MUTE OHPERA

… - MUTE

OHP – ERA -…

[until the date of 3 September 2014] Partial views (image-text) and fragments of an unfinished film

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… - MUTE OHPERA - … [until the date of 3 September 2014]

TALES:

OHP ERA MUTE — …-…

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OHP Once upon a time, there were little men who had the idea of building a “capital of the world” or “world capital,” dreaming of replacing the Whole Wide World with a model that would satisfy their urge to play – like children who would never reach adulthood – at War. Toward this end, they invented an eternal present, a few legends inscribed in marble, and machinery to help them do away with the child-adults. Among other things, the project envisaged a hall for this race of child-kings set on a very large square, and made this main square a fortress that would be impregnable in the event of revolt, since all its windows were to be equipped with heavy, armored steel shutters, its doors too made of steel, and its only access to be closed by a heavy iron gate.

It is known that the brief history of this tale has left an incalculable variety of beings lifeless, and an equally important assortment of others sleepless.

Much later and in a land far from where the story of this tale came to be felt most keenly, it is told that a child become a musician confided in his eightieth year – as the child-adult he had remained – of having heard, in the form of a song, this story. The song, hummed by a small company of people in a language that was not what he had been taught, called up in him a feeling of freedom. Approaching, he found himself in front of a newsstand where a series of images marked him forever. On the way back home, it is said that a sort of background noise got stuck in his head and never left him again. All the same he spent the following years writing and playing music – composed by separating sound from the images and taking seriously this story of a deep noise – until an event came to pass. While on tour through the place he was born, he saw a young man whose very way of being there touched him. He followed him with his gaze and both found themselves side by side in the reflections of the windows of a store where many things are displayed to the view of anonymous passersby. He saw his shadow and that of the young man near, almost touching, when suddenly other men kidnapped the young man, forcing him into their car. In the scramble the young man managed to breathlessly cry out a number, asking passersby to call it.

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The musician, in the violence of the moment, felt like his own shadow had been stolen along with him; from then on he would try to remember the numbers that the young man had mouthed, cut off in the shock of the abduction, in order to make that call without success. And he would do so for the rest of his life. On the day this event occurred, when he got home, he asked his family why such a thing had happened and what he should do. He was told, “It certainly must have happened for some reason.� After that, cut off from his milieu that had managed to dodge audible responses, the musician went insane. Having fallen in love with the missing young man, he afterward wrote only Os, then Hs, then OH!s, distributed in an illogical way between notes fa and si, interspersed with other letters like C, T, E, or S. These notes and letters were not to be played, but listened to, all for operas that, without sound, would usher in a music where lyrical singers would mime numbers, letters and actions, sometimes comically, in the streets of the city, to be read by distracted passersby who had to be diverted from their routine pursuits. A musical ensemble that, he believed at one time, could redeem death, and the being who had awakened in him a feeling of love, and music. Alas, however, his time – immersed in the deaf futurism of a blocked past and present, would not perceive it. It seems that the only issue over which he labored to the end was how to read his time, and the music that accompanied it. And what music might redeem it.

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Montmartre in 1848 - 1850. Gustave le Gray's photography

ERA It is said that, in her journeys through time, ERA hid numbers, figures, and stories. That she imagined combinations of numbers that preceded the titles of her tales, which brought together fragmentary ideas around different moments of a fairly long period of time.

Moreover she called these moments “eras” and took care to say that for her they were also “areas,” zones that were by her estimation habitable.

For her there was no clear ORDER with a progression, no single thread that held everything in one direction. She claimed to hold several threads cast in many directions, threads that would often be abandoned for considerable periods of time. This gave her tales the appearance of unraveling, which was, according to her, the essential condition to make room for what might happen without her, while infusing them with just the right tone for receiving the unexpected and envisaging a resumption of her tales – which, at bottom, she took up here and there, without ever finishing. Her taste for numbers was poetic and aural. For example, she employed 9 to get started and recalled her first story, whose title it seems was “The Before-Things.” She used 0 for the “between-acts” tales, and 5 for the most current tale. It became even more complex. For instance 579003 bore the title “Adjacent, empty place next to someone.”

