22 de novembro de 2015

Serralves, a Bienal e a Lena

Serralves é casa,  Serralves tem a luz mais bonita, as paredes mais convidativas e as árvores mais catitas. Serralves é caro e não é pro meu bolso, só de vez em quando.
Mal foi a anunciado que haveria uma exposição da Helena Almeida passei-me e mal pude fui lá dar um salto. Soube também que estavam expostos os trabalhos da última Bienal de São Paulo. 







Começamos com a Bienal numa de deixar a Helena pro fim, tipo, sobremesa, mas caraças, que exposição pesada! Os artistas focaram-se muito em temas fortes, como a exploração das pessoas, da terra, a corrupção e a impotência que reina entre o povo brasileiro. Saí de lá cansada, esgotada e a pensar que este foi o melhor veículo de informação que tive ultimamente sobre os temas preocupantes do Brasil.














Já cansadita, fomos pra Helena, ou a Lena, como manhosamente lhe chamamos durante a visita. Não lhe tirei muitas fotos porque me distraí, simples como isso. Gosto da Helena há muito, estudei a sua obra ao de leve na faculdade e a partir daí que a admiro mais. Volta e meia vou coscuvilhar qualquer coisa dela em jeito de inspiração, esta exposição foi um pouco disso também.









16 de novembro de 2015

Feira da Póvoa

Às vezes acho que se não fosse o blog não fotografava tanto. Aliás não é achar, é ter certeza - e sei que isso acontece com muitas de vós.
 Por vezes dá-me vontade de mandar o blog pró raio que o parta, mas depois dá-me assim uma coisa '' pois e depois como mostravas as tuas fotos?''. E eu quero que as pessoas vejam as minhas fotos. Acabo por me sentir uma totó e voltamos ao blog. 

Este domingo fui à Feira da Póvoa. As feiras fazem parte da minha família desde sempre mas em miúda detestava-as. O cheiro, o andar esmagada pelas pessoas e o barulho, nem me façam falar do raio do barulho! Berrarem-me é ''5€!'' de cinco em cinco minutos é garantirem uma Inês irritada. A minha adolescência foi livre de feiras mas passados esses anos voltei a descobrir-lhes os encantos. Don't get me wrong, o barulho continua a ser um sacrifício, mas desse esforço saem fotos, so who cares. Gosto de ir lá comprar legumes e fruta e falar com as senhoras que vendem isso, gosto de ver a roupa e ir à mesma banca buscar os bolos. Mas, acima de tudo, gosto das pessoas lá. Sendo assim, as fotos da feira, são fotos das pessoas da feira!

Ps: Gosto das pessoas, menos do gajo que me tentou vender pensos rápidos 5 vezes seguidas e ainda gozou comigo por lhe dizer ''nãaaaaaaaaooo'' e da gaja que chega à minha beira e me apalpa o cabelo e fica com uma cara de peido quando lhe resmungo.















Ok, afinal não tirei tantas fotos a pessoas como achei. Mas esta última foi meia escondida de quem estava à minha volta. O puto no chão, a marimbar-se pro resto do mundo.

10 de novembro de 2015

Workin

Numa altura do ano que queria frio, vento e chuva, vejo-me a olhar para a janela todas as manhãs com uma cara de nojo, toda ensolarada. Calorenta que deus ma libre, a melhor opção é sempre camadas, umas calças de ganga, não vá a meia-calça ser muito quente, e uns sapatos à gajo, como o meu pai lhe chama. Meia à Michael Jackson (que tem âncoras btw) e uns brincos em forma de lâmpada foram acrescentados às 8 da manhã. É isto que visto pra ir trabalhar, andar de um lado para o outro a fazer recados, atender clientes e parecer minimamente apresentável. 
As fotos foram tiradas na minha nova loja (ok, minha e da minha mãe). A minha coisa preferida lá é, provavelmente, a parede pintada com tinta de efeito ardósia. Dêem-me giz e fico uma miúda toda contente. A ideia foi usar a parede como fundo de foto e forma de legendagem para o outfit. Isto ainda tem muito por onde lhe pegar!



Vamos ignorar as fotos desfocadas que a minha mãe insistiu que estavam direitas (ela vê mal ao perto, eu ao longe, lindo) - e a tampa da canon no bolso.




