mão, sentindo ainda a “dor fantasma” na mão ausente, encontrava-se em casa, fazendo contas, com a mão esquerda, usando a maquininha de calcular — presente da esposa. Refazia os cálculos porque a indenização agora seria muito maior. Provavelmente seria aposentado por invalidez, porque era destro.

Sua esposa parecia-lhe um tanto indiferente, como se carregasse no íntimo algum rancor. Mas poderia ser simples tristeza ou consciência pesada dele mesmo. Afinal, fizera uma tremenda burrada. Sem a mão direita, precisaria se acostumar com a outra e arranjar nova profissão em que utilizasse mais a mente que as mãos.

A empresa onde trabalhava estava demorando para se pronunciar sobre a indenização. Alguma coisa não estaria bem?

 Alguns dias depois do acidente, alguém bateu palmas junto à sua porta. A mulher foi atender. Era um advogado da empresa, simpático, delicado, com pouco mais de cinquenta anos. O operário se animou, pensando: — “Oba! Ele veio trazer o cheque pessoalmente”. Estranhou, porém, o fato de ser procurado, em casa. Em vezes anteriores, não fora tão prestigiado.

 Após os cumprimentos de praxe, o advogado pigarreou e perguntou à mulher do acidentado se poderia falar a sós com seu marido.

              A mulher pareceu surpresa e ofendida com a solicitação:

 — Não há necessidade, doutor. Aqui em casa não temos segredos.

O advogado hesitou, constrangido, mas logo insistiu: — Minha senhora, não há o que temer. Nesses assuntos — mentiu —, é exigência da firma que a conversa seja apenas entre o empregado e o representante da firma. Evita discussões entre familiares, com versões diferentes sobre o fato. Não leve a mal.

— Por que não posso ouvir? — insistiu a mulher, com as mãos na cintura, erguendo as sobrancelhas. Era de sua natureza brigar, discutir, nada entregar de modo fácil. Seria uma grande líder em outro meio, se fosse interessada em política.

— Porque tem que ser assim! É a regra — mentiu o advogado, erguendo a voz, já aborrecido com a insistência. — Se a senhora não aceita as normas da empresa, muito bem! Eu volto agora mesmo para meu escritório e seu marido que vá tratar de seus interesses no departamento do pessoal.

 Vendo que a mulher ainda assim hesitava, fez menção de se levantar para sair.

— Está bem... — ela concordou, de má vontade. — Preciso mesmo ir à padaria... Podem conversar à vontade... — E saiu da sala de cara feia, fechando a porta.

O advogado voltou a sentar-se e encarou o operário como se o estudasse, em total silêncio.

— Então? — perguntou o maneta, inquieto.

O advogado pigarreou. Procurando deixar o interlocutor à vontade, observou de maneira simpática, com um meio sorriso nos olhos:

            — Está se sentindo melhor?

            — Ah, já... Mas ainda dói. A gente tem a impressão de que é a mão que está doendo. O médico me explicou que é a “dor fantasma”.

            De repente sério, o advogado, fitando o operário bem nos olhos perguntou:

            — Por que você fez isso?

            O coração do operário imediatamente se acelerou. Cauteloso, respondeu:

            — Isso o quê?

            O advogado sorriu, compreensivo. Sentia uma certa simpatia pelo homem a sua frente. — Vou ser franco com o senhor... Pessoalmente, se dependesse só de mim, até apressaria o pagamento da sua indenização. Mas lamento dizer que há uma coisa em jogo e que torna isso impossível.

            O operário retesou-se, inquieto, no velho sofá, sentindo a ameaça no ar. Mas precisava reagir:

            — Impossível?! O que é impossível?

            — O pagamento da indenização.

            — Diabo! E por que não? Isso não vale nada? — perguntou, erguendo o toco, quase encostando-o no nariz do advogado. — Que “maracutaia” é essa? Quem paga é o INSS, não o patrão!

            O advogado não se abalou:

            — Você sabe muito bem porque não pode ser indenizado...

            — Não sei! — não ia ser agora, aleijado, que se entregaria facilmente.

            — Olha... — o advogado procurava ser didático e sem tom de crítica. — Quando você fazia toda aquela encenação, estava sendo filmado. A câmera registrou tudo: você pegando o lubrificante, abaixando-se, escondendo-se para passá-la na sola do sapato, ensaiando o acidente. Na verdade, você acabou escorregando de verdade, não foi? Deu para perceber que você se feriu além do planejado. Quantos dedos você queria perder?

