Writers and artists bear witness to torture victims

Last Tuesday I attended “Reckoning with Torture: Memos and Testimonies from the War on Terror,” co-presented by PEN American Center and the ACLU. The event brought together 17 well-known writers and human rights workers to read from the War on Terror’s chilling record.

I attended this event not long after screening Steve York’s Confronting the Truth, a documentary about the use of truth commissions to respond to the needs of victims of mass atrocities. The film focused on examples from South Africa, Peru, Morocco, and Indonesia, which, while varying in methodology, all aimed to create a space for victims’ voices to be heard and become part of the public record. This documentary helped me frame “Reckoning with Torture” as an attempt at public truth telling.

When I walked into Cooper Union’s Great Hall I was greeted by two floor-to-ceiling screens showing images of Iraqi detainee's handprints taken while in U.S. custody. The images had been manipulated by artist Jenny Holzer who had carefully scribbled out or outlined with black permanent marker as though censoring the unique trace of each detainee's identity. On the armrests of our seats were sheets of paper marked with the handprints of those who had died in U.S.-run prisons. All of the images, which also included censored memoranda and reports, had been made available by way of the Freedom of Information Act, used since 2003 by NGOs and others to petition for these prisoners' release.

With these images as backdrop, I listened as participating authors read testimonies from the War on Terror. Some segments were outrageous, like a statement by GW Bush reaffirming the United States’ adherence to the Geneva Convention in the aftermath of the Abu Graib scandal. Other parts were devastating, like watching video footage of Guantánamo detainees divulging the treatment they received in detention. Particularly poignant was hearing a very visceral account of one detainee's experience being water boarded interspersed with a reading of the Department of Defense's praise of the brutal technique.

The readers of these testimonies (which included the likes of Art Spiegelman, Eve Ensler, and Paul Auster) were themselves moved and hence left a powerful impression on me. It also wasn’t about them. They were there to draw an audience to bear witness to and create a public record of the atrocities committed during the War on Terror, whose victims are dispersed around the world, some still in prison. The likelihood that a formal truth commission will emerge to recognize and record these stories is slim. I therefore urge you to take the time to see and hear what took place last week in the Great Hall. Seeing and hearing, as truth commissioners will tell you, are qualitatively different from simply reading, and chances are you will learn of some new, atrocious, truth.

The full hour and a half-long event is available to watch PEN’s website here. For the ACLU's critique of the Obama administration's handling of our torture legacy, go here.

PHOTOS: Far above, Holzer's version of a hand print of Iraqi accused of crimes by the U.S. military. Above, Ismael Beah reads from a sworn statement of Lt. Col. Darrel Vandeveld, former lead prosecuter in the military commission case of detainee Mohammed Jawad. (Both images) Copyright © Beowulf Sheehan/PEN American Center for non-profit editorial use only.

No monkey business

Yes, this is the first sports-related post on my culture blog. That's if you consider remote-controlled robot monkeys zooming after whiffle balls to "Chariots of Fire" to be athletic. It got my heart rate up!

Saturday night K. and I headed out to Greenpoint, Brooklyn to witness what is sure to go down as one of the best-fought "chimpionships" in the history of monkey sports.

Monkey robot sports tournaments are the brain-child of artist Dan Walker (the explosive lamp-sculpture below is his work. Dan's in the background, in character, donning Panama hat and pencil mustache as he arbitrates the game). We started hearing about the chimpionships last year and since then they have taken off, moving to larger venues (Saturday's game was held at Greenpoint's hip t.b.d. bar), crossing state lines (this summer Miami held its first chimpionship), and acquiring sponsors (like Amp energy drink).

So this is how it works: there are two, three-monkey teams, red and blue. There are three different sizes of monkey on each team, and each has different strengths (and weaknesses). The monkeys are controlled by humans, which is a big part of the fun. The teams are trying to score by corralling three balls (each a different size) into the opposite team's goal. Like soccer, though goal tending was against the rules.

I took a turn and, while I only scored once, and completely by accident, I had a lot of fun making my monkey disco dance in the center of the ring. The fans (hundreds of small plastic toys arranged on stadium seating around the field) loved it.

