About Paulo Mariano — Senior Art Director and Creative Lead based in Lisbon, International Advertising Jury Member
Anish Kapoor: Eyes Turnet Inwards — 1993
Out 28, 2017
Molduras
Pontualmente às 5:55 o interruptor é acionado revelando mais uma vez a pequena sala. Uma janela de vidro, uma cadeira ao centro e uma ripa de madeira com tamanho suficiente para resistir ao peso de uma caixa registadora e alguns papéis. Dois passos. Uma vez dentro, os próximos movimentos consistem em sentar-se,
olhar fixamente através do vidro da janela e pigarrear alto. Alto como quem limpa, afina, as cordas para o discurso, ou simula sintomas extremos de asfixia para alertar a um imbecil que vomita spoilers numa sessão de cinema.
São 6 horas. Movimento, fila, pressa e perguntas.
— Bom dia. O próximo comboio vai para Gonçalves Pessoa? Quanto é a passagem? Qual é a linha para o
jardim Afonso? Que horas chega o comboio de Cascais? Existe alguma linha para o Oriente? Que horas sai o último comboio de Oeiras?
O cargo demandava a capacidade de responder a todo e qualquer questionamento com exatidão e tempo mínimo para garantir menor tempo de espera e maior número de utilizadores satisfeitos. Não se sabe quanta respostas foram entregues até ao momento, mas devido a tamanha dedicação, é certo que em pouco tempo perdera o hábito de perguntar.
A janela de vidro media precisamente 1 metro por 59,5 centímetros, posicionada a uma altura necessária para um plano médio curto, enquadramento similar a alguns retratos renascentistas, e uma pequena abertura que garantia o necessário para eficiência do diálogo. Não se sabe quantos modelos estiveram nessa mesma moldura, mas é certo que, concluídas algumas filas, a limitação visual se tornou suficiente e perdera a curiosidade de ver. Tudo o que não era aparentemente necessário tornou-se claramente inútil, a não ser o tempo dedicado à otimização da performance, o que também o fez perder a capacidade de reconhecer beleza, mesmo que diante de olhares, expressões e diferenças.
Anish Kapoor: Eyes Turnet Inwards — 1993
Estava lá, novamente dentro da cabine. Cabine que depois de alguns anos considerava sua. Uma posse bem diferente daquela que, após revelada, desfaz casamentos. Não era isso. A cabine era a sua câmara escura.
Um olho que captava um mundo e estabelecia o jogo. Era dentro dela que se reconhecia útil.
— Dois bilhetes para Cais do Sodré. Rápido por favor, o próximo sai em 7 minutos.
— 3 euros e 20 cêntimos.
Executa a sua tarefa com a mesma rapidez e energia que utiliza para qualquer outro procedimento, mas algo chama a atenção. Pede os seus dois bilhetes com o olhar cabisbaixo, como se estivesse a falar consigo. Um pensamento alto o suficiente para ser escutado e atendido.
No mesmo dia outros cinco agiram da mesma forma, e nos demais a incidência aumentou a ponto de supor
tratar-se de um surto de depressão ou outra mazela de carácter psíquico. Era a primeira vez que não tinha resposta para algo de dentro da cabine. Inclinara-se ao máximo, esticando o pescoço, somados a pequenos impulsos que, por microssegundos, o ejetavam da cadeira. Estava a tentar entender o que afinal havia abaixo do que lhe era permitido ver através da moldura da janela de vidro. Não encontrou resposta, mas riu quando estava disperso a tentar ao máximo olhar para baixo como os demais.
— É aqui a estação de Algés?
Finalmente o mundo retoma a sua ordem. Prepara o fôlego e solta a resposta com ênfase.
— Sim. Estação Algés.
Passam precisamente quatro pessoas a arrastar duas caixas e posicionam-nas ao lado direito da cabine.
Corpos estranhos, pensa inquieto. O incómodo aumenta rapidamente e, pela segunda vez, por não ter
respostas, questiona a sua própria função. Questionar torna-se um vício logo após avisarem que fora
despedido.
Já é fim do dia. Hora de ponta na estação Algés. Saíra diversas vezes de dentro da cabine, mas agora era a primeira vez que se percebia fora dela. Via duas novas janelas de vidro e filas que se formavam em direção elas. Observava também os olhares dedicados a outras janelas bem menores que ocupavam as mãos de muitos passageiros e, muitas vezes, causavam esbarros e desculpas.
Era ainda assim a sua estação Algés. Pensara exatamente isso ao contemplar, em meio à desordem e ao
caos, a janela de vidro da sua ex-cabine, mas agora do outro lado. Era bela e inútil.