            O operário estava arrasado. Não era, no fundo, um homem de mau caráter. Sentia-se esvaziado de energia, frio como uma lagartixa, mas sabia que deveria continuar lutando, mesmo sem forças. Com voz apagada, perguntou:

            — Não sei do que o senhor está falando...

            — Sabe, sim... Tenho pena do senhor... Pessoalmente, vejo a coisa com certa simpatia, mas...

            — Por que estavam me filmando? Sou tão importante assim?

            — A filmagem nada tinha a ver com a sua pessoa... Há tempos que suspeitávamos do seu colega, aquele apelidado de “Canhoto”. Ele vinha furtando peças pequenas, as mais caras, há vários meses, mas não tínhamos uma prova segura. Furtava e ainda “fofocava”, a mando do sindicato, incentivando greves e falando mal da empresa. Tem ambições políticas. Aí, o chefe da segurança sugeriu que a firma instalasse, em segredo, uma filmadora escondida entre aquelas caixas da prateleira mais alta, onde ninguém mexe. Assim, pegamos o “Canhoto” com a mão na massa, e você por mero acaso. Quando você estava caído, desmaiado, o  malandro tratou de encher os bolsos extras que tinha mandado costurar dentro das calças. Agora, a pergunta mais importante: Por que você fez isso?

            Responder o quê, João pensou. Se me filmaram até passando o óleo na sola, não adianta continuar mentindo, mas quem sabe esse advogado talvez invente uma saída que me ajude:

            — O senhor não vai acreditar... Precisava de dinheiro...

            — Isso não precisa dizer... Ninguém joga fora os dedos por diversão. Minha pergunta é: para que você precisava do dinheiro?

            — Tenho dívidas. Estou para ser despejado...

            O advogado se ergueu, impaciente:

            — Por favor, diga a verdade... Você inventou isso agora... Antes de procurá-lo, examinamos a sua vida. Seu aluguel está em dia. E não consta que você é viciado em drogas. Vamos ser francos: não seria alguma complicação amorosa? Você tem sido visto com uma mocinha...

            — “Mais essa, a Neusa!” — pensou o acidentado. Não adiantaria mentir. Quem sabe, sendo sincero, comoveria aquele advogado tão compreensivo.

            — Desculpe, vou ser franco... Fiz isso por amor... Estou apaixonado... Não posso viver sem ela... Precisava alugar uma casa ou quarto e, sem dinheiro, o senhor sabe que não dá...

            O advogado já passara também por dois problemas assemelhados. Sentiu um impulso de solidariedade. Pretendia ser também escritor, além de advogado. Neste caso não agia apenas como advogado. Só mesmo uma paixão louca — e muita coragem —, pensava, levaria um homem a esmagar partes de seu corpo, para não perder uma mulher. 

            — Por mim, como já disse, o senhor receberia a indenização, mesmo porque quem paga é o INSS . Num país de tantas fraudes, seria uma coisinha de nada... Afinal, você acabou perdendo a mão inteira. Ocorre que, sem esse filme, nós não podemos “pegar” o “Canhoto”, que tem bons advogados no sindicato...

            — Não dá para cortar, no filme, a parte em que apareço?

            — Pensei nisso, mas não dá... Se eu cortasse, o advogado do “Canhoto” diria depois que se trata de um filme editado, cortado. Não serviria como prova.

            — O canalha! — exaltou-se o operário, pensando no colega de fábrica. — Sempre tive nojo daquele cara! Era por isso, então, que ele me olhava, disfarçando... Era o contrário! Que mal esse cara me fez... Mas o senhor não pode examinar de novo e descobrir uma saída? Olhe como estou — e ergueu o toco, dispondo-se a tirar as ataduras.

            — Não, não preciso ver! Não adianta! O problema é que, se nós escondermos a sua manobra, não informando o INSS — que estava sendo prejudicado com a tua fraude , inclusive dando mal exemplo aos outros empregados —, posso entrar numa fria, como advogado, porque quem se auto lesiona, comete crime de estelionato. Eu seria um cúmplice, no que se refere ao prejuízo do INSS... O Canhoto precisa ser demitido por cometer furtos contra a empresa, sem sair como herói e vítima do patrão.

