Desde su primera exposición individual en Buenos Aires, a sus 17 años, Martha Zuik realizó más de 60 exhibiciones personales en galerías y museos. Su carrera internacional comenzó en 1959. Luego de su primera muestra individual en Paris, se unió al grupo de artistas internacionales «Fantasmagie», fundado por Aubin Pasque e integrado por renombrados artistas como Magritte y Picasso. Ese mismo año expuso junto a ellos en Bruselas. Con ese grupo continuó presentando sus trabajos durante más de 20 años, en Francia, Holanda, Alemania, Bélgica y otros países europeos. Durante décadas, su trabajo ha sido objeto de especial atención como un emblema del arte argentino y ha sido exhibido en Argentina, EE.UU., Alemania y Hong Kong. Ha participado en numerosas bienales internacionales de pintura y obra gráfica.
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Since her first solo exhibition in Buenos Aires at the age of 17, Martha Zuik held over 60 solo exhibitions in galleries and museums. Her international career began in 1959; following her first solo show in Paris, she joined the international artist group “Fantasmagie”—founded by Aubin Pasque and comprising renowned artists such as Magritte and Picasso—and exhibited alongside them in Brussels that same year. She continued to present her work with the group for more than two decades across France, the Netherlands, Germany, Belgium, and other European countries. For decades, her work has garnered significant attention as an emblem of Argentine art and has been exhibited in Argentina, the United States, Germany, and Hong Kong. She has participated in numerous international biennials dedicated to painting and graphic art.
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Al comienzo de su labor artística, se ocupó de motivos fantásticos, postura con la cual reflejaba consecuentemente el camino, a uno de cuyos lados está, la idea de un motivo que determine la orientación creadora y en el otro predomina el desarrollo y la invención de formas, precisamente para ese tema concreto. Por aquel entonces en las obras de Martha Zuik se observan, ante todo, coincidencias de tradiciones formales y la superación de estos conceptos fantásticos realistas… (Otfried Schütz).
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At the outset of her artistic career, she focused on fantastic motifs—an approach that consistently reflected a path defined at one end by the concept of a motif shaping her creative direction, and at the other by the development and invention of forms specific to that particular theme. During that period, Martha Zuik’s work revealed, above all, a convergence of formal traditions and a move beyond those fantastic-realist concepts. .. (Otfried Schütz).
Eva Feld es una periodista formada entre Venezuela y Francia con amplia experiencia en medios impresos de Venezuela y el exterior.Comienza su carrera literaria con la publicación del volumen de cuentos Mujeres y escritores más un crimen (Editorial WARP, Caracas, 1999) y lo continúa con las dos novelas editadas en Ala de cuervo, a saber Los vocablos se amaron por última vez y La transparencia del reflejo.Sus libros han merecido comentarios en medios impresos y web de América Latina y Europa. Ha dictado conferencias en diversos lugares, destacando la última gira que hizo a Corea del Sur donde habló en diversas universidades de ese país.
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Eva Feld is a journalist trained in both Venezuela and France, with extensive experience in print media in Venezuela and abroad. She launched her literary career with the short story collection Mujeres y escritores más un crimen (Editorial WARP, Caracas, 1999) and continued it with two novels published by Ala de Cuervo: Los vocablos se amaron por última vez and La transparencia del reflejo. Her books have garnered attention in print and online media across Latin America and Europe. She has lectured in various locations, most notably during a recent tour of South Korea, where she spoke at several universities.
Eva Feld. Yo en plural:Bilingual Memories. Kindle. 2025.
Yo en plural
Tácito o Sobreentendido
El principio fue mi padre. Lo era todo, el comienzo y el fin; la presencia ilimitada del sufrimiento y de la alegría, del conocimiento y de la perplejidad.
Mi padre había leído todos los libros del universo y militado en todas las doctrinas de la existencia. Sus respuestas contenían tanto cariño como cinismo en proporciones tan químicamente puras como nunca más en la vida logré detectar en las de ningún otro ser humano. Cuando yo lo conocí, había perdido en holocausto a toda su familia; también a su novia de juventud y la esperanza de formar un hogar. Era un solitario mal avenido con la soledad. Dibujaba al carboncillo figuras salidas de su astigmática mirada. Inventariaba mujeres, recuerdos, sueños y lecturas en caricaturas urdidas al calor de una autocrítica despiadada. No creía que nada de lo que hiciera tuviera valor alguno, como si un juez interno descalificara cualquier intento por romper las barreras de su educación formal y de lo que sus muertos esperaban de él.
Mi padre era un hombre complejo, con matices. La filosofía circulaba en su corriente sanguínea a pesar de su férrea autocensura, una total y absolutamente hereditaria; una que ha signado mi vida para siempre. Se trata de una tácita exigencia que nos impidió a ambos vencer aquello que he dado en llamar el complejo mosaico. Es decir, Moisés él y Moisés yo, siempre supimos cuál era el camino, aunque nunca llegaríamos a consumarlo. Sus trazos como mis escritos se conformaron con borronear en la sombra la profunda convicción de lo absurdo e inútil de trascender. Pero, al mismo tiempo nos planteamos en cada rellano unas metas sucedáneas, unas que fuesen lo suficientemente mensurables como para darnos cierta paz y alguna adrenalina.
Mi padre combinaba sus éxitos empresariales, a los cuales, por cierto, tampoco les atribuyó jamás ningún mérito, con su experticia de navegante. Capitaneaba su velero y su vida con la misma sensación, pues era a la muerte a quien desafiaba, era de ella de quien huía y también era a ella a quien perseguía. Inexorablemente y para mantenerse en forma, se organizó un horario estricto de superviviente, se ceñía al reloj para comer y para dormir, tenía días fijos en los que se iba y se venía. Su cerebro albergaba palabras en siete idiomas y era capaz de hablar en varios al mismo tiempo. Asimismo, podía relatar historias reales o ficticias por haberlas vivido ambas.