5 de novembro de 2015

Fiction my Life

Hoje quero apresentar-vos um projecto/negócio dum amigo meu. O conceito é simples, vocês escolhem as características e ele escreve uma história em que vocês são o protagonista. 
Eu tinha que ter um texto meu não? O que lhe disse foi '' quero aí uma cena tipo anos 20, qualquer coisa com a lei seca e máfia e film noir''. Adorei o resultado e aqui fica o texto que me fez - agora queria ser o meu alter-ego!


This is not my work

So much misery in this city and not a drop of alcohol to rub it with. Of course there are gallons to go around, precious inebriating gold, but not for those sad law abiding rats scurrying around the streets bellow the window. I blow smoke in their direction, their lives depress me so.
Up here in the speakeasy the lawless are the law and the drinks are on them, not for everyone mind you, just for an old associate.
I sit alone on the corner booth with my whiskey and my cigarette keeping me company, my favorite hat shielding my eyes from the curious, not the usual hang out for a dame to be on her own in these parts. The newcomers glanced at me nervously once in a while, the regulars nodded respectfully. As I enjoyed the Jazz trio and the pathetically hopeful young couples do the lindy hop, my questionable past slithered inside and planted itself in the chair right in front of me without the courtesy of a hello.
“You know that shit is bad for your skin?” Tony Smiles, another old associate, as the name implies he always has that same devious tear spread across his face that should make you think twice but doesn’t unless you already failed at it a couple of times.
“Who would want to be beautiful in a world like this?” I said back at him with a cloud of ash. “I have plenty to spare anyway.”
“I know you do darling.” He lit a cigarette for himself and leaned back on his seat. “God, I missed you.”
I can’t say no part of me was happy to see him, but I know Tony, if he’s here it’s for more than just a glance at my pretty self. I went to the point before he started circling it like a buzzard over the soon to be dead.
“If you’re here to offer me work, your time is being wasted.” He chuckled a little, his eyes set on me, didn’t flinch.
“You know I don’t waste my time, it’s a precious commodity these days.” That much was true, humanity had built a world that was too fast to keep up and no one was better at cashing in on the rush than Tony Smiles.
I was better at something else which made me more than a commodity, I was a necessity, a tool for success, but sadly for the boys in the business I was a tool with free will that could outthink them and use them.
“What do you want Tony?”
“I need you to talk to a few people.”
“You want me to instruct your brewers? The booze is coming out worse than dead cat piss on a puddle of old vomit?” I knew this was what he wanted, he had sent his goons to me before with messages and meeting requests but apparently none of them carried my message back to the boss, not even the one who got my hand painted on his face. He must be desperate, a big boss would never go alone to meet like this with someone in public, but I wasn’t just someone.
“We have a safe location for you to work, the risk is limited.” His smiling face and eyes, his confidence in his own words still didn’t’ convince me, I had trusted this too many times.

“I have more money than I know what to do with and my trail is colder than the mayor’s wife’s tits, why in all reason would I risk everything?” The rest of my whiskey drained down my throat. “What could I possibly gain that I don’t already own ten times over?”
He ordered another round for both of us before answering, he leaned slightly forward.
“Ginger darling, I know you’ve been coming up here every day for months trading your life’s work for whiskey and cigarette.” The waiter came and placed two fat whiskey cups on the table as if he were on cue. “We need you back and you need to come back, stop beating yourself up for what they did to your sister.” He paused when he saw my body getting tense and my grip on the glass tighten. ”Give meaning to your life again. Folks love your brew, they can’t get enough of it and now there is zero of it to go around, we can’t crush the comp…”
“No!” I raised my eyes from the glass and fixed them dead serious on his. “I left everything you needed to keep the business alive, if you fucked up it’s not my problem and I’m not going to put my skin on the line because of it.”