            — Uma paixão desvairada, tenho que confessar... — explicou o operário, dramático, erguendo a voz, aproveitando o inesperado bafejo de simpatia que lhe poderia trazer alguma vantagem.

            Nem bem disse isso sua mulher abriu a porta com violência, entrando na sala como um furacão, aos gritos:

            — Desvairada! Paixão desvairada! Sem vergonha! Maneta burro! Só não meto a mão na tua cara porque não bato em aleijado!

            — Calma, você não entendeu!

            — Entendi tudo! Estava escutando atrás da porta, me dominando para não te meter a mão! O “Romeu” burro então ia perder os dedinhos por causa de uma biscate sem vergonha? Pois informo que perdeu a mão e a putinha! Nesses dias em que você esteve no hospital, tive uma “conversinha” com ela. Uma vizinha já vinha me buzinando no ouvido sobre esse “romance” escondido. Mas perca as esperanças, bobão, porque depois da nossa conversa ela não terá coragem nem de olhar pra tua cara. Está apavorada. Se eu mandar ela lamber meu sapato, ela lambe! Eu não tinha te contado nada, até agora, porque você tinha perdido a mão. Pensei que tinha sido um acidente. Fiquei até com pena, mas estou vendo que não devo ter pena de um fraco, que aceita perder os dedos por uma biscate. Eu já vi que não valho nada pra você... — E, dizendo isso, saiu da sala para não chorar.

            Silêncio sepulcral na sala.

            O advogado se ergueu, impressionado com aquela tragédia doméstica. Gostava de teatro, mas aquilo suplantava qualquer peça. Ao sair, disse que iria reexaminar o assunto e que esperasse alguns dias, não fazendo nenhuma “besteira”. Mas não lhe garantiu coisa alguma.

            Caminhando até o carro, o advogado estabeleceu um plano de ação. Iria trocar ideias com um dos diretores da firma, que já tinha tido alguns problemas domésticos assemelhados. Um pouco de “precedentes amorosos” operaria maravilhas. Tinha quase certeza que encontraria alguma saída para o maneta. Afinal, para que existem os advogados?

            Quando o causídico se retirou, o operário foi para o quarto, deitou-se de costas, cobriu os olhos úmidos com o antebraço dobrado e ficou quase tão imóvel quanto um morto. Não tinha ânimo nem para respirar.

            Na cozinha, a mulher, zonza, pressão arterial nas alturas, mexia mecanicamente nas panelas e enxugava as lágrimas. Precisava fazer o almoço.

 

       FIM

Este conto faz parte do livro “Tragédia na Ilha Grega” que será lançado em breve

 

Aproveite e conheça meus outros livros
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Francisco Cesar Pinheiro Rodrigues
            Desembargador aposentado
            oripec@terra.com.br

 

 

Modern art

 

On concluding my article of the series “The age of mediocrity”, I classified Pablo Picasso more as a skillful psychologist and expert in marketing and advertising than a painter. I never envisaged him as a great painter because - in my sinful ignorance - I believed, and still believe that a necessary qualification of any painter is the ability to draw very well indeed. I repeat: very well. A talent that is not widespread and perhaps inaccessible solely through “muscular” obstinacy. Something like the “musical ear”, a gift. In reality, it is not easy to reproduce a true likeness of a face, a galloping horse, a human figure in a less than conventional position, the movement of waves on the sea, a waterfall, etc. 

However, of all the items of a generic “age of mediocrity”, that which gave me the most work in order to arrive at some kind of conclusion - on my own account - was the definition of what art is; how to interpret the reaction of the public when faced with a painting or sculpture; the difficult “explanation” of the sensation of beauty and the vast nomenclature that arose following classicism. Anyone who wants to understand the meaning of Impressionism, Post-impressionism, Fauvism, Cubism, Expressionism, Futurism, Dadaism, Surrealism, Concrete Art, Abstraction, Primitivism, Pop Art, Minimalism, etc., will face great difficulty in establishing boundaries between these various “schools”. And to further complicate such a slippery subject, the “post-” variations should also be taken into account, given that the artistic species is highly mercurial. 

There is, however, a common thread in all these movements: the more modern the work, the less the need for the physical and mental “sweat” of the artist. To put it another way: the more modern the painting, the greater the degree - dispensing with effort - of abstraction, subjectivism, valorization of quantity over quality, and absolute need of advertising for sale of the “product”. Without advertising, nobody is a “genius”. Actual genius is the brain behind the promotion of the painter. 