Mi padre bebía. El recorrido del líquido ambarino por su cuerpo le hacía levitar. Ingrávido, accedía con frecuencia a las regiones más recónditas de su propia alma, un territorio al que se sentía atraído, pero también uno al que temía. La música de Mozart sofocaba su temido desafuero, solía dirigir la orquesta con la mano izquierda para marcar los compases, de ese modo, matemático más que sublime, nuevamente se asumía en la cordura y en la responsabilidad de sus actos. Mi padre no guardaba secretos, me contaba su vida con deliciosa complicidad. Conocí a sus fantasmas de primera mano y también a algunas de sus mujeres. Ahora que falta y que calzo sus zapatos, aunque me queden varias tallas más grandes, lo añoro con tanto dolor que a veces tengo que reprenderme. Él me dejó ventanas de visión amplia y con ellas la posibilidad de mirar lejos, sobre todo más allá del horizonte marino en el que yacen sus restos o de la montaña maravillosa que nos determina la vida a todos los venezolanos. Le doy las gracias con manía histérica todos los días de mi vida y quiero perpetuar en cada instante cualquiera de los múltiples que compartimos durante nuestra profunda amistad.
Mi padre fue el primer hombre a quien admiré devotamente, el que me enseñó la consanguineidad entre risa e inteligencia y lo inconmensurable que puede resultar la añoranza en el terreno del amor. Tenía permiso judicial de salir con él los sábados de dos a seis de la tarde y cada segundo domingo de ocho de la mañana a ocho de la noche. Un cancerbero, mejor conocido en lenguaje coloquial como padrastro, velaba porque la norma se cumpliera al pie de la letra. Se incubaba en mi alma otra consanguineidad, la que existe entre la clandestinidad y el amor. Digamos por conservar cierta objetividad en el relato, que yo tenía nueve años. Mi padre no podía saber mi verdadera dirección. Debía recogerme y entregarme a la entrada del edificio adonde había vivido sola con mi madre antes de que ella contrajese matrimonio con el susodicho cancerbero. Se construía en mi fuero interno una disociación abrumadora, mi padre iba convirtiéndose en un amor prohibido. Palabrita trampolín, palabrita catapulta, en la que se ha refugiado desde entonces, entre otras minucias, mi felicidad.
Agréguese a esto la capacidad creativa de mi padre. Era capaz de narrar historias inverosímiles y relatos de la vida real y tenía respuestas a todas las preguntas, desde las matemáticas hasta las psicológicas. Así fue como una semana salíamos a comprar un microscopio y recogíamos en nuestro apuro a casa para estrenarlo, todo un muestrario de organismos, hojas verdes y secas, granos de polvo y de tierra, fibras textiles, pulpas de fruta. Una vez, hasta nuestra piel fue objeto de pesquisa bajo el pequeño microscopio, menos un juguete que una aproximación a la investigación empírica. Otro sábado nos dio por cocinar. Una excusa más para acceder al conocimiento, pues mi padre se había pasado la semana hurgando recetas atractivas para la elaboración de dulces multicolores del Medio Oriente. Aquello acabó como un mazacote incomestible por exceso de azúcar y de colorantes, pero quedó grabado en nuestra memoria como un viaje extraordinario a esa dimensión desconocida en la que no existíamos más que él y yo, exploradores de todo lo existente, inventores de todo lo demás. Mi padre comenzaba a interesarse por la navegación a vela. Algunos de esos estrechos domingos en los que nos permitían estar juntos, bajábamos al litoral central para otear entre espuma y cresta algún velero y aun antes de embarcarnos ya habíamos zanjado otra trinchera de confabulación y disfrute. Pronto logramos hacernos invitar a un velerito deportivo, cuyo dueño, un napolitano largo, flaco y narizón, se convirtió desde ese día y para siempre en uno de los amigos más entrañables de mi padre. La voz de mando quebraba el silencio. La niña que era entonces hubo de aprender a sofocar el miedo a los gritos del timonel y a que se voltease la nave, pues las ráfagas alcanzaban a veces los 20 nudos. Cuando realmente ocurrió la pirueta, todo fue risa y festejo. Nos montamos todos en la quilla del velero, y lo regresamos a su posición erguida. Estábamos todos mojados, salados, cansados y tan felices que me quedé prendada de la navegación a vela y de las palabras gritadas en el mar porque no conllevan venenos psicotrópicos, sino órdenes y camaradería marinas.