Another big part of the fun were the announcers, who called every play and made plenty of monkey wisecracks. In fact the theater of it all, the careful attention to each detail, was what made this event so much fun. That and the beer.

Everybody Loves Governors Island

It is rare in New York, where our endlessly diverse tastes are satisfied by a seemingly endless array of activities, to find so many people I know buzzing about the a single event. Yet since returning from Brazil, everyone I ask has either already ventured to Governors Island or really wants to go there. Apparently this quirky patch of land between Manhattan and Brooklyn is where it's at.

Right: A dragon sculpture made from found furniture by Benjamin Jones and Anna Hecker

A few weeks back, the New Yorker profiled this Island's storied history and uncertain future in comprehensive profile, details of which I won't repeat here (it would make a great urban policy case study). I will tell you that it was one of the cheapest and easiest city-exit-strategies I've found. Hop on a free ferry at South Ferry, watch as the island approaches for about 10 minutes, disembark, and wander.

It's a hard space to get a sense of and, were it not for the views of the financial district, Red Hook, and the Statue of Liberty as constant reminders of place, it could be quite disorienting. In one section I felt like I was on a New England college campus, complete with deans' houses, another section looked like abandoned housing projects, and one side of the island has a maritime feel with a series of decaying piers. Yet this spacial and temporal disjuncture lends the island a certain mystique while also leaving each visitor to discover the island as she wants, without a prescribed itinerary or agenda.

Part of the Wind Nomad exhibit of 400 "flapping" paintings set up all around the island.

We never figured out how they flapped

And this is just what we did. Our visit coincided with the New Island Festival (created by Dutch artists), so there was funky art around every corner and many performances including a jumping cow (we saw the cow twice, but never a jump). We wandered into a gallery space that had been created in one of the island's many empty buildings and enjoyed the pencil portraits of Flemish-New Yorkers by Ellen Depoorter. We took a ride to one tip of the island called picnic point and lunched in the shadow of our lady of liberty, watching families flying kites and throngs of bikers pedal by. We played mini golf on a course made entirely out of recycled materials. There was no one telling us where to go or what to see and therefore no pressure to do anything beyond what struck our fancy. In short, it was a beautiful way to spend an early fall day at no cost. If you haven't been to Governors Island already, you should go. But chances are you were already planning to!

This oversized table maze is actually a hole on the recycled mini golf course. It was really hard!

Carnaval, West Indian-American Style

Two weekends ago I attended what I'm told is the largest parade in the U.S., and yes, we're too early for Thanksgiving. This parade was in Brooklyn and featured no inflated cartoon characters, though I did see a devil, a snake man, butterflies, and many other fantastic creatures. I also saw a lot of bodies, barely dressed in the most ornately decorated bikinis, and a lot of sensual dancing. This was the West Indian-American Day Parade (also known as West Indian Carnaval), held every year on Labor Day Monday in the neighborhood of Crown Heights, Brooklyn. It draws somewhere between 1 and 3 million spectators. On this balmy early September day, my boyfriend and I took the subway down to Brooklyn and met up with a high school friend, Will (also the creator of sublime sculptures), who was in town for a visit.

We wandered around for a while along the parade route as the opening acts filed past--political candidates, unions, and professional associations (our favorite were the New York City corrections officers which rolled by in two nearly empty school buses). Eventually we swam upstream and found a spot that offered good views as the different Masses (as the parade troops are called, like in New Orleans Mardi Gras I'm told) prepared to pass the judges booth. Each Mas had a semi truck filled with speakers and a crew of organizers, DJs, and dancers perched atop a wooden frame dancing, sunning, and yelling to the crowd and their throngs of dancers below.

Though I was a shade disappointed that none of the Masses we saw had any live musicians, the costumes made up for it. Bright plumage, bejeweled bodices, glittering leggings, headresses--we were all mesmerized (especially my male companions). Personally, I most enjoyed the dancers' footware, from sneakers to slouchy boots, that each dancer had decorated with spray paint, glitter, jewels, or dye. I also enjoyed the inventive larger than life puppets, mounted on rolling frames pulled by key paraders and representing that Mas's theme.

