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Friday, September 14, 2018

Dios apenas toca el arpa

Néstor Marconi


Today I discussed with a photographer who asked me what “my style”was.  I told him, “Not fashion.” The photographer answered that of an approach that combined fashion with portraiture.  For me when a portrait does not attempt to reveal something of the person photographed it is a failed portrait that shows that perhaps the photographer snapped without attempting some sort of two-way communication. Sometimes subjects can be hermetic, but it is still up to the photographer to attempt an entry.

That almost untenable try to describe a fashion shot as a portrait and vice versa  sometimes can be resolved if the person photographed is famous. Any photograph of an elegant George Clooney can be both a portrait and fashion. But for the unknown, the photographer has to try harder.

Strangely the answers to the questions above are similar if one is to describe the differences between an Argentine playing a bandoneón and anybody else an accordion. The latter may be a virtuoso but for me the difference is impalpable (a fine Spanish word that translates poorly to cannot be touched by your hand). The same would apply if you have to ask what jazz is.

The word soul is almost lost its original magical meaning. Tango, the bandoneón all have something that you cannot put your hand on but you will know what it is when you hear it if you know how to listen.  The same applies to a photograph. You have to know how to see to discern the difference between a fashion shot and a portrait not to mention when they can be the same.


Bandoneón (in English below this version)
Mario Benedetti

Me jode confesarlo

pero la vida es también un bandoneón

hay quien sostiene que lo toca dios

pero yo estoy seguro de que es Troilo

ya que dios apenas toca el arpa

y mal



fuere quien fuere lo cierto es

que nos estira en un solo ademán purísimo

y luego nos reduce de a poco a casi nada

y claro nos arranca confesiones

quejas que son clamores

vértebras de alegría

esperanzas que vuelven

como los hijos pródigos

y sobre todo como los estribillos



me jode confesarlo

porque lo cierto es que hoy en día

pocos

quieren ser tango

la natural tendencia

es a ser rumba o mambo o chachachá

o merengue o bolero o tal vez casino

en último caso valsecito o milonga

pasodoble jamás

pero cuando dios o Pichuco o quien sea

toma entre sus manos la vida bandoneón

y le sugiere que llore o regocije

uno siente el tremendo decoro de ser tango

y se deja cantar y ni se acuerda

que allá espera

el estuche.



Bandoneón (translation by Terence Clarke)



I’m fucked, confessing it,

but life too is a bandoneón

there are some who hold that God plays it

but I’m sure that it’s Troilo

since God can hardly play the harp,

and that badly



whoever it is, the one sure thing is

that it stretches us out in a proper pure solo

and then brings us down to so little almost nothing

and for sure drags confessions from us

clamoring complaints

the vertebra of happiness

hopes that return like prodigal sons

and above all like refrains



I’m fucked confessing it

because for sure, right now, today

few

want to be tango

the natural tendency

is to be a rumba or mambo or chachachá

or merengue or bolero or maybe casino

and at the very last a little waltz or milonga,

and a pasadoble? never

but when God or Pichuco or whoever

takes in his hands the bandoneón life

and suggests to it that it weep or cheer

you feel the tremendous decorum of being tango

you just go ahead and sing and you would never agree

that there awaits

your casket.