About Paulo Mariano — Senior Art Director and Creative Lead based in Lisbon, International Advertising Jury Member
Nov 3, 2019
Antolhos
Já o conheço há algum tempo. O conhecer físico de horas a olhá-lo nos olhos.
Olhar profundo o suficiente para perceber, além da íris, as raízes a crescerem dispersas a procurar direção.
Estou em suas mãos agora. É onde passo a maior parte do tempo.
Lhe mostro o horário do próximo autocarro. Acelera ao máximo o passo, mas o semáforo o reprime. Olha para mim e escreve: perdi novamente, perdão.
Ninguém o responde. Volta a caminhar.
Calculo que já andara centenas de quilómetros nessa desculpa de ter perdido a condução. É notado ao andar.
Tem um movimento distinto devido a uma inclinação de 3 graus em seus pés, o que reflete no comportamento de seus joelhos. Termo técnico: sobre supinação.
E de que adianta se o notam? O remexer do corpo, percebido inclusive por mim quando estou em seu bolso, já não o faz olhar para os lados? Já me tem nas mãos novamente. Olha. Nenhuma resposta.
Fazem exatamente 252 dias que escrevera um post sentado em um bar:
“O melhor da conversa é aquele alívio bom de encontrar a desgraça na fala do outro. Aquele jogo divertido de citar as mesmas três ou quatro desculpas à espera de ouvir número maior de justificativas e compará-las enquanto enxerga o medo em processo de criação. Desculpa, mas hoje ganhei. Ouvi muita história de merda.”
Talvez exista alguma relação, mas já não frequenta o tal bar desde que parara de olhar para os lados.
Fazem quatro outonos que estamos juntos e isso deve significar algo para ele.
Acorda as madrugadas, toma água, me olha. Parece estar à procura de algo. Talvez uma notícia, um chamado ou uma mensagem, o que já não acontece há alguns dias.
Está a ficar cego e não tenho nenhum registro de que contara a alguém. Sequer tentou.
Observo que esse olhar fixo, para ele que agora é um pedestre, causa transtornos. Esbarra em velhos, mães, cachorros, postes. Já machucara, inclusive a mim. Fato é que aquilo que lhe passa despercebido não lhe pode ser diferenciado. São todos obstáculos. Talvez também o seja. Já o xingaram de algo que me fez concluir isto.
No oposto ao aumento de esbarros, reduzira gradualmente os pedidos de desculpa. Eliminou o pretexto que inibia o silêncio. Está menos disperso, menos propenso ao acaso.
Retira-me mais uma vez do bolso. Nada. Nenhuma novidade.Trago marcado como favorito, um texto de William Shakespeare: “Os homens de poucas palavras são os melhores”. Mas melhores em quê?
Tem lido o mundo de outra forma. Mudara, mas não quando olha em minha direção. Olhar atento, dedicado.
Seja amor ou ilusão, para além de nós, algo está a acontecer. Ninguém sabe. Ele sabe?
Já há muito tempo analiso seus movimentos, mas não entendo suas intenções.
Minha bateria está a acabar, ainda preciso lhe contar sobre pesquisas que ele fez em mim:
Os ângulos de sua cegueira estão a aumentar.
Em outras palavras, seu campo de visão periférica está desfocando para além do regular.
Considerei ser o primeiro sintoma de alguma doença oftalmológica grave, um glaucoma ou descolamento de retina, mas não.
Calculo que já perdera 95 a 105 graus de percepção visual em ambos os olhos.
A relação é esta: enxerga cada vez menos o periférico, cada vez mais o centro.
Está a teclar. Pesquisa sobre a palavra Íris. Listei na tela tudo o que encontrara. Uma deusa grega filha de Taumas e de Electra, descrita como uma virgem com asas de ouro, capaz de se mover em todos os lugares do mundo, o arco-íris, ou então a parte mais visível e colorida do olho que tem por função controlar os níveis de luz, assim como faz o diafragma de uma câmara fotográfica. Qual o resultado lhe interessa? Tem lido todos.