Snake/scorpion man in frame costume

Unfortunately we didn't get to see any of the Masses in formation, catching them right before they were to head past the judges. We did get to see hundreds of young people, who, though restless and overheated, were clearly excited and proud of their elaborate costumes and having a lot of fun. Still, after nearly two hours of watching all that flesh shake and gyrate down Eastern Parkway to the pulse of highly amplified soca music on a sea of fuschia and gold features, I had had enough. For this year.

Last minute bead attachment en route to judges booth

[Since you've probably noticed that food is a big part of how I experience the world, I won't leave you hanging: I ate well at the West Indies Day Parade. Surprisingly, though, it wasn't the pricey styrofoam dish of spicy jerk chicken, dirty rice, and fried plantains that most tantalized my palette but instead the $2 plastic sack of small fruits that looked like key limes but behaved like lychees. Parade spectators in the know (those sporting flags of West Indian nations) were snacking on them, so I followed suit, buying mine from an older man who had dozens of bags hanging off his fingers. I thank my friend E. for later revealing the identity of my mystery fruit. She told me: "It sounds like you had what is the genipa, quenepa, quenette, genip, mamoncillo, or Spanish lime, depending upon which tropical land you're in. It is in the same family as lychee, that is the Sapindaceae. And yes, it is a pain to eat." Try one. You'll see why.]

Tagging through the grime

I understand that some graffiti is about adding (applying paint, paper, light, knitting to surfaces) and some about taking it away (scraping into subway windows, etching into paint, peeling a message into paper).

Today I saw a very satisfying example of the latter variety: Someone had tagged the 7th Avenue subway stop walls by cleaning their name into the grime. The New York City subway is notoriously filthy--most every visitor I've spoken to concurs. So seeing how the signature layer of sooty grease had been cleaned away to reveal, in the bright white tile, someone's stylized signature, struck me as genius, not to mention free. And, at the rate those walls get cleaned, this "wash me" approach is probably more permanent than many spray-painted tags in public places. Go Semz.

La Reunion, TX

I've decided to continue my blog stateside, where there is no shortage of interesting cultural happenings to write about. First stop: Texas.

Today I had the opportunity to take a tour of an emerging artist residency in Dallas. La Reunion, TX (LRTX) was founded three years ago with the support of an active community of artists and architects in the Dallas area who wanted "to create an arts residency that inspires, sustains, and renews artists and community through education and outreach."

La Reunion (located in present-day Oak Cliff) has a fascinating back story: it was founded as a utopian socialist community in the mid-19th century by Victor Considerant who traveled to Texas with a following of artisans, philosophers, musicians, and lots of good ideas. Unfortunately, ideas and art weren't enough to get the settlers through a drought and the colony was disbanded. Many of the Considerant's enlightened compatriots filtered into Dallas and infused this growing city with their ideals and talent.

On this surprisingly cool August day, I met with LRTX's founding director, Sarah Jane Semrad, for a tour of the site. In addition to some incredible tree sculptures (like this sweater-donning tree above), I got to see a beautiful coral snake, hand-sized yellow and black butterflies, and exuberant birds all making their ways through the dappled afternoon light. The 35-acre site has a huge amount of potential to support the creative process and engage the Dallas community. Already kids from the Student Conservation Association have worked on various restoration and clean up programs on the site. LRTX also engages local artists in diverse social change initiatives in the Dallas area. One such program is Art Chicas Unidas which pairs high school-aged girls from under-served communities with professional female artists, selected by jury, to work on a site-specific artwork.

Defunct train tressle on the LRTX site

As one of Dallas's first artist residencies, I was excited to see such innovative programming in action and its attention to the preservation of this gorgeous greenspace so close to the city center. It's not an easy moment to be launching an artist residency, but this is exactly the sort of community-minded artspace we need more of.