Casualmente, ese día tan feliz fue el primero pero no el último en el que llegamos cinco minutos después de las ocho al lugar indicado para que yo fuera entregada a mi madre. Con la tensión en el aire y los chispazos eléctricos que emanaban mis depositarios, se hubiera podido cortar acero. Aquello superaba con creces el efecto, solo descubierto muchos años más tarde, que causa el plasma sobre el metal. Pero mi padrastro, impotente ante la sorpresa de mi padre por tan desbordada reacción por solo cinco minutos de demora, cuando nosotros sabíamos que veníamos del otro lado del horizonte, que le habíamos dado un giro de trescientos sesenta grados al mástil, que habíamos pasado de secos y húmedos a mojados y empapados y que veníamos de atravesar el tortuoso camino de regresar a la realidad en el tiempo récord de una hora, a pesar de los embotellamientos de tránsito típicos de los domingos en la ruta desde el litoral, solo atinó a decirme, una vez instalados en su carro y de regreso a su guarida, que había sido una falta de respeto con mi madre dejarla esperando en la calle y que no toleraría nuevas demoras. Esa primera vez me quedé callada pues mis ojos aún bailaban al compás del subibaja de las olas del mar y mis lágrimas no eran muy diferentes en salinidad. Esa noche el cancerbero dio muestras de ferocidad asomando apenas los dientes, sus ojos surcados por gruesas telarañas de sangre desprendían ira y desprecio. Al cabo de un par de interminables horas me dejó marchar a mi cuarto. Allí lucharon en mi retina las gloriosas aventuras del día transcurrido con mi padre y un miedo atroz a perderlo. Sombras asesinas atravesaron el espectro de mi imaginación. Creí capaz a mi padrastro de prohibirme a mi padre definitivamente, incluso de matarlo. Pero, sorpresivamente, al día siguiente me fue comunicada una nueva decisión que entraría en vigencia a partir de mi próxima salida con “ese indeseable”. El sujeto ese debía buscarme a la entrada del edificio en el que vivíamos. Eso sí, debía recogerme y depositarme a la hora puntual convenida y desaparecer.
Ni que decir que celebré la decisión sin siquiera intentar prever sus posibles repercusiones. Mi padre podría saber al menos donde vivía, la calle en la que jugaba con otros niños y eso me hacía feliz. Podría también, en caso de emergencia, soñaba yo, venir cual caballero andante a rescatarme del miedo a esa casa muerta, en la que no se pronunciaba palabra alguna por el mero placer de hablar, en cambio se gritaba con facilidad, pero no para modificar el rumbo de embarcación alguna, cazar escotas, trasluchar o ponerse al pairo, como en el velero del amigo narizón de mi padre, sino porque la niña, es decir yo, no debía comer los dulces ni los helados con los que mi nueva abuela, la madre de mi padrastro, quien también vivía con nosotros, intentaba edulcorar mi infancia.
Llegado, por fin, el próximo sábado, bajé a esperar a mi amado padre. Algún imprevisto ha debido demorarlo un par de minutos justo a la hora en que yo pensaba que mi padrastro regresaría de la fábrica para ser testigo nuevamente del incumplimiento de una norma absurda. Así que me escondí entre los carros y desde ese lugar privilegiado que es la ficción, espié simultáneamente a aquel de quien huía y también a aquel a quien esperaba con fruición de reencuentro. ¿Qué sorpresa me tendría hoy?
Me sentí astuta porque nadie llegó tan siquiera a sospechar de mi protagonismo en aquella novela negra en la que, como los buenos detectives, iba yo acumulando información y aprendiendo sobre los efectos de la adrenalina sobre el corazón. La taquicardia solo se me quitó cuando, como paliativo de los refrigerios que beben los detectives mientras vigilan a sus clientes o a sus enemigos, mi padre pidió, en la cafetería de todos los sábados, su consabido “negro corto” y me dejó probar el terrón de azúcar impregnado en su café. Luego se le iluminó la cara como siempre que se le ocurría algún plan para mí. De pronto comenzó a cantar estrofas y a tararear la música de Las bodas de Fígaro. Esa tarde me regaló por primera vez el disco de vinilo y salimos apuradísimos a su casa a escucharlo. Vivía en un lugar pequeño pero acogedor y tenía un balconcito en el que diminutos gusanillos se iban convirtiendo en tantos como de ellos quisiese yo cortar. Desde entonces me atrae la multiplicidad del ser. ..,.
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Plural Me
I. Tacit or Implied
My father was the beginning. He was everything—the start and the end; the boundless presence of suffering and joy, of knowledge and bewilderment.
My father had read every book in the universe and had espoused every doctrine of existence. His answers held as much affection as cynicism, in proportions of such chemical purity that I never again encountered them in any other human being. By the time I knew him, he had lost his entire family—sacrificed to catastrophe—as well as his young love and any hope of building a home. He was a solitary man ill-at-ease with solitude. He sketched figures in charcoal born of his astigmatic gaze. He cataloged women, memories, dreams, and books in caricatures hatched in the heat of ruthless self-criticism. He believed nothing he did held any value, as if an internal judge dismissed any attempt to break through the barriers of his formal upbringing and the expectations of his dead.
My father was a complex man of many nuances. Philosophy coursed through his veins despite his ironclad self-censorship—a trait that was utterly and absolutely hereditary, and one that has marked my life forever. It was a tacit demand that prevented both of us from overcoming what I have come to call the “Moses complex.” That is to say, both he and I—each a Moses—always knew the path, even though we would never fully traverse it. His sketches, like my writings, were content to merely smudge, in the shadows, the profound conviction that any attempt at transcendence was absurd and futile. Yet, at the same time, at every landing along the way, we set ourselves surrogate goals—objectives measurable enough to provide a measure of peace and a rush of adrenaline.
My father balanced his business successes—to which, incidentally, he never attributed any real merit—with his expertise as a sailor. He captained his sailboat and his life with the same sensation, for it was death he challenged, death he fled from, and death he pursued. Inexorably, and to keep himself in shape, he established a strict survivor’s schedule; he adhered to the clock for eating and sleeping, and had fixed days for coming and going. His mind held words in seven languages, and he was capable of speaking several at once. Likewise, he could recount stories—real or fictional—having lived both kinds.