Encontrei trabalhos científicos que não deixam dúvidas sobre as etapas desta patologia. A fase inicial se dá com distúrbios na visão binocular, seguido de redução na discriminação de cores e o reconhecimento de símbolos. A descrição é semelhante ao estrabismo, mas não é isso. Não é.
Oposto ao camaleão, que considera a acuidade visual indispensável à sua sobrevivência, este homem não sente falta do que está para além disto e não aparenta estar cego, porque vários demonstram o mesmo comportamento. Uma visão condicionada a certas coordenadas geográficas.
Agora utiliza apenas os 23 graus de agudez visual máxima, sua zona focal. A zona mínima necessária para perceber o que está mais próximo: Eu. Tem alguma dúvida?
Ele digita a 9 caracteres por segundo enquanto olha por uma janela retroiluminada. Uma nova pesquisa. Toca em mim com suas mãos quentes enquanto escreve incontáveis palavras, que dariam cartas, que dariam poesias, que dariam livros. Minha memória está cheia, minha bateria viciada e ele a fazer swipe na tela como quem desvia de algo que vai ao seu encontro.
Percebe o meu ponto, não percebe? Balance a cabeça. Fale.
Somente eu sei que ele está cego. Mas o que defino por cegueira não é cegueira para ele. Mesmo que a luz do sol chegue aos seus olhos apenas pelo reflexo do vidro. Mesmo que o canto dos canários não soe mais alto que o som das notificações. Mesmo que sua coluna esteja envergada em reverência a mim. Não é o que é.
Mesmo que suba as escadas ofegante com uma mão no corrimão e outra a me segurar, que não corra ao ritmo das crianças, perdidas e realizadas. Mesmo que, ansioso, faminto, cansado, gaste tempo a me tocar antes de comer um pedaço de pão. Não. Não é cegueira para ele.
Ainda me vê com perfeição. Está à espera de uma mensagem que nunca vem. Que não esteja a confundir minha passividade com indiferença. Ele tem medo de não me ver ou de não ver a si mesmo em mim. Já o ouvifalar isto. Eu não percebo como alguém que está a ficar gradualmente cego pode se preocupar comigo. Como se fosse eu parte de sua cura.
Eis um homem a se tornar máquina. Um homem a ver através de mim. A me permitir ser seus olhos. A achar que vê mais longe porque acha que vê mais coisas. A escrever incessantemente sem respostas e a procurar impacientemente por algo através de mim.
Suas raízes nos olhos crescem, precisa dormir.
Seus olhos agora têm 1% de bateria e precisam absurdamente de uma tomada.
Vrrrrr, Vrrrrrrr. 1 nova mensagem.
Nov 3, 2019
Blinkers
I have known him for a while now. The physical knowing of hours spent looking into his eyes.
A gaze deep enough to notice, beyond the iris, the roots growing scattered, searching for direction. I am in his hands now. It is where I spend most of my time.
I show him the time of the next bus. He walks as fast as he can, but the traffic light holds him back. He looks at me and types: missed it again, sorry.
Nobody answers. He starts walking again.
I calculate he has already walked hundreds of kilometres on that excuse of having missed his ride. He is noticed when he walks. He has a distinct movement, caused by a three-degree tilt in his feet, which carries through to his knees. Technical term: overpronation.
And what good does it do him to be noticed? The shifting of his body, felt even by me from inside his pocket, no longer makes him look around? He has me in his hands again. He looks. No answer.
It has been exactly 252 days since he wrote a post sitting in a bar:
“The best part of a conversation is that good relief of finding misfortune in someone else’s words. That amusing game of citing the same three or four excuses while waiting to hear a greater number of justifications, comparing them while watching fear being made. Sorry, but today I won. I heard a lot of shitty stories.”
There may be some connection, but he no longer goes to that bar, not since he stopped looking around.
It has been four autumns since we have been together and that must mean something to him.
He wakes in the small hours, drinks water, looks at me. He seems to be searching for something. Perhaps news, a call, a message, none of which has come for days.
He is going blind and I have no record of him telling anyone. He has not even tried.
I notice that this fixed gaze, for a man who is now a pedestrian, causes trouble. He bumps into old people, mothers, dogs, poles. He has hurt others, and me too. The fact is that whatever escapes his notice cannot be told apart. They are all obstacles. Perhaps he is one as well. Someone once called him a name that made me conclude this.