This tale was very important to her because it served to recall that it is impossible to understand one of the eras without feeling to what extent it is the non-finite adjacency of another infinity, and that it is their status as infinities that allows them to live side by side.

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And she noted that if, by some chance, one of the eras – which, let us not forget, corresponded to habitable zones – came to prohibit the infinite movement of construction of another, by obstructing the empty place, that necessary adjacency between the two, this space of potential play for each, this zone of encounters without presuppositions, occupying it, banning entry to the other, controlling it, violating it from all sides, then a terrifying war would erupt whose only conclusion could be mutual destruction. In such a case, she advocated a call for a kind of strike of the Still-Living to work at these types of occupations and to rebuild narrow openings during these truces, wherever possible – the only spaces remaining possible as a refuge far from what is yet so close to us. Administrators of her age, not content to see her wasting her time not finishing anything, preparing areas to thresh grain, planting and singing in disorder her bits of tales to an audience of banished poets and lost ones, forced her to comply with a specific order: create a division of time according to purely human and defining events, selected as starting points, and note one major event that will be observed for each compartmented epoch, which open and close for good, epochs that shall be lamented in the form of irrevocable progress. It is reported that She would not reconcile her poetic conception with an existing ORDER that imposed on it the invention of a Single Linear Time. And legend has it that she committed suicide leaving her tales unfinished, that she completely unraveled them to the very end, by recounting them in secret to a close friend for fear that the officials would destroy or burn them.

And she passed along to her friend an ancestral technique of communication through thoughts that gave her the opportunity to send to others these tales in silence, without the need for long paper scrolls or for saying them out loud. Others argue that she went mad and, returning to the “Space of Invention” in the Administrators’ Great Hall, she started systematically banging her head against each pane of a long glazed wall – once on each glass pane, once on each metal bar separating the glass plates, bars or straight lines, which she mistook for the Great Events that should, in the view of the Administrators, mark the moment of passage between eras, irrevocably, with no possibility of dialogue or transposition between them.

Her close friend, wounded for life by her death, tried to write down a few lines from her tale about the “adjacent,” but was able to do no more than describe the glass wall where ERA had committed suicide before the guards came to get her. Here are her lines: 67

A separation thus constructed by a transparent glass wall did not at all appear to be one to a distracted person trying to pass through. In this management of the division of space, an encounter between inside and outside was possible only through the Image and to a much lesser extent through Sound, because the glass pane was there to contain and sometimes even to isolate Sound as much as possible, but not images. The slightest chance that more noise might squeeze inside depended on the narrow openings in the joints where the large plates of glass met the metal that held them in place. But in front of a glass wall, another wall was hiding. There was no longer any view. Unable, when you wished, to open or close anything specific, you could no longer say there were any windows in the glass wall. Or rather there was a surfeit of hypothetical windows to be seen, relentlessly disposed one after the other. And so was thwarted the profundity of that toward where and toward what to which the window was supposed to give us access. There were no more fragments in front of the large glass wall. The Outside appeared to be nothing more than a Flattened Inside. Its existence was denied, captured by an interior that made it into its EntiretyInside. To those who gullibly trusted in transparency, nothing seemed to escape them – except that nothing remained opaque, like the air that cannot be rendered in drawing.

This partition of space, between and inside and an outside thus defined, isolated those inside from the heat just as much as the cold, from inclement weather as from external events, while at the same time giving them the impression of embracing a vast outside that had been thus demarcated and framed. The ambient light all around was thus channeled to the interior by the entire surface of the partition, and the interior artificial light colonized beyond the frontiers of its comfortable inside. The metal frames, harmoniously dividing the glazed spaces into rectangular plates of slightly different sizes, made you forget in their turn the separation that Transparency had already hidden. There was no more view, because everything is seemingly before you in the foreground. A feeling of vertigo then emerged, as if we were inside, submerged in an aquarium, and from the outside we had no choice but to visualize this confinement. My friend might have preferred if there had been no aquarium, no glass wall or TRAGEDY, but passages instead. Âť 87