A saideira

Last night was my last in São Paulo so I rounded up my friends for a saideira (one for the road). It ended up being one of my best nights here. We met up at Drosophyla, a laid back bar near Consolação for caipirinhas. Drosophyla has perhaps the coolest light fixtures I've ever seen--made from large copper colanders that let pass just enough golden light to find the straw to your caipirinha. By midnight, most people had headed home to bed but a valiant three chose to stick it out and continue on to Bar do Cidão for some choro (a bit like samba de mesa but with a slightly different rhythm and more wind instruments).

Cidão is the owner of this Vila Madalena bar (and bartender and chef). He runs a unpretentious establishment known for its nightly live samba de mesa and chorinho. When we arrived the musicians were on break so we chatted with them outside and then found a table. Samba de mesa and choro are typically placed around a table or simply in a circle. This time, for the first time, I was invited to join the circle and try out some of my newly acquired percussion skills. The hour I sat in the roda playing pandeiro, tamborim, and even a cuica (or was that a tan-tan?) with this group of talented young musicians was one of my all-time musical highlights. Granted I faked some of the rhythms and most of the technique, but I managed to keep up.

That is totally me playing a pandeiro

We lost another two after Cidão, but luckily there were more friends waiting for us at a bar near Rua Augusta. I can't remember the name and wouldn't recommend it if I did, but it was the perfect last venue to listen to a DJ spin reggae and Brazilian soul before exhaustion overcame us. As we left the last balada (club), the first birds were beginning to sing and my stomach was starting to grumble. Our last destination was the famous Estadão, known for its delicious roasted pork sandwiches. Here it's not uncommon to see prostitutes eating next to taxi drivers next to journalists from the newspaper headquartered across the street. I devoured by pernil and washed it down with a suco de abacaxi e hortelã juice (pineapple juice with fresh mint) and was even feeling pretty awake as I said good-bye to the last friend standing and hailed a cab.

Lanche de pernil com suco de abacaxi com hortalã--the best way to end any night on the town

The day's produce lined up outside Estadão

The cabbie drove me through the Centro and down into Santa Cecilia and I watched the city stream by--people waking up and heading to work, stopping at the lanchonete for a morning coffee and coxinha, cuing up outside the public hospital, returning from a night out. Beneath the minhocão (meaning giant earthworm and SP's longest elevated highway) the endless graffiti and pichação was swathed in the morning light. Even at 6 am the traffic was thick as we turned onto Cardoso de Almeida and up to Turiassu. I got out on my corner, already bustling and entered Edificio Elza. On the stairs I said good morning to a neighbor who was starting her day just as I was ending mine. It was a good last night in Sao Paulo.

Some of my favorite under-minhocão wall art

The corner of Turiassu and Cardoso de Almeida--my home in São Paulo

Festa de Nossa Senhora de Achiropita = Good eating

Bixiga (officially known as Bela Vista) is Sao Paulo's Little Italy. It got its pejorative nickname of Bixiga (bladder) during the late 19th-century when residents suffered from bladder infections. Today Bixiga is much-loved by Paulistanos, over half of whom claim Italian heritage.

At once quaint and seedy, beloved Bixiga is still home to a large Italian population along with other immigrant groups and features some of SP's best Italian restaurants. For three weekends in August, the neighborhood celebrates the festival of Our Lady of Achiropita with a street fair, which, as far as I could tell, was dedicated solely to Italian food.

My friends and I arrived late Saturday afternoon, while it was still possible to circulate through the neighborhood without knocking over someone's plate of pasta or sticking an elbow in someone's tiramisu. We scoped out all the food stands, as Italian classics blasted through a mega sound system. The music was interrupted by an announcer indicating where the shortest lines for fogazza (a fried dough stuffed with tomatoes, cheese, and herbs) were and reminding us that mass for the Achiropita would be starting at 6:00. Every half block there was a private security guard standing on a platform three feet above the crowd (I guess the pasta-eaters can get pretty rowdy).

After great deliberations, I opted to try the stuffed eggplant and the polenta with bolognese sauce. The eggplant was a little cold, but well flavored with garlic, basil, and olives. The polenta was divine. We walked around a bit more, marveling at the 100 kg provolone cheese that was being raffled to benefit the Achiropita parish. It was as tall as me.