My father drank. The passage of the amber liquid through his body made him levitate. Weightless, he would frequently access the most hidden regions of his own soul—a territory that drew him in, yet one he also feared. Mozart’s music quelled his dreaded unruliness; he would often conduct the orchestra with his left hand to mark the beat, and in that manner—mathematical rather than sublime—he would regain his sanity and a sense of responsibility for his actions. My father kept no secrets; he shared his life with me in a spirit of delightful complicity. I came to know his ghosts firsthand, as well as some of the women in his life. Now that he is gone and I walk in his shoes—even though they are several sizes too big for me—I miss him with such pain that I sometimes have to check myself. He left me windows offering a wide vista, and with them the chance to look far into the distance—especially beyond the sea horizon where his remains lie, or past the wondrous mountain that shapes the lives of all Venezuelans. I thank him with almost hysterical fervor every day of my life, and I seek to keep alive, at every moment, any one of the countless instances we shared during our profound friendship.
My father was the first man I ever devoutly admired; he taught me the kinship between laughter and intelligence, and just how immeasurable longing can be in the realm of love. I had court permission to go out with him on Saturdays from two to six in the afternoon and every second Sunday from eight in the morning to eight at night. A guardian—better known in everyday language as a stepfather—ensured the rule was followed to the letter. A different kind of kinship was taking root in my soul: the bond between secrecy and love. Let us say, to maintain a degree of objectivity in the story, that I was nine years old. My father could not know my true address; he had to pick me up and drop me off at the entrance of the building where I had lived alone with my mother before she married the aforementioned guardian. An overwhelming dissociation was forming deep within me; my father was becoming a forbidden love. A “little word” acting as a springboard or catapult—a word in which my happiness has found refuge ever since, among other trifles.
Add to this my father’s creative gift. He could spin implausible tales and recount real-life stories, and he had answers for every question, from mathematics to psychology. That is how, one week, we went out to buy a microscope and—in our rush to get home and try it out—He was capable of recounting far-fetched tales and real-life stories, and he had answers to every question, ranging from mathematics to psychology. —gathered a whole assortment of organisms, as well as green and dried leaves, grains of dust and soil, textile fibers, fruit pulp. At one point, even our own skin came under scrutiny beneath the small microscope—less a toy than an introduction to empirical inquiry.
Another Saturday, the mood struck us to cook. It was yet another excuse to gain knowledge, as my father had spent the week hunting down appealing recipes for making multicolored Middle Eastern sweets. The result was an inedible, clumpy mess—overloaded with sugar and food coloring—yet it remained etched in our memories as an extraordinary journey into that unknown dimension where only the two of us existed: explorers of all that was, inventors of everything else. My father was beginning to take an interest in sailing. On those rare Sundays when we were allowed to be together, we would head down to the central coast to scan the cresting foam for a sailboat; even before we actually set foot on a boat, we had already carved out a shared space of conspiracy and delight. Soon, we managed to get an invitation onto a small racing sailboat; its owner—a tall, skinny Neapolitan with a large nose—became, from that day forward, one of my father’s dearest friends. A commanding voice would cut through the silence. The girl I was then had to learn to suppress her fear of the helmsman’s shouts and the risk of the boat capsizing, as gusts sometimes reached twenty knots. When the boat actually did tip over, it was all laughter and celebration. We all climbed onto the sailboat’s keel and righted the vessel. We were wet, salty, tired, and so happy that I fell in love with sailing—and with the words shouted out at sea, for they carry no toxic emotional baggage, only commands and nautical camaraderie. Coincidentally, that blissful day was the first—though not the last—time we arrived five minutes past eight at the designated spot where I was to be handed back to my mother. The tension in the air—and the electric sparks radiating from my very being—was thick enough to cut steel. It far surpassed the effect plasma has on metal—a phenomenon discovered only years later. Yet my stepfather, helpless in the face of my father’s astonishment at such an explosive reaction to a mere five-minute delay, could only manage to tell me—once we were settled in his car, heading back to his lair—that leaving my mother waiting on the street was disrespectful and that he would not tolerate further delays. That first time, I remained silent; my eyes were still dancing to the rhythm of the ocean swells, and my tears were no less salty. That night, the guardian at the gate bared his teeth, revealing his ferocity; his eyes, laced with thick, bloodshot webs, radiated rage and contempt. After a couple of interminable hours, he finally let me go to my room. There, the glorious adventures of the day spent with my father battled in my mind against an agonizing fear of losing him. Murderous shadows flitted across my imagination; I believed my stepfather capable of forbidding me from seeing my father ever again—or even killing him. Yet, surprisingly, the next day I was informed of a new rule that would take effect starting with my next outing with “that undesirable man.” That fellow was required to pick me up at the entrance of our apartment building. He had to collect me and drop me off at the precise, agreed-upon time—and then vanish. Needless to say, I rejoiced at the decision without even attempting to foresee its potential repercussions. My father might at least know where I lived, the street where I played with other children, and knowing at least where he lived—the street where he played with other children—and that made me happy. I also dreamed that, in an emergency, he might come like a knight-errant to rescue me from the fear of that dead house—a place where not a single word was spoken for the sheer pleasure of conversation, yet where shouting came easily. It wasn’t the kind of shouting used to alter a vessel’s course, trim the sheets, jibe, or heave-to—like on the sailboat belonging to my father’s big-nosed friend—but rather shouting because the girl (meaning me) wasn’t supposed to eat the sweets or ice cream with which my new grandmother—my stepfather’s mother, who also lived with us—tried to sweeten my childhood.
When the following Saturday finally arrived, I went downstairs to wait for my beloved father. Some unforeseen event must have delayed him for a couple of minutes—right at the moment I expected my stepfather to return from the factory and witness, once again, my breaking of some absurd rule. So, I hid among the cars, and from that vantage point—a privileged position akin to fiction—I simultaneously spied on the man I was fleeing and the one I awaited with the eager anticipation of reunion. What surprise did he have in store for me today?
