I should probably try and update my blog on a daily basis, cause much has happened since we last spoke.
Saturday
Hit up Museo de Belles Artes (Artes Belles) with my friend Aaron who is from New Zealand. Saw many works by my boy, the one, the only argument for French culture, Rodin.
I get emotional looking at Rodin. Hand of God is a work I saw. It's a disembodied hand holding a piece of rock that a lip-locked couple are emerging out of. Clearly, Rodin has been to a city park in Buenos Aires.
But seriously though, a the Hand of God holds what? People swirling about and making out as they are created from a piece of stone? That's pretty badass, Rodin, keep up the good work.
Also, a mega sweet temporary exhibit called Peppermint Candy from South Korea, or Corea del Sur. It was a collection of artists largely from Seoul being funky and fresh. It was all cleverly presented. Content-wise, it was mostly about the identity crisis of being Korean which apparently manifests itself as a lot of commentary on US-Korean relations.
Highlights: a series of picture of every family in a apartment building in each of their respective family rooms. Something about how people create identity/individuality in uniform spaces. Another was a video of a groundskeeper walking about inside a 20 dollar bill and white-washing (green washing, in this case) all the windows off of the white house.
Also took some sweet photos of a famous piece of public art here in Buenos Aires with my friend Aaron, will post those once I get them from him. I forget my camera for everything.
Had Buenos Aires famous Italian derived ice cream at a chain called Freddo. Chains here are apparently delicious. I had limon and something called Maracuy`a. As yet, don't know what that is. It was delicious.
Hurt my knee at the last capoeira event, and it turned out it was worse than I thought, so I was equivocating about whether or not I should go. I walked on it all day and that seemed to make it better, so I dashed (hobbled rapidly) home to get ready.
Cecilia hooked me up with yet another colectivo (bus) route. I now know how to use two in this city! Or so I thought.
I got there using my new procedure of desperately asking somebody to me help figure out when I should bajar (get off). I ended up getting off about two stops earlier than I probably wanted and wandered in what I hoped was the right direction, content in the idea that I was late as it was, what more could it matter.
Thus I was ambling, stealing glances at my handy little Guia T, the bolsillo (pocket version) bus map when, suddenly, I heard a distinctive twanging somewhere to my 5 o'clock. I spun around to see a guy standing in front of a small building painted the colors of the Brazilian flag, holding a berimbau. Just standing there, playing.
At the stroke of midnight, meet me under the lamp post where a man plays a berimbau
My feeling of belonging to a secret society amplified as I entered the warehouse-like building and saw a small circle of people in various states of transforming to capoeira clothing surrounding a muscular and apparently charismatic man. As a matter of fact, everyone seemed muscular and charismatic.
Berimbaus are very long and held at the waist, thus when held, they protrude far above people's heads, a bit like spears. This plus the generally combative and foreign appearance of everyone there, it was a little like the beginning to Dirty Dozen/Oceans Eleven type stealth/heist scene set in the neolithic.
I slid into the circle behind somebody I knew slightly and attempted to decode what was being said. I failed. What I later found out was that the "fighting" portion of the roda was canceled on account of the fact that floor was wet and instead they would sing and dance. But I didn't know that. All I knew was that all of a sudden, somebody kicked up the berimbaus and drums and everybody started singing. I did the only thing I could do. I clapped.
Other people filtered in the door and joined the circle. The capoeira greeting of sideways high five to fist pound was as good as a knock at the door.
Argentines seem big on greetings. If an Argentine shows up in a room with 20 people singing, dancing and playing instruments, he will of course take the time to go around the circle and kiss/capoeira-secret handshake everyone that he knows.
My teacher showed up and gave me a nod and thumbs up. I smiled, but did not falter in my clapping. Never falter in your clapping.
They sang and danced. They even sang the one capoeira song that I knew, so I could pretend I knew what I was doing. Paranah-ayy parana ahh na ah ah.
People crossed the circle only to hand off berimbau and drums. Somebody would catch somebody else's eye and the berimbau would bob across the circle into someone else's hands. Imagine a big electricity wire post uprooting itself and moving across the street, thats what its like to watch a funky-looking berimbau crossing the roda.
Tambourine drums called pandero's also were passed around. I abstained from both, not yet really knowing what I was doing. This pattern of events reminds me of the time I stumbled on some friends of mine smoking joints in an abandoned building, except a new kind of smelly.
Eventually, some people started to play in the center of the circle.
Most people played in their street clothes. It's disconcerting to watch somebody that looks like a common street suddenly start to move with such facility. Kids in tear-aways and skate shoes doing flying roundhouse kicks and back-flips. Meanwhile, I clapped.