I finished my Bixiga culinary experience with a thick wedge of ricotta tart. A bit sweet for my taste, as are most desserts here in Brazil, but I had no problem eating it.

Sunday morning at the Teatro Municipal

After 10 days of garoa (drizzle--Sao Paulo's choice in weather), last Sunday dawned bright and sunny. I met a friend and we took the Metro downtown to the Teatro Municipal which offers affordable classical music every Sunday at 11 am.

The Teatro Municipal sits like a well-used jewelry box in the heart of downtown São Paulo. Completed in 1911, its design and decor borrow liberally from a range of European styles. Today, the Teatro's facade is being restored and hence covered by a series of grafittied wooden panels that add yet another style to this eclectic building.

In honor of the Year of France in Brazil, Sunday's program featured pieces by Ravel and Debussy played by the Orquestra Experimental de Repertório. It was the first time I heard one of my favorites, Pavane pour une Infante Defunte, played live and I was not disappointed (even if one of the violin players did leave the stage mid-performance). The Sunday morning crowd was small, but enthusiastic as the music surged beneath the benevolent gaze of Aphrodite (left).

Prego Batido, hit that nail!

After weeks of absorbing Brazilian rhythms, I finally got my chance at creating some of my own at Prego Batido percussion school. On the recommendation of a friend, I enrolled in a three-day intensive class to learn basic samba rhythms and instrumentation. I barely scratched the surface, but I had one hell of a time.

The hole in the wall school is located off the Avenida Pompeia on a road appropriately named Morro Agudo (Steep Hill). When you walk through the front door you may think you've wandered into someone's home, and you may be right (I never figured out if the school's owner also lived there). The atmosphere is familial, with children running around and friends chatting between classes. The school has an ample collection of books and CDs available to copy.

Some surdos, a repinique, and a tantan

My class was taught by Gabriel de Toledo (you want to see what this kid is all about, check him out here) a young percussion master who was reared on samba. I think he was a bit frustrated at the slow pace we struggled through the rhythms. We spent the first day working on samba de escola (think big Carnaval samba) and then moved to samba de mesa (the samba you hear at bars and in homes). The instrumentation is different--samba de mesa uses pandeiros (tambourines) instead of caixa (snare drums), for example--but the basic rhythm is the same. I think my favorite instrument was the repinique (the drum Gabriel is playing in the video), kind of like a high pitched tom tom.

By the end of the three days I still didn't know what Gabriel was talking about when he referred to the different signature openings and closings of the major Rio samba schools and I still had a hard time starting the agogo pattern on the right beat, but when the five of us found our groove, even if for just a few measures, it felt great.

Da Farofa ao Caviar

Naughty fashion with a heart of gold...

On Monday night I joined some friends for a very special fashion show. "Da Farofa ao Caviar" (means something like "from rags to riches" - farofa is toasted manioc, a humble food) was the latest collection from Daspu* the line of clothing that raises funds for the Brazilian NGO, Davida which works for prostitutes' civil rights. The unveiling of their new line was hosted at the Vai-Vai samba school in the neighborhood of Bixiga and featured members of the percussion section backing up the models as they strutted down the runway.

I had no idea what to expect at a prostitute fashion show. As it turns out, like most things I've experience here in São Paulo, they're a lot of fun. The first thing I saw when I walked into Vai-Vai's large central performance space was a press area packed with cameras and journalists there to record the event. This was apparently a bigger deal than I realized. We waited around for a while, sipping cheap beer and talking to some of the volunteers that helped produce the event.

Then the lights dimmed, and the show began.... Inspired by prostitute-wear the fashion was pretty exciting: tango-flavored bustiers, a sort of Borat-esque short suit, multicolored strappy platform sandals, hot pants--you get the picture. There was also some menswear--all pajamas. Instead of merely parading across the catwalk, the performers, which included prostitutes, professional models, and university students, danced and acted out in short, sultry vignettes to much applause and catcalling from the audience.

