About Paulo Mariano — Senior Art Director and Creative Lead based in Lisbon, International Advertising Jury Member
Mar 19, 2020
Um momento
Uma mulher aborta e no exato momento em que alguém lhe entrega, com certo pesar, a notícia de que a criança já não está, a sua boca sinaliza alívio. Um outro corre como um maratonista e sente o vento no rosto antes de cair em reverência à bala que lhe transpassa o corpo. Uma velha chora, chora ao fim de um pôr do sol qualquer. Encontrara os seus óculos.
A montanha-russa sobe lentamente em preparação para a sua última descida. Não se escuta nada. Não há razão, ainda.
Vizinhos escutaram alguns dos gritos, gritos, gritos e frases sujas do senhor do 307, mas a mulher que lá também mora pareceu estar ausente. Mal sabem e talvez jamais saibam dos remédios que o homem toma para suportar a doença que só a sua mulher sabe. E sim, ela está lá.
Uma mosca move-se em círculos e as suas repetições assemelham-se às do braço que surge à sua procura.
O inseto encontra a janela.
Um mar. O infinito turvo de sons e imagens e estados. Um peixe não sabe, nada rumo a uma rede já repleta de vítimas e o seu pequenino coração pulsa em ritmo estável. Não vale a pena contar-lhe nada. Não perceberia. O que é realmente percebido? E por quem? Existe mérito em quem avisa o que parece óbvio?
Para quem faz sentido a interrupção?
A gordinha chegou à escola. Gordinha, o seu nome mais carinhoso. É surda. Sim, é surda e isso parece ser a sua maior graça. Nascera surda e talvez com predisposição genética para ser percebida. Uma sorte.
Ao mesmo tempo cigarras cantam. Há 13 espécies de cigarras em território português. São centenas de machos em coro pelo acasalamento. Dizem que ao todo são duas semanas, entre um canto ensurdecedor, a reprodução e a morte. Estás a escutá-las? Estão agora a cantar. Celebram a vida.
O avião passa e por um momento não escutamos nada além das turbinas. E as turbinas nada sabem sobre as cigarras, os peixes, os remédios. A mulher que abortou está nesse avião. Volta para casa ao fim do dia e vê o mesmo pôr do sol que fez a velha chorar. Fecha a janela e aperta o cinto para, conforme dissera o piloto, um leve período de turbulência.
Mar 19, 2020
A Moment
A woman miscarries and at the exact moment someone delivers, with a certain sorrow, the news that the child is no longer there, her mouth signals relief. Another runs like a marathoner and feels the wind on his face before falling in reverence to the bullet passing through his body. An old woman cries, cries at the end of some ordinary sunset. She had found her glasses.
The rollercoaster climbs slowly in preparation for its last drop. Nothing is heard. There is no reason yet.
Neighbours heard some of the shouting, the shouting, the shouting and the filthy sentences of the man in 307, but the woman who also lives there seemed absent. They barely know, and perhaps will never know, of the pills the man takes to bear the illness that only his wife knows about. And yes, she is there.
A fly moves in circles and its repetitions resemble those of the arm that appears in search of it. The insect finds the window.A sea. The murky infinite of sounds and images and states. A fish does not know, swims towards a net already
full of victims, and its tiny heart beats at a steady rhythm. There is no point telling it anything. It would not understand. What is actually perceived? And by whom? Is there merit in warning about what seems obvious?
For whom does the interruption make sense?
The chubby girl arrived at school. Chubby, her most affectionate name. She is deaf. Yes, she is deaf and that seems to be her greatest charm. She was born deaf and perhaps with a genetic predisposition to be noticed. A stroke of luck.
At the same time cicadas are singing. There are thirteen species of cicada in Portuguese territory. Hundreds of males in chorus for mating. They say it lasts two weeks in total, between a deafening song, reproduction and death. Are you listening to them? They are singing now. They are celebrating life.
The plane passes and for a moment we hear nothing but the turbines. And the turbines know nothing about the cicadas, the fish, the pills. The woman who miscarried is on that plane. She returns home at the end of the day and sees the same sunset that made the old woman cry. She closes the window and fastens her seatbelt for what the pilot called a brief period of turbulence.
A woman miscarries and at the exact moment someone delivers, with a certain sorrow, the news that the child is no longer there, her mouth signals relief. Another runs like a marathoner and feels the wind on his face before falling in reverence to the bullet passing through his body. An old woman cries, cries at the end of some ordinary sunset. She had found her glasses.
The rollercoaster climbs slowly in preparation for its last drop. Nothing is heard. There is no reason yet.
Neighbours heard some of the shouting, the shouting, the shouting and the filthy sentences of the man in 307, but the woman who also lives there seemed absent. They barely know, and perhaps will never know, of the pills the man takes to bear the illness that only his wife knows about. And yes, she is there.
A fly moves in circles and its repetitions resemble those of the arm that appears in search of it. The insect finds the window.A sea. The murky infinite of sounds and images and states. A fish does not know, swims towards a net already
full of victims, and its tiny heart beats at a steady rhythm. There is no point telling it anything. It would not understand. What is actually perceived? And by whom? Is there merit in warning about what seems obvious?
For whom does the interruption make sense?
The chubby girl arrived at school. Chubby, her most affectionate name. She is deaf. Yes, she is deaf and that seems to be her greatest charm. She was born deaf and perhaps with a genetic predisposition to be noticed. A stroke of luck.
At the same time cicadas are singing. There are thirteen species of cicada in Portuguese territory. Hundreds of males in chorus for mating. They say it lasts two weeks in total, between a deafening song, reproduction and death. Are you listening to them? They are singing now. They are celebrating life.
The plane passes and for a moment we hear nothing but the turbines. And the turbines know nothing about the cicadas, the fish, the pills. The woman who miscarried is on that plane. She returns home at the end of the day and sees the same sunset that made the old woman cry. She closes the window and fastens her seatbelt for what the pilot called a brief period of turbulence.