Ancienne carrière de Gypse, aujourd’hui Parc des Buttes-Chaumont, Paris. (Charles Marville)

MUTTE

[TO SLOUGH]

In his free time, a scribe, a sofer sta’m, or an aj ts’ib, “one who calligraphs,” transcribed, or so it is said, fragments of notes left by two workers, referred to here as “those who observe,” from the G. W. T. F. H. (the Great Works of the Trade Fair Halls). Apparently these artisans left an introductory statement attesting to the day when they decided to implement a technique that surpassed those they were ordinarily required to perform, and which they agreed to keep to themselves. By employing this technique, they simply confirmed their profession as they practiced it, given that the technique was, for all intents and purposes, already discreetly but readily in use. Once back home and late at night, they would write down the thoughts that had come to them, by way of free association, while they carried out their daily tasks: describing their experience, the place, the ground, the job they were hired to do, the surroundings, etc. So began an imaginative diary, by which they hoped—without revealing too much—to share their concerns in a time when a civil war, which had not been officially recognized as such, nevertheless waged.

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Both workers belonged to a comity primarily in charge of building foundations and the installation of concrete flooring, and most importantly, “building expansion,” given that every building is subject to some sort of imperceptible movement or minimal tremors; buildings vibrate! Knowing how to avoid one too many cracks is crucial. Their employment allowed them to understand, better than anyone else, that whatever happens, whatever the undertaking, at some stage “cracks” will appear. “Not even a concrete sarcophagus can contain a toxic cloud without some kind of leakage. Even a concrete floor wears away; it is not free from erosion; it is porous and comes into contact with water vapors, humidity and frost; and thawing, alkali and internal sulfuric reactions can also crack it,” noted “those who observe.”

Duly copied down by the scribe, their notes reveal that when they first applied their technique, it was punctuated with pauses and continued until they had completed their work, which that day required merely a screwdriver, a hammer and two pairs of hands, and consisted of the following: - Remove the worn rubber covering the joints in a concrete floor.

- Scrape the interior of the joints.

- Remove anything that over time might have become lodged or wedged within the joints, such as dust or small stones.

- Recover the joints with new rubber.

In practical terms, as they pointed out in their diary, “due to its flexibility, rubber is used as a ‘joint’ between large blocks of cement that, in order not to crack in various places, require both a gap and a flexible joint. This permits an amount of ‘leeway’ between them—an admittedly minimal but necessary opening between each block, given that cement, like concrete, moves and contracts, and that a building itself constantly vibrates.” The scribe’s attention focused, however, on a few lines in the workers’ diary that refer to the form of a snake, which the long length of black rubber evoked for them. These notes were based on the memories they had of a village called Walpi. The following is an excerpt from the scribe’s annotations: “In the middle of summer, in August, when the corn crops are threatened with drought, the inhabitants of Walpi and Walla, literally ‘a space or a gap in the cliffs,’ and which for the MOKIS signifies ‘a place of separation,’ make contact during dance 9 10

ceremonies with highly dangerous rattlesnakes, yet without killing them. The OCCID-ENT-ALLS are often astonished by this, and understand the dancers to be snake-tamers, which they are not. In reality, the living animal and the dancers form a magic unity, with the highly practical purpose of invoking a salutary rainstorm, by overcoming the fear of both the snakes and the storm. Snakes willfully participate—or at least without exercising their ferocious animal powers—in ceremonies that last for days on end, which in other hands would be impossible without taming the snakes, or without resorting to force… These dances do not entail imitating animals, but rather incorporating them in the most direct way possible: as actors who play their part, not in order to be sacrificed, but rather to intercede as petitioners to bring about rain.

“The OCCID-ENT-ALLS believe that the MOKIS force the snakes to intervene. In truth, I have been told otherwise. They do not force, tame, or sacrifice them. Rather, they remind the snakes that their zigzag shape embodies lightning and that, as a consequence, they possess the power to cause lightning to happen. To this end, the snakes are taken to the desert plain and remain in human contact for sixteen days when they are kept in an underground chamber called a kiva. There, they are treated and washed in consecrated water, to which all kinds of medicaments have been added. They are then purposefully flung down onto two drawings made of sand on the floor of the kiva, in such a way that the drawings merge with the bodies of the snakes. In turn, the snakes merge with the colored sand of the drawings, one representing four lightning-snakes, the other, a bank of clouds and four different colored streaks of lightning in the shape of serpents, which symbolize the four corners of the earth.