After the show a DJ appeared and a dance party began. My friends got their pictures taken with some TV personalities that had appeared to support the event and we danced our booties off alongside the models to everything from samba classics to the Cure. Not bad for a Monday night.

*Daspu is a clever play on the name of Brazil's poshest department store, Daslu.

Comidinha Baiana

Rota do acarajé

On Wednesday I was initiated into the cult of Bahian cuisine at Rota do Acarajé, a restaurant in the neighborhood of Santa Cecília. Since I arrived in Brazil, comida baiana has been described to me as spicy, heavy, delicious, African-influenced, flavorful, greasy, and strange. I have only one word to describe it: delicious.

Rota do Acarajé (recommended by the evening's convener, M.) reminded me of some soul food restaurants in Harlem. Eclectically decorated with mismatched chairs and vintage Bahia memorabilia, it was easy to get comfortable, especially when the ice cold Bohemia started flowing. I took a look at the menu and quickly realized there were more words I didn't know than words I did. I deferred to my Brazilian friends who selected an appetizer of acarajé, and two main dishes, moqueca de cação e camarão and escondidinho de carne seca.

Acarajé (featured to the right with all its fixins') is one of Bahia's signature dishes. It's kind of like a bready hush puppy fried in azeite de dende, the bright orange palm oil applied generously to all Bahian cooking. For me, the best part of the acarajé were its accoutrements: camarão (little dried shrimp), caruru (sauteed okra, ground nuts, and onions ), and, my favorite, vatapá (a mush of ground shrimp, manioc flour, and cashews). I also helped myself to the pimenta, a salsa made from the devilish malegueta chile, which challenged even my chile-raised, New Mexican palette.

The main dishes were served family style and one order of each was enough to feed all six of us. Escondidinho (direct translation would be little tiny hidden one, I think) was a bit like a shepherd's pie, except the meat was shredded dried beef (typical of the hot Northeast region) and the topping was mashed aipim (manioc). I liked the escondidinho, but the moqueca, a seafood stew made with coconut milk, vegetables, garlic, cilantro, and tomato, won my heart. The cação (shark) was unbelievably tender and gently perfumed by the coconut milk and herbs. There were a was a tasty side dish, like a manioc polenta, called pirão, and fluffy white rice to soak up the moqueca.

Bahian food was nurtured into being by the West Africans forced to Brazil as slaves over 300 years ago, who incorporated both New World ingredients and Portuguese and Indian preparations into their traditional cuisine. Today, Bahian cuisine is the most distinctive and reputed in Brazil. Compared to the traditional Brazilian fare I've sampled in São Paulo--lots of beans, rice, manioc, beef and pork, and flavored mostly with garlic, parsley, lime, and salt--this meal was downright revolutionary. So many different spices and textures! Add to that lively conversation with new friends (in Portuguese, no less), and a table-side samba trio (trombone, bass drum, and snare) and I was one happy girl. And let's not forget the sobremesa of homemade tapioca ice cream flavored with honey and specked with fresh coconut. Adorei!

Dani Gurgel and Mão de Oito

And so my week of music continues...

On Thursday I attended two performances. The first was part of a new concert series in Casa das Caldeiras, Caldeira Acoustica. They open up the space's cavernous basement up for intimate performances of Musica Popular Brasileira (bossa nova and the like). The venue is well-suited for this sort of concert--low lights, warm brick walls, and gently vaulted ceilings. Thursday's act was Dani Gurgel, a singer/songwriter from Sao Paulo, joined by her 5-piece ensemble and numerous special guests. I enjoyed the show and the very relaxing vibe. My only complaint was the sound mixing, which left me wanting to hear her voice a bit more. That and the keyboard setting, which was a bit too synthetic for my taste.

At Caldeiras I met up with a few friends--a young singer from Argentina, two French artist/producers, and a Brazilian NGO administrator. After the show, we decided to pile into a taxi and make our way up to Rua Augusta (SP's party central) to Studio SP, where our Brazilian friend had a lead on a good concert.