Highlights: a little boy, about 6-8 yrs old enters the ring and starts executing all the same moves in miniature. In capoeira, you don't have to actually cause your opponent to fall for your ability to be recognized. Hence, when this kid weaved through his opponent's moves like a shuttle and lighted upon an unguarded ankle or open thigh, it still counted for something.
One guy played continuously as maybe dozen different capoeristas played him one after another. One would cause him to fall, only to be replaced by another who would do the same. This went on until the Mestre showed up and stopped everything, reminding them (I think) that the floor was too wet to play. It was, people had been slipping and sliding through out.
He set the atabaque player to a different beat with his berimbau, something that apparently took some doing. Then he stood in the middle of the circle and sang and played.
The guy that had fallen repeatedly and two others sat in the center as the Mestre pulled the circle around tight and started this gesture, bringing the palms of his hands down toward one of the people and sang. This was repeated three times.
I found out later that this was some kind of birthday thing. I didn't know this at the time. All I saw was a guy get his ass kicked, then him and some others were at the center of some sort of singing and ritualistic motion. What would you think?
Eventually, that came to an end and the Mestre sang and played berimbau in the center some more. A girl joined him and danced. Thus began the portion of the program that my dad would have liked best.
The samba de roda, as it turns out its called, is when instead of playing, pairs dance in the center. It's a rather weird shuffling step, but is quite effective in getting the hips in motion.
Observation: girl's butts look good in capoeira pants.
The dance is unrepentantly sexual. No contact, but hips going at the same time in an extremely specific motion. A new male or female (more often a male) replaces their counterpart and the gyration continues, meanwhile everyone looks on. Small wonder Freud is popular here.
This went on for an eternity, people sliding in and out of the roda, dancing. I clapped the beat faithfully, having no ever-loving idea what was going on. After a lot of that, it came to end.
At this point, I had probably done nothing but clap and bob my hands up and down for a straight two hours. I'm making it a point to learn how these songs go and to learn how to play these instruments.
That was largely it. The people filtered out. The metal sliding door had been closed and people hunched out the square exit cut into it. I stayed and chatted for awhile, then found my bus, took it in the wrong direction and circled around the route chatting up the friendly collectivero and attractive, Japanese-speaking seat mate.
I came home, found no Jos`e and crashed.
Sunday:
Today I visited a sweet market in San Telmo and ate a glorious glorious meal at a parrilla, an Argentine steakhouse. I will put up pictures and revisit this theme after some of you casually scan the enormous quantity of text above and leave a comment advising me to be more concise.
Saturday
Hit up Museo de Belles Artes (Artes Belles) with my friend Aaron who is from New Zealand. Saw many works by my boy, the one, the only argument for French culture, Rodin.
I get emotional looking at Rodin. Hand of God is a work I saw. It's a disembodied hand holding a piece of rock that a lip-locked couple are emerging out of. Clearly, Rodin has been to a city park in Buenos Aires.
But seriously though, a the Hand of God holds what? People swirling about and making out as they are created from a piece of stone? That's pretty badass, Rodin, keep up the good work.
Also, a mega sweet temporary exhibit called Peppermint Candy from South Korea, or Corea del Sur. It was a collection of artists largely from Seoul being funky and fresh. It was all cleverly presented. Content-wise, it was mostly about the identity crisis of being Korean which apparently manifests itself as a lot of commentary on US-Korean relations.
Highlights: a series of picture of every family in a apartment building in each of their respective family rooms. Something about how people create identity/individuality in uniform spaces. Another was a video of a groundskeeper walking about inside a 20 dollar bill and white-washing (green washing, in this case) all the windows off of the white house.
Also took some sweet photos of a famous piece of public art here in Buenos Aires with my friend Aaron, will post those once I get them from him. I forget my camera for everything.
Had Buenos Aires famous Italian derived ice cream at a chain called Freddo. Chains here are apparently delicious. I had limon and something called Maracuy`a. As yet, don't know what that is. It was delicious.
Hurt my knee at the last capoeira event, and it turned out it was worse than I thought, so I was equivocating about whether or not I should go. I walked on it all day and that seemed to make it better, so I dashed (hobbled rapidly) home to get ready.
Cecilia hooked me up with yet another colectivo (bus) route. I now know how to use two in this city! Or so I thought.
I got there using my new procedure of desperately asking somebody to me help figure out when I should bajar (get off). I ended up getting off about two stops earlier than I probably wanted and wandered in what I hoped was the right direction, content in the idea that I was late as it was, what more could it matter.
Thus I was ambling, stealing glances at my handy little Guia T, the bolsillo (pocket version) bus map when, suddenly, I heard a distinctive twanging somewhere to my 5 o'clock. I spun around to see a guy standing in front of a small building painted the colors of the Brazilian flag, holding a berimbau. Just standing there, playing.