“A union thus takes place between the drawing, which symbolizes the aspiration and the desire to…, and the body of the snake that, in contact with the drawing, reminds the snake that ‘it is lightning’ and, in so doing, it erases the drawing. The OCCIDENT-ALLS describe it differently. For they believe that the sand drawings are destroyed as they come in contact with the snakes.

They do not necessarily understand to what extent the drawings merge with the snakes, or to what extent the snakes, in turn, 10 11

merge with the drawings; rather they assume that the MOKIS order the snakes to bring rain. The ceremony is, in fact, a way for the MOKIS to acknowledge their dependence on the snakes’ cooperation; and the snakes, once consecrated, become, in uniting with the MOKIS, rainmakers and intercessors. Towards the end of the ceremony, the snakes are handled with bare hands, even placed inside the mouth, and then returned to the plain as messengers. The snakes are ambivalently portrayed by the OCCID-ENT-ALLS: either they are depicted as entirely one thing, or the opposite. In Walpi, there is, to my mind, a subtle difference. For the moment when the snake merges with the drawing, which reminds it of its potential as lightning, represents an opening: neither an exclusion, nor a judgment, but rather a potential for or a call to, in a relation of becoming, which the other sees in us. ‘After all, we who work in cracks, even artificial ones, close to the ground, know that a subterranean world dwells beneath the earth—a world that cannot be entirely plundered, for it coincides with the time of dreams.’”

The scribe, in turn, very simply added the following notes at the bottom of the excerpt: “There are different kinds of cracks, more or less deep, that appear on the inside and outside of a building, which might affect a supporting wall, the floor, etc. Cracks in a building are caused by structural defects. The way in which concrete cracks and the time it takes for cracks to appear are, for those who claim to be experts, important signs for diagnosing their cause. Experts thus study the angle of a crack, whether it is vertical, horizontal, or oblique, and its location within the building. They might describe the ‘pathology of the material’ and undertake to reduce ‘those components that cause the pathology to spread.’ They thus recommend, for example, ‘systems that stop the infiltration of water.’ But a crack is also a space or a moment in which we do not obey, in which we refuse the dynamic of submission, and in which we act according to what we consider desirable and necessary. A crack is both a refusal and a creation—a dignity.

Cracks can be large or small, but they are everywhere. And philosophy can begin with a meeting between two friends.”

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— Nothing will have been written about a cinema that has been forgotten by the center, excluded from large cities: a black box like all the others with a large screen and, at the back, the photograph of a projectionist who no longer projects, and which remains hanging on the wall of the projection booth. The cinema was abandoned and something that has no name, or at least not in our languages, has since burrowed its way in. Three possible openings have since appeared in the four walls that envelop it: two on the sides and one at the back. They have lodged themselves there, leaving less isolated a cinema’s only conceivable opening: the window which each film offers. One of these new openings is an actual window with some of its glass broken, and where a plant has grown between the outside and inside of the cinema. The second opening is smaller, almost a porthole, and the last, an opening without a frame, which has appeared on the back wall where the projection booth used to be. The abandoned cinema has given way to an “imageless” experience, which is the refuge of all images: the unseen, here and now.

Large projectors tend to destroy what they present, whereas what matters is what is not seen.

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-…

“There was once a lavender in a pot, which grew well at higher altitudes on the sunny sides of mountains, and two humans. All three went looking for a fourth… and a forest. The fourth had taken out an ad: For sale. Twenty-eight hectares of virgin forest. Excellent red soil, wild fauna and indigenous orchids…, fantastic view from native mountain. Papers and taxes in order. For financial reasons beyond our control, our plans have not materialized. Except for urban development, all proposals welcome.