If, just for fun, someone who had never before wielded a paintbrush - and even despised the art of painting - made some quick marks on a canvas, with closed eyes, and asked Picasso to sign it, the painting in question would be worth millions of dollars, thus proving that it is not the picture that is important, but the “brand”. In this hypothetical experience, so-called and perhaps naive “connoisseurs” of the style of the famous painter - seeing the authenticity of the signature, by Picasso himself, a joker - would say that, with this canvas, the “genius” once again showed the versatility of his talent. 

Vincent Van Gogh only sold one painting in his lifetime. Those few people who purchased his paintings, for next to nothing soon after his death, had the maximum financial interest in exalting the genius of the painter. The more highly they praised his work, the greater the value paintings would have that were acquired after his passing. Without doubt, Van Gogh was an extraordinary person, but it is strange to think that his pictures only came to be so highly valued after his death. Further proof that “financial psychology”, so to speak, has an immense influence on the valorization of works of art. The question must be asked whether the genius of the Dutch painter, when he was alive, was so non-apparent to connoisseurs of the time, that it was necessary for his pictures to change hands in order to be worth a fortune? Do “art dealers”, who are only familiar with the business of “dealing in art”, have a better “eye for art” than real scholars of art?

I would feel more comforted if I knew that the genius of Van Gogh had been recognized when he was still alive. He was a tragic man who suffered greatly, which only inspires our sympathy. And with a detail: he knew how to draw. His good character, sensitivity and personality deserve the greatest respect, but his example is proof of the fact that money has contaminated and dominates the world of the arts. Paintings and sculptures have become more of a financial issue - just like the actions of corporations -, than an issue of actual art. Here lies the explanation of why I have included visual arts in my series of articles on mediocrity in general. Money has introduced mediocrity into the arts. 

Leonardo da Vinci took five years to paint the “Mona Lisa”. He painted for just a few hours in a single day, continuing little by little on others, striving to achieve perfection in details. In any case, a considerable amount of time to paint a single picture. In counterpart, Picasso even said, according to quotes on the internet, “Give me a museum and I'll fill it”. 

As any museum is always vast, only a fast-working and roguishly “abstract” painter could fill it alone. With some twenty or thirty paintings a day, Picasso would be able to deliver the goods in a few months. Proof of the fact that it was quantity that interested him, and the mere declaration, by the artist himself, of the existence of  a deeply emotional “meaning” in those few brush strokes. So profound that it was only felt by him. Believe it if you want to.  

Tom Stoppard, an observer of modern art, even said that the only criterion for distinguishing a painting from a modern sculpture would be the following: “if it hangs on a wall it's a painting, and if you can walk around it it's a sculpture”. 

Richard Schmid, probably a connoisseur of the subject - because he is mentioned on art sites - said that “I honestly believe students of painting in the next century will laugh at the abstract art movement. They will marvel at such a drawn-out regression in the plastic arts”. 

Al Capp, in his distinctive, more brutal and direct style, said that “abstract art is produced by the talentless, sold by the unscrupulous, and bought by the utterly bewildered”. 

Another harsh critic of modern art even said that “trying to understand modern art is like trying to follow the plot in a bowl of alphabet soup”. 

And, finally, what did the prince of painters, Leonardo da Vinci, say? He said that “where the spirit does not work with the hand, there is no art”. Elitism? No, simple recognition of the fact that the artist should add some emotion to the perfect technique of drawing and painting. 

In other words: without the “hand” of the true artist, the subjectivism of the painter is just not enough, however much he sincerely feels excited - the great excuse for the modern painter who only trusts in what he feels, not in that which may be sincerely felt by the public. 

The bottom line is that the essential function of art is to give rise to pleasure. Real pleasure, not the false pleasure required by fashion. At a piano concert of classical music, a pianist, even cold in feeling but endowed with an uncommon technique - so uncommon that it overwhelms the audience - will be a better piano artist than a key-hammerer, tremendously excited, sweating, groaning, eyes on target, but by playing everything wrong, almost punching the keyboard. 