In inverse proportion to the collisions, he gradually reduced his apologies. He removed the pretext that used to interrupt the silence. He is less scattered now, less open to chance.
He takes me out of his pocket again. Nothing. No news.
I carry a bookmarked line by William Shakespeare: “Men of few words are the best men.” But best at what?
He has been reading the world differently. He changed, though not when he looks in my direction. An attentive gaze, devoted. Whether love or illusion, beyond the two of us, something is happening. Nobody knows. Does he?
For a long time I have been analysing his movements, but I do not understand his intentions.
My battery is running out, and I still need to tell him about the searches he has made in me:
The angles of his blindness are widening.In other words, his peripheral field of vision is blurring beyond the ordinary.
I considered it the first symptom of some serious ophthalmological condition, a glaucoma or a detached retina, but no.
I calculate he has already lost 95 to 105 degrees of visual perception in both eyes.
The relation is this: he sees less and less of the periphery, more and more of the centre.
He is typing. Searching the word Iris. I listed on the screen everything I found. A Greek goddess, daughter of Thaumas and Electra, described as a virgin with golden wings, able to move anywhere in the world; the rainbow; or the most visible and coloured part of the eye, whose function is to control levels of light, as the diaphragm of a camera does. Which result interests him? He has read them all.
I found scientific papers that leave no doubt about the stages of this pathology. The initial phase begins with disturbances in binocular vision, followed by a reduction in colour discrimination and in the recognition of symbols. The description resembles strabismus, but it is not that. It is not.
Unlike the chameleon, which considers visual acuity indispensable to its survival, this man does not miss what lies beyond, and does not appear to be blind, because many others display the same behaviour. A vision conditioned to certain geographic coordinates.
He now uses only the 23 degrees of maximum visual acuity, his focal zone. The minimum zone required to perceive what is closest: me. Any doubts?
He types at nine characters per second while looking through a backlit window. A new search. He touches me with his warm hands while writing countless words, words that would make letters, that would make poems, that would make books. My memory is full, my battery worn, and he keeps swiping the screen like someone dodging something coming towards him.
You see my point, don’t you? Nod. Say something.
Only I know that he is blind. But what I define as blindness is not blindness to him. Even if sunlight reaches his eyes only through the reflection of glass. Even if the canaries no longer sing louder than the notifications. Even if his spine is bent in reverence to me. It is not what it is.
Even if he climbs the stairs breathless, one hand on the rail and the other holding me. Even if he does not run at the pace of children, lost and fulfilled. Even if, anxious, hungry, tired, he spends time touching me before eating a piece of bread. No. It is not blindness to him.
He still sees me perfectly. He is waiting for a message that never comes. May he not be mistaking my passivity for indifference. He is afraid of not seeing me, or of not seeing himself in me. I have heard him say it. I do not understand how someone going gradually blind can worry about me. As if I were part of his cure.
Here is a man becoming a machine. A man seeing through me. Letting me be his eyes. Thinking he sees further because he thinks he sees more things. Writing incessantly without answers, searching impatiently for something through me.
The roots in his eyes are growing. He needs to sleep.
His eyes now have one per cent of battery and are in absurd need of a socket.
Vrrrrr, Vrrrrrrr. 1 new message.
I have known him for a while now. The physical knowing of hours spent looking into his eyes.
A gaze deep enough to notice, beyond the iris, the roots growing scattered, searching for direction. I am in his hands now. It is where I spend most of my time.
I show him the time of the next bus. He walks as fast as he can, but the traffic light holds him back. He looks at me and types: missed it again, sorry.
Nobody answers. He starts walking again.
I calculate he has already walked hundreds of kilometres on that excuse of having missed his ride. He is noticed when he walks. He has a distinct movement, caused by a three-degree tilt in his feet, which carries through to his knees. Technical term: overpronation.
And what good does it do him to be noticed? The shifting of his body, felt even by me from inside his pocket, no longer makes him look around? He has me in his hands again. He looks. No answer.