I felt clever, for no one even suspected the role I was playing in that noir drama where, like a good detective, I was gathering information and learning about the effects of adrenaline on the heart. My racing heart only calmed down when—as a counterpoint to the refreshments detectives drink while tailing clients or enemies—my father ordered his usual negro corto at our regular Saturday café and let me taste the sugar cube soaked in his coffee. Then his face lit up, as it always did when he came up with a plan for me. Suddenly, he began singing verses and humming the music from The Marriage of Figaro. That afternoon, he gave me the vinyl record for the first time, and we rushed off to his place to listen to it. He lived in a small but cozy spot and had a tiny balcony where minuscule little worms would transform into as many new ones as I cared to snip off. Ever since then, I have been drawn to the multiplicity of being…
Giselda Leirner é uma artista e acadêmica brasileira nascida em uma família judea profundamente enraizada nas artes. Filha de Isai e Felícia Leirner e irmã de Nelson Leirner, ela foi educada por mestres das artes, como Emiliano Di Cavalcanti, Yolanda Mohalyi e Poty Lazzarotto. Giselda também estudou na Art Students League e na Parson School of Design, em Nova Iorque. Suas obras fazem parte de coleções importantes, como o Museu de Arte de São Paulo (Masp) e o Museu de Jerusalém. Paralelamente à sua carreira artística, Giselda se formou em Filosofia pela Universidade de São Paulo, especializando-se em filosofia da religião. Ela publicou quatro livros no Brasil, sendo o primeiro também editado na França em 2005, demonstrando sua relevância nos campos da arte e da filosofia. Biombô
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Giselda Leirner is a Brazilian artist and scholar born into a Jewish family deeply rooted in the arts. The daughter of Isai and Felícia Leirner and sister of Nelson Leirner, she was mentored by masters such as Emiliano Di Cavalcanti, Yolanda Mohalyi, and Poty Lazzarotto. Giselda also studied at the Art Students League and the Parsons School of Design in New York. Her works are held in major collections, including those of the São Paulo Museum of Art (MASP) and the Israel Museum in Jerusalem. Alongside her artistic career, Giselda earned a degree in Philosophy from the University of São Paulo, specializing in the philosophy of religion. She has published four books in Brazil—with the first also released in France in 2005—demonstrating her significance in the fields of art and philosophy. Biombô
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Naufrágos: Ela como que se descasca e despe diante do leitor, revelando a escritura como um processo e como um modo de sobrevida, meio de trançar vida e morte e de passar de um polo a outro. Ela se despe na medida mesmo em que afirma que a escritura é sua roupagem: “Escrevo. Não faço outra coisa que descrever, este sucedâneo literário que encobre minha carência, minha incapacidade. Desespero”. Medium
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Castaways: She seems to peel away and undress before the reader, revealing writing as a process and a mode of survival—a means of intertwining life and death and of passing from one pole to the other. She strips herself bare at the very moment she asserts that writing is her attire: “I write. I do nothing but describe—this literary substitute that cloaks my lack, my incapacity. Despair.” Medium
Eugenio, um amor Eu o conheci três vezes e nas três vezes o amei com o mesmo profundo amor. Uma na juventude, outra na meia-idade e a terceira na velhice.
A primeira foi quando o vi entrando no quarto de meu pai, que já estava com a doença fatal adiantada. Entrou junto ao sol, que o acompanhou sempre. Mesmo nos dias nebulosos, o quarto em que entrava resplandecia e a doença se apagava na luz irradiada.
De uma coisa eu tinha certeza, ele iria curar meu pai. Era belo, a cabeça, com poucos cabelos loiros, e os olhos castanhos transmitiam uma tal inteligência, que eliminava qualquer dúvida quanto a sua capacidade de cura.
Tendo já seus trinta anos, ainda tinha a certeza que trazem em si os meninos prodígios. Era assim considerado por todos, que se maravilhavam com sua capacidade de, aos sete anos, declamar versos inteiros da Divina Comédia, que lhe eram lidos pelo pai, dr. Guido, famoso e erudito médico italiano, que viera ao Brasil para dirigir um hospital.
Assim que o vi, soube que seria ele o homem que me acompanharia até o fim de minha vida, mais longa que a dele, em todas as intermináveis três vezes em que o amei. Era sedutor e sabia usar esse dom. Não havia nada nele que não fosse verdadeiro. Não havia afetação na sua vontade de agradar.
O gesto de amor lhe era natural. Estava a isto acostumado, filho caçula sempre perto da mãe, e mimado pelo pai, que era rigoroso com os outros filhos. Menino, gostava de sentar-se à grande mesa do consultório, balançando as pernas curtas, enquanto enchia folhas de receituário com garatujas.
Ao morrer o pai, a primeira coisa que fez foi sentar-se à mesa, dizendo: “esta mesa é minha, aqui ninguém senta”. E assim foi.
Quando o conheci, médico famoso, já tinha sido casado com uma mulher extremamente feia, porém rica, de família tradicional, que morreu de uma encefalite aguda assim que chegaram da viagem de núpcias. Como era muito jovem, Eugenio, sem pais, ficou morando na casa de seus sogros, que o adotaram como filho.
Foi brilhante cirurgião, e dava aulas na Clínica Cirúrgica da Faculdade de Medicina, como chefe de disciplina. Sempre admirado, não só por colegas e por alunos, mas especialmente pelas mulheres, dava suas aulas com graça especial. Sendo exímio desenhista, desenhava com um giz em cada mão, em gestos contínuos, qualquer órgão do corpo humano, não necessitando de quadros ilustrativos. Era um artista. Sua distração aos domingos consistia em pintar belos quadros, que nunca pendurava. Deixava-os encostados ao rés do chão, sempre voltados para a parede, para que não fossem vistos. Não os mostrava a ninguém. Fui a única a vê-los.