If, in the case of modern art, that which matters is the emotion of the artist - and not the effect of the product of his hands on others - it is possible to imagine that science has invented a device capable of recording the degree of emotion and inspiration during performance of a musical piece. A device, of proven effectiveness, similar to that used today to measure blood pressure. Or similar to a current lie detector. The difference is that the latter indicates the existence of lies, whereas the other, more modern, would prove the real sensitivity of the artist. Let us continue, giving an example. 

The arrival in London of a new musical genius is announced with great fanfare; a foreign pianist - so brilliant that few listeners would have the ability to “understand” the profound nature of his art. His manager would say that the artist’s inspiration cannot be feigned, given that the aforementioned infallible device would be attached to his arm, showing evidence of the maximum degree of feeling that a human being can endure.  

In the advertising that would precede the inaugural concert of this newly discovered genius, there would be a warning that individuals lacking an exceptional degree of musical sensitivity should not even purchase tickets, as they would probably not be able to “capture” the depth of the art hidden in simple appearances. The presence of the great artist in the country would even be doing a favor to Brazilians. It would show our own people an artistic wealth that they had not noticed in their old folklore. Such a lack of interest in selling tickets to people without any artistic sensitivity would even stimulate demand for such tickets. Everyone buying tickets would be demonstrating how sensitive they are to artistic beauty.   

On the announced day, with a packed Royal Festival Hall, a “sincere emotions detector” would be attached to the pianist’s arm. After an impressive silence, the artist would begin to play, using only one finger: “Oh, can you wash a sailor's shirt, Oh, can you wash it fine? Oh, can you wash a sailor's shirt and hang it on the line?” 

The audience, dumbfounded, wanting to laugh but dreading being considered ignorant, would maintain a straight face but continue to observe the immense electronic panel - connected to the “sincerity detector” - in the hope of seeing an inadequate “sincerity” result that would authorize the booing imprisoned in everyone’s throat. The device, however, would confirm the maximum level of artistic emotion felt by a human being. The extraordinary inspiration of the pianist would thus be duly demonstrated. With this, those in the audience would only complaint silently to themselves: “I really am extremely ignorant, but I would not confess this to anyone. I will give a standing ovation”.

 And if the artist suffers a stroke, his heart unable to withstand so much emotion, and drops dead on completing the special concert? There would be a long theoretical discussion on the brilliance of pianist and the mysterious reasons that made the artist choose this style and not another. Among others, the questions raised would include “Why was it necessary to ask whether someone can wash a sailor’s shirt? What is the symbolism involved?”, and so on. 

Of course, I am exaggerating in this example; however, in substance, it is that which occurs with the excuse that artists only have to think about what they feels in order to express their art. Only think about themselves. They are not concerned whether or not the public felt authentic pleasure. If there is pleasure on the part of the public, it will be the pleasure of “being up-to-date, one of the crowd, a follower of fashion”. 

Going back to painting, everything was going very well in Classicism, until a technical novelty arose, outside the art world, which shook the pacific panorama that emphasized the art of drawing things as they are seen by the eyes: photography. With a simple “flash”, anything could be “drawn” with an accuracy of line and balance of proportions that only a Leonardo da Vinci could achieve. The spread and improvement of photography was the saving excuse of many artists who, despite their enthusiasm for painting, could not draw. 

The path - or shortcut - was open for the man who admired the arts, identified himself emotionally with them, and would like to be part of that mysterious world, full of temptations. The women of the time - the late 19th century and early 20th century - felt a special attraction for artists, generally impetuous and free of restrictions in matters related to other men’s wives. Today, they probably prefer the “artists of finance” and mass sports; far more profitable, or should I say attractive to them. Painters were, then, almost always men. 

The art world - when sincere and authentic - really has an interesting facet. Its insights are frequently right. Freud confessed that he rarely made some kind of discovery without  some poet having been there first. True art is good in this respect: it attains “without deliberately wanting to”, by intuition, areas not yet reached by science. It flies, although falling frequently, whereas the scientist goes on foot. 

With the advent of photography, there was also the emergence of “smart painters”, who only wanted a quick and easy path to fame and its by-product: money. It was artistic “democracy” that would allow any audacious artist, without any drawing talent, to bold facedly “appear” and draw attention. “The order now is to scandalize!”. The more shocking his work - in non-conformance with the normal appearance of objects - the greater the “scandal” capable of attracting attention, with good business consequences. 