Studio SP, as best as I can tell, is one of Sao Paulo's hottest concert venues and Thursday night's show was proof of this. The band was Mão de Oito, a local pop rock band made up of six talented young musicians. I can't think of how to describe their sound so perhaps it's best if you check out their MySpace page. Their music was easy to listen to, easy to dance to, and well-executed.

The show lasted until maybe 3 am and was followed by a DJ. By the time my entourage and I stumbled out, it was time to think about breakfast. We walked up Augusta towards the Avenida Paulista and stopped off at an already-bustling diner. Lanches (in this context, hot sandwiches) were eaten by all. Mine had perfectly grilled steak, carrots, lettuce, cheese and cream cheese. Uma delicia!

Feijoada on Wednesday

In my recent postings I realize I've been neglecting one of my preferred cultural manifestations: food. Rest assured that this isn't for lack of eating! Today, for example, was my second encounter with feijoada, Brazil's signature dish. Though varying by region, this meal centers around a stew of black beans and meat (usually salt pork ribs and sausage), and is accompanied by rice and other side dishes like couve (collard greens), farofa (toasted and seasoned manioc flour), fried pork fat, and even fried banana. Feijoada is serious eating.

I learned today that feijoada is typically served in restaurants on Wednesday (at least in the Sao Paulo region) and that no self-respecting Brazilian restaurant would dream of excluding it from the menu. Which is how today, after Portuguese class, I found myself ordering a "feijoada medio" (half portion) and a lime juice. When it arrived I wondered what on earth I had committed myself to. The earthenware pot of beans was still boiling, chalk full of pork. The couve was perfectly sauteed with garlic. I ate and ate, but barely made it through half of it. Lucky for me, two of my classmates had joined me and generously offered to help me finish the dish. I'm not sure how anyone makes it back to work after a meal like that, but it sure was tasty.

Music on a Sunday

When I left my apartment this past Sunday afternoon I couldn’t have known that I would enjoy not one, not two, but FOUR distinctive musical happenings before I cabbed it back home at midnight. These are the things that happen when you allow yourself the luxury of an unplanned afternoon in a culturally generous city.

My first stop was Parque de Agua Branca, just a few blocks from my house. When I entered the park (this fowl-filled park will have its own entry) I saw a sign announcing Dia da Franca em Sao Paulo (the day of France in Sao Paulo) and heard distant music and applause. Wandering through the park I came across various events: an acrobat hoolahooping atop a swaying pole three stories above the crowd, a parkour exposition and training ground, a puppet show, a troop of clowns miming a raucous busride, and, my favorite, a French brass funk band all of whose members were dressed in trench coats and fedoras. It looked like there would be many good (free) performances to come, but I chose to wander on down Avenida Francisco Mattarrazzo to Casa das Caldeiras, my usual Sunday stomping ground.

This Sunday’s program included three different experimental music workshops and a roundtable discussion on the future of instrumental music in Brazil. One of the workshops performed a few numbers using found-object instruments made from an old metal sink, cardboard tubes, and used computer keyboards.

After Caldeiras I went from low tech to high, meeting some friends for a free concert at the Centro Cultural Itaú, part of the current exhibition, Game Play. I arrived too late to see video games on display in the exhibit, but enjoyed the show. A VJ manipulated old Nintendo and Sega images on a screen behind the DJ who used a laptop, a cymbal, a small key board, and I'm not sure what else to create electronic music out of bits of video game music. It was awesome. And half an hour of it was the perfect amount.  

The night ended with beers at small bar on Rua Wisard in Vila Madalena listening to a woman with a Jobimesque voice croon bossa nova and samba classics. Tudo tranquilo, beleza.

Back to Brazil

I was away. But now I'm back in Brazil and ready to catch you up on my cultural explorations in Sao Paulo. It seems the more I'm doing and seeing, the less time I have to write about it. In the next few posts I'll try to back up to describe some of the things I did and saw in June. 

Here's some eye candy from the three days I spent in Rio de Janeiro with my friend Aline en route to Sao Paulo.  That place is like nowhere else.