Grande estudioso, publicou vários artigos sobre a anatomia e as artes. A respeito do pintor El Greco, dizia que o alongamento dos corpos pintados pelo artista devia-se ao seu astigmatismo. Deu várias palestras como crítico de arte, especialmente sobre o Surrealismo e os elementos de sua iconografia na pintura. Suas cirurgias eram conduzidas com a elegância de um artista, sem manobras cirúrgicas desnecessárias.
Tenho ainda comigo uma publicação em que ele analisa a obra do Aleijadinho, sempre unindo a estética à medicina, onde afirma ter sido Aleijadinho um doente de lepra. Tudo isso não me interessava pois, para mim, a obra do artista e seus problemas físicos eram coisas independentes. Geralmente eram essas as nossas discussões. Nunca duvidei, porém, de sua extraordinária capacidade cirúrgica que, no entanto, não conseguiu salvar meu pai.
Era nietzschiano, ao pé da letra, sem o saber, pois acreditava que as diferentes civilizações refletem certos climas intelectuais, cada um, particularmente prejudicial ou salutar a um ou outro órgão. Via a história como a ciência dos remédios, mas não a própria terapêutica. Seria por isso necessário um médico que utilizasse esta ciência dos remédios para enviar cada um ao clima que lhe é particularmente salutar — por um período, ou para sempre. “Ao lado da cura do espírito”, dizia, “é necessário que, no tocante às coisas corporais, a humanidade apreenda, por meio de uma geografia médica, quais são as doenças que cada região da terra provoca, quais os fatores de cura que ela apresenta.” Eu não entendia muito bem suas teorias, elas me eram estranhas, às vezes pareciam alucinações. Considerava a terra como uma estação de cura, onde os indivíduos deveriam ser transplantados sem cessar até serem dominadores de sua própria hereditariedade. Esta maldição, dizia eu, não me permitia o acesso ao livre arbítrio, e para a qual, segundo meu ponto de vista, não havia cura.
Nossas conversas não giravam somente em torno de assuntos relacionados à filosofia ou à arte. Brincávamos e ríamos muito, como crianças. Adorávamos viajar, passear de barco. Velejar era seu esporte favorito, do qual eu não participava, pelo medo que tinha do mar.
Ficávamos o dia todo na praia e, sendo ele muito claro de pele, eu o encharcava de óleo Nívea para bebê. Eu o adorava nestes momentos em que ele, brilhante de óleo, sob a luz do sol, entrava no mar. Era para mim um deus naquele instante, apesar da fragilidade de seu corpo, pois não era um homem grande nem forte ou musculoso. E era justamente esta fragilidade de um corpo com a força de uma cabeça que me fazia amá-lo tanto.
Quando voltávamos da praia, exaustos, tomávamos banho e, perfumados, com os corpos ainda sedosos do óleo, nos deitávamos e fazíamos amor, um amor louco às vezes; outras, um amor suave e delicado, vagaroso, até adormecermos enlaçados, esquecendo até de jantar. São estes dias e noites que ficaram em minha memória como os mais belos de nossa relação. Que nunca mudou.
Ao chegar do serviço, muito cansado, eu lhe preparava um uísque com gelo. Tinha já as velinhas acesas na lareira e a música que ele amava no toca-discos. A casa toda, à espera do amado, perfumava-se com o cheiro delicioso do jantar. Depois do banho, que tomávamos juntos em nossa jacuzzi, vestíamos belos e coloridos quimonos, amarrados na cintura com largos cinturões. Descíamos as escadas de madeira de nossa casa para o jantar e, depois de a baiana gorda e preta, que nos serviu durante longos anos, sair, ainda ficávamos a conversar durante algum tempo.
Nunca me falava sobre suas experiências no hospital ou consultório, nem assistia à tevê. Dormíamos sempre abraçados. Ao acordar, se sobrasse algum tempo ainda, me acariciava até chegarmos ao ato de amor, com o qual iniciávamos nosso dia. Ele saía para o hospital, enquanto eu entrava em meu Fusca verde em direção à faculdade, onde fazia o curso de pós-graduação em literatura. Meu trabalho intitulava-se Crime e santidade. Sempre comecei tudo o que escrevi pelo título, e foi este que me levou a Dostoiévski. Nunca consegui um retrato exato — nem era minha intenção escrever uma biografia.
Jamais me considerei especialista em qualquer assunto, mesmo que tivesse lido toda a obra do autor russo. Sobre mim, é a única coisa que direi. É dos três homens de minha vida que desejo falar.
Aos poucos, percebi que Eugenio voltava do hospital cansado demais para conversarmos. Apenas bebíamos. Esperava o entorpecimento para deitar-se. Não mais fazíamos amor. Durante a noite, acordava várias vezes. Irritado, passou a tomar comprimidos para dormir. Começou com um, trocou por outros mais fortes. Daí em diante, o inferno abriu suas portas para nos esperar. As garrafas de bebida multiplicaram-se pela casa até chegarem ao nosso quarto de dormir. Passei a beber também — eu, que tinha pouca resistência ao álcool, bebia menos que ele. Da euforia inicial, passávamos à depressão. Piores eram as manhãs. Eu ficava deitada, enquanto ele se arrastava com má vontade em direção ao hospital.
Deixou de ser cirurgião, pois suas mãos tremiam. Sentia-se inseguro.
Chegava em casa mais cedo, deixando com a secretária do consultório recados de que teria viajado para congressos.