Upon meeting the owner, the two humans and the plant did not reveal their true intentions. The couple voiced their surprise: ‘You don’t have a car; isn’t it still far from here?’ Pointing to the pot plant, the owner also voiced surprise: ‘Is that the only luggage you have?’ Not without difficulty, the group found someone who was willing to pass the police roadblock and enter the region where the owner’s land was located.

The driver of the car, the owner, the plant and the couple thus drove for a considerably long time up and down the mountain, looking out upon the red earth. The owner had a device that he had been persuaded would allow him to detect the position of any place on the globe in any the climatic condition, twenty-four hours a day. He did not take his eyes or hands off it. As the battery of the device slowly ran out, he asked the driver to stop from time to time, and without getting out of the car—a strange place for a transaction to take place—he inspected gates, left and right, looking for the gates to his land.

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Conversations filled the time, and the owner referred to his predecessor ‘who came from a country that had declared war on many others, and the company before her,’ that had, as he affirmed, ‘also come from abroad and had run the land for quite some time.’ Then he relaxed slightly, evoking a break-up that had affected him and caused him something of a breakdown. ‘Talk to me about love, after all,’ he explained, ‘philosophers speak of nothing else.’

Four hours passed, everyone preoccupied with his or her own concerns: the driver with travelling as far as possible in order to earn as much as he could; the owner with expressing his troubled thoughts and locating the site of the sale, which he had not visited for the past two years; and the couple with finding somewhere to plant the lavender, which had begun to suffer from the lengthy journey. After a while, the couple had had enough and asked to stop somewhere, for fresh air.

Everyone said goodbye and promised to stay in touch.”

Given that “things-beings-and-situations” find themselves intertwined whenever there is a question of caring, using, and dwelling, the teller of this tale, like the forest, remains, for this reason, anonymous. After all, a forest has no gate, but tens of thousands possible entrances. No piece of paper can ever equate to a fragment of land or what takes place there.

As for the lavender, it was planted much later, when the couple, having been distracted by others’ affairs, finally came to their senses.

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-…

Before the sun went down, the question was raised: “Have you never felt ‘called’ to a particular place?”

It lies outside the bounds of this tale, or collection of tales, to explain how this question reached large hostile cities, or how spontaneous meetings emerge “between places.”

The question of a calling, how it is heeded, along with that of place, concerns all sorts of beings. Thus, although without text, image and sound, these questions linger, penetrate and affect. Thus a firefly, still alive, unwell, sick in its lower abdomen, causing it to have a pale ivory, or even greenish-yellow complexion, and emitting less light than usual, declared that the “light of the living” was in crisis—that there were fewer and fewer places to illuminate. “I am a place,” it said, “that requires a place where my own place can find refuge.”

A forgotten story, without a speaker, conveyed by the voiceless, suddenly emerged, for it was not a story about humans, but about what they had forgotten, or more precisely what they had abandoned.

As a matter of fact, at one time there were humans in uniforms.

Believing that they possessed the power to impose, through the use of terror, their government on anyone they chose, these humans conspired, amongst others things, to “take over the river,” in order to build the biggest sports center imaginable, a vast river with banks flanked by walkways, which had been built for passersby to admire their reflection in the water.

Henceforth, in their madness, they undertook to cover a part of the river with rubble. And in order to produce rubble… they proceeded to demolish a great many houses, disfiguring entire neighborhoods with enormous concrete columns supporting never-ending highways. And under some of these—the idea was certainly not new—they set up detention and torture centers destined for their opponents—placing them “under highways,” in order to stop anyone on the outside hearing the voices inside. Busy with innumerable horrors, from the completion of the glaring highways to the disappearance of still-living bodies, which included throwing them alive into the river at night, the humans in uniforms abandoned the construction of the enormous sports center.

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Unbeknown to them, however, pieces of rubble and debris that had been dumped in the river began to intermingle with the water and yield to the movements of the wind as it carried grain. For thirty years, the roots of all the pot plants left behind by the evicted inhabitants of the buildings and houses that had since been abolished in order to make rubble, grew, feebly at first, then more and more steadily. And without any human involvement, this neglected site, covering hectares and hectares of wasteland, saw a forest spontaneously emerge. Alas, humans again took over the site: some caused fires in order to retake the land and build on it, others promoted it as an exotic location, charging admission, and filling it with billboards.

