Dios apenas toca el arpa
Friday, September 14, 2018
 |
| 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.