Os filhos, já adultos, diminuíram as visitas à nossa casa, pois não suportavam, entre outras coisas, o cheiro de álcool que permeava o ambiente. Mesmo ao nos beijar, eu sentia que o faziam com um certo desgosto. Falavam com a baiana em voz baixa antes de partir, e tinham sempre um ar preocupado. Um dia nos visitou dr. Rosário, melhor amigo de meu marido, que, alertado pelos meninos, e preocupado com a ausência de Eugenio, veio nos ver. Saiu cabisbaixo e silencioso.
As persianas e as cortinas fechadas já não permitiam diferenciar o dia da noite. A vida era outra. Não deixava de ser vida, mas se parecia cada vez mais com a morte — ou com aquilo que achamos ser a morte, porque não a conhecemos e acreditamos ser um sono sem sonhos.
Tínhamos nos tornados puros, brancos e cristalinos, como a vodca que tomávamos. Um o espelho do outro.
Foi um dia-noite. Eugenio rolou pelas escadas. Bateu a cabeça. Depois de algum tempo, cresceu-lhe um tumor. Foi do golpe? Não saberia dizer. Dr. Rosário o internou numa clínica fora da cidade. Lá ficou, sentado numa cadeira de rodas. Deixou de falar, não me reconhecia mais.
Ali morreu. Eu fiquei.
Voltei à liberdade, dominada por uma profunda tristeza.
Nas outras duas vezes em que o encontrei, não era mais o mesmo homem, nem o mesmo amor.
Para ter compaixão é necessário um espaço de separação. Eu e o outro nos encontramos em um espaço não meu nem dele, mas num espaço único. Só aí o encontro pode se dar, o verdadeiro, o do amor reencontrado, porém diverso.
Vivi com a sombra do primeiro amor duas vezes mais. O tempo de uma vida. Vivi a perplexidade diante do mundo, de mim mesma e daqueles que me cercaram. Estava enlouquecendo? Ou era uma espécie de consciência diferente da usual? Tudo me parecia destituído de verdade, de cor, de sentido.
Voltei à vida, mas não era mais a mesma. Não havia evolução. O prazer perdido ficou assim para sempre. Impossível substituí-lo. O primeiro Eugenio foi sempre o mesmo. Os substitutos vieram. Outros prazeres surgiram, outras experiências vividas, porém nenhum progresso, só mudanças. Um elemento a mais na construção do desconhecido.
Agora que me torno mais velha, me aproximo do mesmo amor de maneira mais profunda. Ao contrário do que deveria ser,para aprender a me afastar, deixar o caminho livre, mais chego perto deste terceiro e último amor que é e sempre será o primeiro Eugenio.
“Mudo de vida como se passa da sombra
ao sol, ou do sol à sombra, em um instante concreto,
Eugenio—a love. I loved him three times, and each time with the same profound affection: once in my youth, once in middle age, and a third time in old age.
The first time was when I saw him enter my father’s room; my father was already in the advanced stages of a fatal illness. He entered alongside the sunlight—a companion that always stayed with him. Even on cloudy days, the room would glow when he walked in, and the sickness seemed to fade away in the light he radiated.
Of one thing I was certain: he would cure my father. He was handsome; his head held sparse blond hair, and his brown eyes conveyed such intelligence that any doubt regarding his healing abilities vanished.
Though already in his thirties, he still possessed that air of certainty found in child prodigies. Everyone regarded him as such, marveling at how, at the age of seven, he could recite entire verses of the *Divine Comedy*—lines read to him by his father, Dr. Guido, a renowned and learned Italian physician who had come to Brazil to run a hospital.
The moment I saw him, I knew he was the man who would walk with me until the end of my life—a life longer than his—throughout those three interminable times I loved him. He was captivating, and he knew how to use that gift. There was nothing about him that wasn’t genuine; there was no affectation in his desire to please.
That gesture of affection came naturally to him. He was used to it—the youngest son, always close to his mother and spoiled by a father who was otherwise strict with his other children. As a boy, he loved sitting at the large desk in the consulting room, swinging his short legs while filling prescription pads with scribbles.
When his father died, the first thing he did was sit at that desk and declare, “This desk is mine; no one else sits here.” And so it remained.
By the time I met him—already a renowned physician—he had been married to an extremely unattractive but wealthy woman from a traditional family; she had died of acute encephalitis shortly after they returned from their honeymoon. Being very young and without parents of his own, Eugenio continued living in his in-laws’ home, where they adopted him as a son.
He was a brilliant surgeon and taught at the Medical School’s Department of Surgery, serving as the head of the discipline. Widely admired—not only by colleagues and students but especially by women—he conducted his classes with a unique grace. An accomplished draftsman, he could draw any organ of the human body using a piece of chalk in each hand simultaneously, moving in continuous strokes; he had no need for illustrative charts. He was an artist. His Sunday pastime was painting beautiful pictures, though he never hung them up. He would leave them leaning against the floor, always facing the wall so they wouldn’t be seen. He showed them to no one. I was the only person who ever saw them.
A dedicated scholar, he published several articles on the relationship between anatomy and the arts. Regarding the painter El Greco, he argued that the elongated figures in the artist’s work were the result of his astigmatism. He gave numerous lectures as an art critic, focusing particularly on Surrealism and the elements of its iconography in painting. He performed surgeries with the elegance of an artist, avoiding any unnecessary maneuvers. I still have a publication of his in which he analyzes the work of Aleijadinho—always linking aesthetics to medicine—and asserts that the artist suffered from leprosy. None of this interested me, as I viewed the artist’s work and his physical ailments as separate matters. Such were the usual topics of our discussions. Yet, I never doubted his extraordinary surgical skill—though, for all that, he could not save my father.