On the subject of places, an elder, soft-spoken, with frail, trembling hands, spoke up to proclaim the existence of an endless number of creators, just as an endless number of souls inhabit an infinite number of spheres. He then pronounced a word: “AMAUTA.” Yet, as he stated, it was not merely a word, but rather, more importantly, a breath. A breath from ABYAYALA, the earth, whose name had been changed five hundred years ago… and on which, he claimed, he had lived along with his ancestors for five thousand years without polluting the water. He explained how much the subject of place is raised in “amauta” philosophy. “Amauta,” or “communal thought,” is a horizontal philosophy in which no one is superior to anyone else, and each person participates in his or her own way. “Amauta” embraces that which is without speech: the earth, trees, water, air, stars, and moon… Then he stopped: “I speak in a whisper, for it is not possible to talk or write so simply without being condemned in advance by other languages than my own, without being banished from the VERY GREAT LIBRARIES, which are filled with History, but are without breath!”

The voice of the elder, reciting, almost singing, referred back to the times of the ABYA-YALA, a nonlinear time, in which human beings did not come to earth to suffer, but rather to live in harmony with… a time in which they were not the center and be-all of everything, but lived somewhere and knew to take care of it, as it was good to do. They lived in a time when the provisions of the earth and the lakes were not surrounded by barbed wire, and where food and water were not for sale. “God, according to the tenants of these overcrowded times,” he added, “is higher than all other things, he is the beginning and end of man.

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Partial view, February 2014.

The removal of the Christopher Columbus statue, Colon Plaza, Buenos Aires.

But for the ‘amauta,’ God is not God, rather God is another, always another.

God is nature. Just as we are made of nature and all things are related, so too the trees are our brothers, animals our other brothers, the sun perhaps a father, the earth—why not?—a mother, and the water, ‘mamacocha,’ that which nurtures us. All these elements are in us and all these things, which we can endlessly list, are ours. We are not part of an abstract universe, but rather a universe of infinite things that dwell within us and with which we are in contact.” And he said, while touching the back of his head, “look at this brain, it is the same as the infinite universe: it receives so many ideas and principles, and so much knowledge, because there is no end to the universe. For my indigenous people, when we attempt to transmit our knowledge to our children, ‘we open their minds,’ where others close or shut them. It was simple and far-sighted, he said, catching his breath, when in Cuzco the wise amautas, would make a concave hollow in the earth or in stone, in the form of a large basin, and they filled it with water; during the night they would sit there and watch the movement of the stars. From here they derived their knowledge of the ‘chacana,’ the universe: not as a fixed order of the CLASSICAL UNIVERSE, but rather as a harmonious and variable creation. After all, in the vastness of space no distinction is made between up and down, right and left, front and back…”

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The meeting ended when another philosopher intervened. He was known for lowering the tone of his voice at the end of his talks, thus leaving, he thought, a few image-thoughts to linger in the air. But without forewarning, at the very moment he began to speak, a storm appeared. Five times it interrupted the philosopher, who stopped only to begin again and then stop. His talk was postponed. As rumor has it, a woman then began to hum discordantly as a sign of bafflement, addressing, not the philosopher, but rather everyone present: how could he go on for so long without acknowledging the event that had interrupted his talk! She apparently said: “Column, whose marble cracks, it has come down! Column, it sleeps, it has fallen, at last! It wants to go into analysis! It’s not alone; there are others…”

At that very moment, several voices emerged and together announced: “kãnêyxaktux ‘ûkumuk,” which in Maxakali reads: “the recording devices have been struck.”

The meeting and this tale thus finished soberly, without end.

Partial vue, March 18, 2014.