With as view to confronting the most distrustful or skeptical observers, who said that there was only audacity in the work, not art, there were two clever excuses: 1) those who want the exact reproduction of a landscape or object should take a photo; and 2) in the arts, what really matters is the feeling of the artist, not the visible physical product of this emotion. 

It was Pablo Picasso who, with great frankness, raised the argument that, in painting and sculpture, what really matters is the emotion of the artist, not what we know as “mere reality”. In his opinion, the painter can even paint with his eyes closed, provided that he is “inspired”. The general public should not be concerned with appearances. It should only “feel” the same as that “felt by the artist”. He stated this nonsense with such conviction - extraordinary psychologist that he was - that some millionaires began to buying his paintings, thus giving rise to immense valorization of any picture with the signature “Picasso”. He afforded himself the luxury of saying that he was not sufficiently rich to have a “Picasso” in his home. 

There follow some of his quotes, taken from the internet: 

“I paint objects as I think them, not as I see them”. 

“Painting is a blind man's profession. He paints not what he sees, but what he feels, what he tells himself about what he has seen”. Remark: he was a joker. 

 “The people who make art their business are mostly imposters”. 

“The world today doesn't make sense, so why should I paint pictures that do?” 

“To draw you must close your eyes and sing”.  

“Who sees the human face correctly: the photographer, the mirror, or the painter?” 

What explains, then, the permanence of modern art and its high economic value, even though easy, brief, shocking and out of touch with visible reality? 

In my opinion, the explanation lies in the personality of the artist. In audacity, firmness, bold faced effrontery, “charisma” and “marked personality”, as was the case of Picasso, a great psychologist. Or in integrity and compassion, as in the cases of Vincent Van Gogh and his friend Paul Gauguin. It is impossible to read the biography of these two without being touched by such sensitive souls. Did they know how to draw? They knew enough; more than the average attained by people who are not artists. However, they were people of immense integrity.  

The character of artists “contaminates” their work positively or negatively. It has a great influence regarding their acceptance by the public. Including their political leanings. Picasso himself benefitted from this. He had interesting ideas and was frank in his opinions, as we can see in the above quotes. If he had been a man of right-wing sympathies or a Nazi, he would never have been considered a famous painter. “Guernica” gave him a boost. The same occurs in other arts: the personality of the artist “contaminates” his or her work, for better or worse. 

Abstraction is more appropriate ground for philosophy, not painting. I think that, at least for a long time, human beings will still require some degree of virtuosity, difficulty and hard work on the part of all painters. In sports competitions, the circus, cinematographic performances and the writing of tales, novels, chronicles and poems, it is expected that artists express themselves with an extraordinary degree of skill. I cannot accept that a writer just “feels” refined emotions in his mysterious head, only writing nonsense, or even things that are incomprehensible to the writer himself. Hence the general well-founded prejudice against modern art that is not pleasing to look at and can mean anything: - “It’s too easy. Based on this, even I deserve a prize...”, more sensible people think.   

Now a brief word about music. Of all the arts, I think that it is the less susceptible to deceit. Musical mediocrity cannot stay afloat for very long, as it can be assessed in a matter of minutes. It sinks because there is no financial advantage in keeping it afloat, when it pleases practically nobody. It is only necessary to listen to a new piece of music for one minute in order to decide whether it is worthwhile to continue listening. The scale of its production and the size of its public are such that it is not worth spending on advertising for music that nobody wants to hear, or even less buy in disc form. On the other hand, in the case of modern painting, there is a restricted market of rich buyers, the paintings functioning as a store of value, when the name of the painter is very well known. The painting is physical, palpable, concrete and exists, as if it were a negotiable instrument. On the other hand, music that nobody wants to hear is mere noise, of no interest to anyone; there is no way that it can be turned into a gemstone. 

There only lingers a doubt with respect to jazz. Most people do not like it, as there is no identifiable melody. In my opinion, jazz should only be used as a composing technique. The musicians would continue improvising without an end in sight, but when, by chance, the errant instrumentalists “stumble upon” a new melody, they would develop it, thus composing a “normal” piece of music. 

Summing up, modern art has its use in the manufacture of decorative items, toys, furniture, book covers, etc. Not as great painting or sculpture. 

This article was written in Portuguese and translated by John Upson      (upson@translations.pro.br) 

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Francisco Cesar Pinheiro Rodrigues
retired judge

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