He was a Nietzschean—quite literally, without even realizing it—believing that different civilizations reflect specific intellectual climates, each particularly harmful or beneficial to one organ or another. He viewed history as the science of remedies, though not as therapeutics itself. Thus, a physician was needed to apply this science of remedies by sending individuals to the climate most beneficial to them—whether for a time or forever. “Alongside the healing of the spirit,” he would say, “humanity must learn, through medical geography, which diseases each region of the earth provokes and what healing factors it offers.” I did not fully grasp his theories; they seemed alien to me, at times even like hallucinations. He regarded the earth as a health resort where individuals ought to be constantly transplanted until they had mastered their own heredity. That curse, I felt, denied me free will—and, in my view, there was no cure for it.
Our conversations did not revolve solely around philosophy or art. We would joke and laugh a great deal, like children. We loved traveling and going out on the water. Sailing was his favorite sport—one I did not share in, owing to my fear of the sea.
We would spend the entire day at the beach; since he was very fair-skinned, I would douse him in Nivea baby oil. I adored him in those moments when, glistening with oil in the sunlight, he would step into the sea. To me, he was a god in that instant—despite the frailty of his body, for he was neither a large man nor strong or muscular. And it was precisely that frailty of body, paired with the strength of his mind, that made me love him so much.
When we returned from the beach, exhausted, we would bathe; then, fragrant and with our bodies still silky from the oil, we would lie down and make love—sometimes wildly, at other times gently and delicately, taking our time—until we fell asleep in each other’s arms, forgetting even to have dinner. It is these days and nights that remain in my memory as the most beautiful of our relationship—a relationship that never changed.
When he arrived home from work, very tired, I would prepare a whisky on the rocks for him. I would already have small candles lit in the fireplace and the music he loved playing on the record player. The whole house, awaiting my beloved, would be filled with the delicious aroma of dinner. After our bath—which we took together in our Jacuzzi—we would put on beautiful, colorful kimonos, tied at the waist with wide sashes. We would go down the wooden stairs for dinner, and after the stout Black woman from Bahia—who served us for so many years—had left, we would linger and talk for a while longer.
I never considered myself an expert on any subject, even though I had read the Russian author’s entire body of work. That is the only thing I will say about myself. It is the three men in my life I wish to speak about.
Gradually, I noticed that Eugenio would return from the hospital too exhausted for us to talk. We would simply drink. He would wait for the numbness to set in before going to bed. We no longer made love. He would wake up several times during the night. Irritated, he began taking sleeping pills. He started with one, then switched to stronger ones. From then on, hell opened its doors to await us. Bottles of liquor multiplied throughout the house until they reached our bedroom. I started drinking too—though, having little tolerance for alcohol, I drank less than he did. We would swing from initial euphoria to depression. The mornings were the worst. I would lie in bed while he dragged himself, reluctantly, toward the hospital.
He stopped being a surgeon because his hands shook. He felt insecure.
He would come home early, leaving messages with his office secretary claiming he had traveled to attend medical conferences.
Our adult children visited less often; they couldn’t stand, among other things, the smell of alcohol that permeated the air. Even when they kissed us, I sensed a certain distaste. They would speak in hushed tones to our housekeeper before leaving, always looking worried. One day, Dr. Rosário—my husband’s best friend—came to visit; alerted by the children and concerned about Eugenio’s absence, he had come to check on us. He left with his head down, in silence.
The closed blinds and curtains made it impossible to distinguish day from night. Life was different. It was still life, yet it increasingly resembled death—or rather, what we imagine death to be, since we do not know it and believe it to be a dreamless sleep. We had become pure, white, and crystal-clear, like the vodka we drank. Mirrors of each other.
It was a day-night. Eugenio tumbled down the stairs. He hit his head. Sometime later, a tumor developed. Was it from the blow? I couldn’t say. Dr. Rosário had him admitted to a clinic outside the city. There he remained, sitting in a wheelchair. He stopped speaking; he no longer recognized me.
He died there. I remained.
I returned to freedom, overcome by a profound sadness.
The other two times I encountered him, he was no longer the same man, nor was the love the same.
To feel compassion, a space of separation is necessary. The other and I meet in a space that belongs to neither of us—a unique space. Only there can the encounter take place—the true encounter, that of a love rediscovered yet transformed.
I lived with the shadow of that first love for twice as long. A lifetime. I lived in a state of bewilderment regarding the world, myself, and those around me. Was I going mad? Or was this a form of consciousness different from the usual? Everything seemed devoid of truth, color, and meaning.
I returned to life, but I was no longer the same. There was no evolution. The lost pleasure remained lost forever; it was impossible to replace. The first Eugenio remained always the same. Substitutes came along. Other pleasures arose, other experiences were lived, yet there was no progress—only change. Just one more element in the construction of the unknown.
Now, as I grow older, I draw closer to that same love in a deeper way. Contrary to what one might expect—learning to step away and clear the path—I find myself moving ever closer to this third and final love, which is and will always be the first Eugenio.
“I change my life as one moves from shadow
to sun, or from sun to shadow, in a concrete instant
that establishes a difference—
physical, felt on the skin, a subtle difference,
yet a radical one—between the before and the after,
Cecilia “Cipe” Lincovsky (21 September 1929 – 31 August 2015) was an Argentine actress. She made her stage debut in 1953, and joined the Berliner Ensemble in 1960. Lincovsky spent much of her career overseas, including in Venezuela and France, as she had drawn attention from Argentine Anticommunist Alliance. Returning to Argentina via Spain in the 1980s, Lincovsky joined the Argentine Open Theatre. She was awarded the Silver Condor Award for Best Actress in 1990. She died of cardiac arrest and kidney failure in her hometown of Buenos Aires on 31 August 2015, aged 85.
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Cipe Lincovsky, actriz: Escenas de teatro y cine/Actress: Scenes from Theater and Movies