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#21 JEOVASA RAÑEÍE’Y (ORE ÑEÉ RUETE) 1. A – a – a – a – a – a – a – a – a – a – a – a – a – a 1. A – a – a – a – a – a – a – a – a – a – a – a – a – a – a 2. Aiporami arojae’ô – ô – ô – ô – ô So I sing a disenchanted song ô – ô – ô – ô – ô 3. Nde yvarapy – y – y – y – y – y – y – y – y – y – y – y – y 3. For your word – e – e – e – e – e – e – e – e 4. Nde remimbo jeguakava 4. For your children, jeguakava – ô – ô – ô – ô – ô – ô – ô – ô – ô – ô – ô 5. Ndevy che yvarapi 5. Pour ce monde duquel je suis aussi partie 6. Aipo Ñamandu yvaroka – a – a – a – a – a – a – a – a – a – a – a 6. Yes, Ñamandu, for your word – ô – ô – ô – ô – ô – ô – ô – ô 7. arojae’o – o – o – o – o – o – o – o – o – o – o – o – o – o 7. I sing a disenchanted song– ô – ô – ô – ô – ô – ô – ô 8. Ñamandu arojae’o 8. Ô Ñamandu!

9. Opa marãngua ete 9. So the ills that plague us disappear 10. Nê mba’e ra’ã rovapy 10. So the crossing on which we have embarked will be effortless 11. Aipo rity’i – i – i – i – i – i – i – i – i – i – i – i – i 11. So that the words of our song composed with care (mba’ ea’ ã) 12. Aipo ñane mba’ea’ã – a – a – a – a – a – a – a – a – a – a 12. Can have the same meaning, the same grace, the same breadth, the same light, and the same inner force as the words of your song composed with care (mba’ ea’ ã).

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Hopi dancers at the top of a Kiva

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Translations from French: Thomas Macdonough and Dean Inkster.

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The tales (image-texts) published here, written by A. Riera, are part of a larger group of material for an unfinished film dated 3 September 2014 in progress with the UEINZZ group.

UEINZZ : Adélia Faustino, Aílton Carvalho, Alexandre Bernardes, Amélia Monteiro de Melo, Ana Goldenstein Carvalhaes, Ana Carmen del Collado, Arthur Amador, Eduardo Lettiere, Erika Alvarez Inforsato, Fabrício Lima Pedroni, Jaime Menezes, José Petrônio Fantasia, Leonardo Lui Cavalcanti, Luis Guilherme Ribeiro Cunha, Luiz Augusto Collazzi Loureiro, Maria Yoshiko Nagahashi, Onés Antonio Cervelin, Paula Patricia Francisquetti, Pedro França, Peter Pál Pelbart, Rogéria Neubauer, Simone Mina, Valéria Felippe Manzalli.

In page 20, extract of : Kosmofonia Mbyá-Guarani, Guillermo Sequera Douglas Diegues, Mendonça & Provazi Editores, São Paulo, 2006.

Thanks to: cacique Mario Leoncio Barrios et Anaomar Iris Santana, Enrique Mamani (Organización de Comunidades de Pueblos Originarios), Sergina Morte et Javier Ortuño (activistes afro-descendants de Buenos Aires). Nuria Enguita y Pablo Lafuente, Olívio Jekupé, Tupã Minrin da aldeia Krukutu And particularly, Daniel Bohm, Enrique Vega, Peter Pal Pelbart, Jorge Zulueta, Jacobo Romano, Catherine Chevalier, Lore Gablier, Marine Boulay, Alejandro Zanelli, Thomas F. Macdonough et Dean Inkster.

During presentations on 3 and 17 September 1, 15 and 29 October, and 12 and 26 November, the small open-air cinema was conceived in collaboration with Andreas Maria Fohr.

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… - MUTE – OHPERA - … [until the date of 3 September 2014] Partial views (image-text) and fragments of an unfinished film RIERA – UEINZZ Upcoming Presentations: 3, 17 September 1, 15, 29 October 12, 26 November 2014 When the sun begins to set

Meeting in front of the current CECOO (Centro de Convivência e Cooperativa) an abandoned warehouse that temporarily housed the Cinemateca Brasileira – including a film club –after a major fire in 1957.

Gate 5, Ibirapuera Park.

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