At the stroke of midnight, meet me under the lamp post where a man plays a berimbau
My feeling of belonging to a secret society amplified as I entered the warehouse-like building and saw a small circle of people in various states of transforming to capoeira clothing surrounding a muscular and apparently charismatic man. As a matter of fact, everyone seemed muscular and charismatic.
Berimbaus are very long and held at the waist, thus when held, they protrude far above people's heads, a bit like spears. This plus the generally combative and foreign appearance of everyone there, it was a little like the beginning to Dirty Dozen/Oceans Eleven type stealth/heist scene set in the neolithic.
I slid into the circle behind somebody I knew slightly and attempted to decode what was being said. I failed. What I later found out was that the "fighting" portion of the roda was canceled on account of the fact that floor was wet and instead they would sing and dance. But I didn't know that. All I knew was that all of a sudden, somebody kicked up the berimbaus and drums and everybody started singing. I did the only thing I could do. I clapped.
Other people filtered in the door and joined the circle. The capoeira greeting of sideways high five to fist pound was as good as a knock at the door.
Argentines seem big on greetings. If an Argentine shows up in a room with 20 people singing, dancing and playing instruments, he will of course take the time to go around the circle and kiss/capoeira-secret handshake everyone that he knows.
My teacher showed up and gave me a nod and thumbs up. I smiled, but did not falter in my clapping. Never falter in your clapping.
They sang and danced. They even sang the one capoeira song that I knew, so I could pretend I knew what I was doing. Paranah-ayy parana ahh na ah ah.
People crossed the circle only to hand off berimbau and drums. Somebody would catch somebody else's eye and the berimbau would bob across the circle into someone else's hands. Imagine a big electricity wire post uprooting itself and moving across the street, thats what its like to watch a funky-looking berimbau crossing the roda.
Tambourine drums called pandero's also were passed around. I abstained from both, not yet really knowing what I was doing. This pattern of events reminds me of the time I stumbled on some friends of mine smoking joints in an abandoned building, except a new kind of smelly.
Eventually, some people started to play in the center of the circle.
Most people played in their street clothes. It's disconcerting to watch somebody that looks like a common street suddenly start to move with such facility. Kids in tear-aways and skate shoes doing flying roundhouse kicks and back-flips. Meanwhile, I clapped.
Highlights: a little boy, about 6-8 yrs old enters the ring and starts executing all the same moves in miniature. In capoeira, you don't have to actually cause your opponent to fall for your ability to be recognized. Hence, when this kid weaved through his opponent's moves like a shuttle and lighted upon an unguarded ankle or open thigh, it still counted for something.
One guy played continuously as maybe dozen different capoeristas played him one after another. One would cause him to fall, only to be replaced by another who would do the same. This went on until the Mestre showed up and stopped everything, reminding them (I think) that the floor was too wet to play. It was, people had been slipping and sliding through out.
He set the atabaque player to a different beat with his berimbau, something that apparently took some doing. Then he stood in the middle of the circle and sang and played.
The guy that had fallen repeatedly and two others sat in the center as the Mestre pulled the circle around tight and started this gesture, bringing the palms of his hands down toward one of the people and sang. This was repeated three times.
I found out later that this was some kind of birthday thing. I didn't know this at the time. All I saw was a guy get his ass kicked, then him and some others were at the center of some sort of singing and ritualistic motion. What would you think?
Eventually, that came to an end and the Mestre sang and played berimbau in the center some more. A girl joined him and danced. Thus began the portion of the program that my dad would have liked best.
The samba de roda, as it turns out its called, is when instead of playing, pairs dance in the center. It's a rather weird shuffling step, but is quite effective in getting the hips in motion.
Observation: girl's butts look good in capoeira pants.
The dance is unrepentantly sexual. No contact, but hips going at the same time in an extremely specific motion. A new male or female (more often a male) replaces their counterpart and the gyration continues, meanwhile everyone looks on. Small wonder Freud is popular here.
This went on for an eternity, people sliding in and out of the roda, dancing. I clapped the beat faithfully, having no ever-loving idea what was going on. After a lot of that, it came to end.
At this point, I had probably done nothing but clap and bob my hands up and down for a straight two hours. I'm making it a point to learn how these songs go and to learn how to play these instruments.
That was largely it. The people filtered out. The metal sliding door had been closed and people hunched out the square exit cut into it. I stayed and chatted for awhile, then found my bus, took it in the wrong direction and circled around the route chatting up the friendly collectivero and attractive, Japanese-speaking seat mate.
I came home, found no Jos`e and crashed.
Sunday:
Today I visited a sweet market in San Telmo and ate a glorious glorious meal at a parrilla, an Argentine steakhouse. I will put up pictures and revisit this theme after some of you casually scan the enormous quantity of text above and leave a comment advising me to be more concise.
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