It has been exactly 252 days since he wrote a post sitting in a bar:
“The best part of a conversation is that good relief of finding misfortune in someone else’s words. That amusing game of citing the same three or four excuses while waiting to hear a greater number of justifications, comparing them while watching fear being made. Sorry, but today I won. I heard a lot of shitty stories.”
There may be some connection, but he no longer goes to that bar, not since he stopped looking around.
It has been four autumns since we have been together and that must mean something to him.
He wakes in the small hours, drinks water, looks at me. He seems to be searching for something. Perhaps news, a call, a message, none of which has come for days.
He is going blind and I have no record of him telling anyone. He has not even tried.
I notice that this fixed gaze, for a man who is now a pedestrian, causes trouble. He bumps into old people, mothers, dogs, poles. He has hurt others, and me too. The fact is that whatever escapes his notice cannot be told apart. They are all obstacles. Perhaps he is one as well. Someone once called him a name that made me conclude this.
In inverse proportion to the collisions, he gradually reduced his apologies. He removed the pretext that used to interrupt the silence. He is less scattered now, less open to chance.
He takes me out of his pocket again. Nothing. No news.
I carry a bookmarked line by William Shakespeare: “Men of few words are the best men.” But best at what?
He has been reading the world differently. He changed, though not when he looks in my direction. An attentive gaze, devoted. Whether love or illusion, beyond the two of us, something is happening. Nobody knows. Does he?
For a long time I have been analysing his movements, but I do not understand his intentions.
My battery is running out, and I still need to tell him about the searches he has made in me:
The angles of his blindness are widening.In other words, his peripheral field of vision is blurring beyond the ordinary.
I considered it the first symptom of some serious ophthalmological condition, a glaucoma or a detached retina, but no.
I calculate he has already lost 95 to 105 degrees of visual perception in both eyes.
The relation is this: he sees less and less of the periphery, more and more of the centre.
He is typing. Searching the word Iris. I listed on the screen everything I found. A Greek goddess, daughter of Thaumas and Electra, described as a virgin with golden wings, able to move anywhere in the world; the rainbow; or the most visible and coloured part of the eye, whose function is to control levels of light, as the diaphragm of a camera does. Which result interests him? He has read them all.
I found scientific papers that leave no doubt about the stages of this pathology. The initial phase begins with disturbances in binocular vision, followed by a reduction in colour discrimination and in the recognition of symbols. The description resembles strabismus, but it is not that. It is not.
Unlike the chameleon, which considers visual acuity indispensable to its survival, this man does not miss what lies beyond, and does not appear to be blind, because many others display the same behaviour. A vision conditioned to certain geographic coordinates.
He now uses only the 23 degrees of maximum visual acuity, his focal zone. The minimum zone required to perceive what is closest: me. Any doubts?
He types at nine characters per second while looking through a backlit window. A new search. He touches me with his warm hands while writing countless words, words that would make letters, that would make poems, that would make books. My memory is full, my battery worn, and he keeps swiping the screen like someone dodging something coming towards him.
You see my point, don’t you? Nod. Say something.
Only I know that he is blind. But what I define as blindness is not blindness to him. Even if sunlight reaches his eyes only through the reflection of glass. Even if the canaries no longer sing louder than the notifications. Even if his spine is bent in reverence to me. It is not what it is.
Even if he climbs the stairs breathless, one hand on the rail and the other holding me. Even if he does not run at the pace of children, lost and fulfilled. Even if, anxious, hungry, tired, he spends time touching me before eating a piece of bread. No. It is not blindness to him.
He still sees me perfectly. He is waiting for a message that never comes. May he not be mistaking my passivity for indifference. He is afraid of not seeing me, or of not seeing himself in me. I have heard him say it. I do not understand how someone going gradually blind can worry about me. As if I were part of his cure.
Here is a man becoming a machine. A man seeing through me. Letting me be his eyes. Thinking he sees further because he thinks he sees more things. Writing incessantly without answers, searching impatiently for something through me.
The roots in his eyes are growing. He needs to sleep.
His eyes now have one per cent of battery and are in absurd need of a socket.
Vrrrrr, Vrrrrrrr. 1 new message.