Oct 28, 2017
Frames
At 5:55 sharp the switch is flipped, revealing the small room once again. A glass window, a chair in the centre,and a wooden plank wide enough to hold a cash register and a few papers. Two steps. Once inside, the next movements consist of sitting down, staring through the glass of the window, and clearing his throat loudly.
Loudly, like someone tuning the cords for a speech, or faking the extreme symptoms of suffocation to warn an idiot spilling spoilers in a cinema.
It is six o’clock. Movement, queue, hurry and questions.
— Good morning. Does the next train go to Gonçalves Pessoa? How much is the fare? Which line goes to
Afonso gardens? What time does the train from Cascais arrive? Is there a line to Oriente? What time does the last train leave Oeiras?
The job demanded the ability to answer any and every question with precision and in minimal time, to
guarantee shorter waiting and a greater number of satisfied users. Nobody knows how many answers have been delivered so far, but given such dedication, it is certain that before long he had lost the habit of asking.
The glass window measured precisely one metre by 59.5 centimetres, set at the height required for a medium close shot, a framing similar to certain Renaissance portraits, with a small opening that provided what was needed for efficient dialogue. Nobody knows how many models stood in that same frame, but it is certain that, after a few queues, the visual limitation became sufficient and he lost the curiosity to see. Everything that was
not apparently necessary became clearly useless, except the time devoted to optimising performance, which also made him lose the ability to recognise beauty, even when faced with gazes, expressions and differences.
He was there again, inside the booth. A booth that after some years he considered his own. A possession quite different from the kind that, once revealed, undoes marriages. It was not that. The booth was his darkroom. An eye that captured a world and set the rules of the game. It was inside it that he recognised himself as useful.
— Two tickets to Cais do Sodré. Quickly please, the next one leaves in seven minutes.
— Three euros and twenty cents.
He carries out his task with the same speed and energy he uses for any other procedure, but something catches his attention. The man asks for his two tickets with a lowered gaze, as if speaking to himself. A thought loud enough to be heard and answered.
That same day another five behaved the same way, and afterwards the frequency rose enough to suggest an outbreak of depression or some other affliction of the mind. It was the first time he had no answer for something from inside the booth. He leaned forward as far as he could, stretching his neck, with small impulses
At 5:55 sharp the switch is flipped, revealing the small room once again. A glass window, a chair in the centre,and a wooden plank wide enough to hold a cash register and a few papers. Two steps. Once inside, the next movements consist of sitting down, staring through the glass of the window, and clearing his throat loudly.
Loudly, like someone tuning the cords for a speech, or faking the extreme symptoms of suffocation to warn an idiot spilling spoilers in a cinema.
It is six o’clock. Movement, queue, hurry and questions.
— Good morning. Does the next train go to Gonçalves Pessoa? How much is the fare? Which line goes to
Afonso gardens? What time does the train from Cascais arrive? Is there a line to Oriente? What time does the last train leave Oeiras?
The job demanded the ability to answer any and every question with precision and in minimal time, to
guarantee shorter waiting and a greater number of satisfied users. Nobody knows how many answers have been delivered so far, but given such dedication, it is certain that before long he had lost the habit of asking.
The glass window measured precisely one metre by 59.5 centimetres, set at the height required for a medium close shot, a framing similar to certain Renaissance portraits, with a small opening that provided what was needed for efficient dialogue. Nobody knows how many models stood in that same frame, but it is certain that, after a few queues, the visual limitation became sufficient and he lost the curiosity to see. Everything that was
not apparently necessary became clearly useless, except the time devoted to optimising performance, which also made him lose the ability to recognise beauty, even when faced with gazes, expressions and differences.
He was there again, inside the booth. A booth that after some years he considered his own. A possession quite different from the kind that, once revealed, undoes marriages. It was not that. The booth was his darkroom. An eye that captured a world and set the rules of the game. It was inside it that he recognised himself as useful.
— Two tickets to Cais do Sodré. Quickly please, the next one leaves in seven minutes.
— Three euros and twenty cents.
He carries out his task with the same speed and energy he uses for any other procedure, but something catches his attention. The man asks for his two tickets with a lowered gaze, as if speaking to himself. A thought loud enough to be heard and answered.
That same day another five behaved the same way, and afterwards the frequency rose enough to suggest an outbreak of depression or some other affliction of the mind. It was the first time he had no answer for something from inside the booth. He leaned forward as far as he could, stretching his neck, with small impulses
Anish Kapoor: Eyes Turned Inwards — 1993
CCB — Centro Cultural Belem | Coleção Berardo, — Portugal
CCB — Centro Cultural Belem | Coleção Berardo, — Portugal