His mouth began to open but the door slamming ajar interrupted him and drew all eyes in the room to the entrance, the band stopped playing. Three men with long coats stood in the door, their hats casting shadows that hid their eyes in such a perfect manner you would think it part of them. The one in the middle was slightly shorter and smoked a large cigar, he talked with it in his mouth.
“Gentlemen.” He started pacing slowly around the room, the others remained still. “Don Capri is looking for one Ginger Nippon.” He raised his head, his eyes glinted momentarily through the curtain of darkness. ”Alive.” His head lowered again. “We know she is a curly haired redhead, often seen with a hat, we have heard that she is…a stunning sight.” His head turned as he screened the room. “The don is offering a generous reward for anyone who will point us in the right direction.” Tony’s hand slid slowly inside his pocket, he was getting sick of listening the competition babble. I shook my head, trying to convince him to not cause trouble without calling too much attention to myself, after all, the goons were looking for me and I know Don Capri meant for me to work with his men regardless of my opinion on the matter, at least Tony was nice enough to ask.
Before I could do anything else, Tony was standing, a shot was fired, and one of the tall thugs was down. Just as fast, the remaining two pulled each a tommy from under their coats and started hosing down the clientele with bullets, the smell of gunpowder and blood drained from the dead into the room.
Tony jumped out of the way just in time and took cover under the table. I followed, still attempting to conceal my identity, I imagined how deep with the fished these boys would be sleeping when the don found out they had killed the person he wanted alive.
“You fool! Couldn’t you just be patient and let them leave?”
“There is no way I’m letting Don Capri take you!”
“There is no way I’m letting that happen!”
Tony stood up to shoot again but this time he was hosed down right in front of me, I screamed but the sound of the tommys was louder.
I removed my hat and stood up, staring Capri’s goons dead in the eye. Concealing my anger and disgust behind a mask of mystery and suggestive intent.
“Here boys. You found what you were looking for.” My voice came out sweeter than the melody of the first bird to sing in the summer.
The one in the middle giggled and lowered his gun. “Hell…she is a stunning sight indeed.” Slowly he approached me, the other one following.
“What does Don Capri want with little old me that is so important, all these nice folks had to die?” You could make a pie with the sound of my voice, it was that sweet.
“Don’t worry sugar, this was just self-defense. We didn’t had any of this trouble in all the other bars we checked before, did we Eddie?” His conniving expression and his thug’s oafish laugh suggested they had done just that. The things these boys do just to get their hands on me.
“Well boys, your troubles are over now, I’m here to please.” I leaned my leg forward and started running my hand slowly up my thigh and up my skirt. The boys locked their eyes on the motion in my hand going steadily upwards, they were so absorbed, almost drooling, that the sound that killed them came later than their own death’s. A smoking hole in my skirt identified the assassin, in a business like this you can’t rely on your brewing skills alone, and I’m a bag full of surprises. These thugs never expect a dame to be dangerous to their lives, only their hearts and their wallets. Fools. Tony was dead in a pool of blood, in fact, everyone was dead and in a pool of blood, I was standing in a pool of blood and I could hear sirens in the distance.
Might as well get back in business, old Tony’s crew is going to need someone to lead them. Poor Tony, he was a liar and a greedy bastard, but he was my lying greedy bastard.
I was already too far away from the scene when I remembered I had forgotten my hat.




Querem saber mais?



1 de novembro de 2015

365 Outubro

Estes dias sonhei que um cartucho que tenho em casa da Holgaroid dava para a Polaroid e todas as fotos saíram do caraças. Frequentemente sonho que me estou a afogar - yup, super frequente - e que a minha única preocupação é que a máquina fique seca. Por vezes acordo e vou rápido ver ao cartão de memória se a foto com que sonhei é real ou só um sonho. Um dos piores momentos é ter sonhado que fotografei o interior duma onda - tão a ver aquelas imagens dos surfistas? - e depois não tinha nada. Estes são dos meus sonhos mais tristes porque acordo e nada desta vida. 
É frequente eu fotografar ideias que tive em sonhos (e depois acabar ressabiada porque não ficaram minimamente iguais!) ou sonhar com fotos que vou fazer no dia a seguir.
Este mês foi recheadinho de insónias acompanhadas de sonhos intensos e ideias para fotografar. Até sairem as fotos, ficam as deste mês!

 Esta foi a primeira foto do mês, dia 1, e é a minha preferida sem dúvida nenhuma. O Flávio é do caraças pra fotografar, chegaram a ver esta sessão? 






Do post sobre a minha coleção de máquinas! Ver aqui








                                                                 Iberanime! Post aqui


O mês acabou com a inauguração da loja nova, minha e da minha mãe. Trarei um post em breve sobre isso :)


Já espreitaram a página de Facebook do blog? Não tá cheio de spam, só partilho coisas fofinhas e fotos que gosto!
Ps: tomei a decisão de responder aos comentários aqui no blog (achei que fazia mais sentido).