Ana María Shua – born in Buenos Aires in 1951 – is famous in Latin America as an author of microfiction. Her many books in the genre (including ‘La suenera’, ‘Casa de Geishas’, ‘Bontanica del caos’, ‘Temporada de fantasmas’, ‘Los días de pesca’, ‘Viajando se concoce gente’ and ‘Como una buena madre’) have received national and international prizes and have been anthologized in collections around the world.

Ana María Shua at work (Photo: Beatrice Murch)

She began her career as a poet; ‘El sol y yo’, her first collection, was published in 1967. Since then, she has produced more than forty books. In 1980, her novel ‘Soy paciente’ won the Losada Prize; other novels include the Guggenheim-winning ‘El libro de los recuerdos’ and ‘La muerte como efecto secundario’, which received a Municipal Prize in the novel category. Her latest novel, ‘El peso de la tentación’, was published in 2007. In 2009, ‘Cazadores de Letras’, collecting four of her microfiction books in one volume, was published in Madrid. ‘Que tengas una vida interesante’, an omnibus collection, was published the same year in Buenos Aires.

This year, her most recent collection of microfiction, ‘Fenómenos de circo’, was published simultaneously in Argentina and Spain.’Fenómenos de circo’ takes as inspiration the circus, portraying notorious impresarios, freaks, and feats across a series of incredible, paradoxical and ludicrous vignettes. Houdini has a cameo, as do more fanciful circus archetypes like the Magician, the Sword-Swallower, and the Tattooed Woman. Like a series of circus acts themselves, the stories burn for an instant and then disappear – readers are left beguiled and enchanted, with no choice but to start again from the beginning.

We caught up with Ana María Shua in her home in Palermo and spoke about the circus feat that is writing, and the inspiration behind her circus-themed collection.

Tell us about your writing process – and specifically about the process as it pertains to this new collection of circus-themed microfictions?

I usually start with a single story, and then write them down as they come to me. [This time,] when I had gathered ten or twelve short stories, I started reading about the history of the circus, the biographies of famous circus performers, and I identified different people and different circus phenomena. My research gave me more ideas, and I went on from there.

What does the phrase “Fenómenos de circo” (Circus Phenomena) mean to you?

Well, phenomena as in “freaks” – unusual people; people with deformities, different bodies, strange abilities – but also in general terms: all the components of the circus. The freaks, the performers, the trainers, the impresarios, the animals. Everything that belongs to the circus. But I also have a special interest in freaks.

Why is that?

They’re part of the history of the circus. They’re still out there on television. For some reason, our society considers it politically incorrect to exhibit them as freaks in person, but has no problem with gawking at them as long as it’s through a camera. The Discovery Channel documentaries, for example, the Tree Man, the subject of the documentary – the man with the branching tumors. I believe there’s nothing wrong with curiosity about the strange and the different. It’s a way for the performers themselves to support themselves, when their circumstances would otherwise prevent them from working a normal job. It’s a way for them to become famous, and to travel, and to live interesting lives. They can also earn a great deal of money.

So, why microfictions? These short-shorts and circus acts; the brief glimpses into performers’ lives and their routines, their “numbers” – they make for an interesting pairing. Was that your intention?

I enjoy the extreme condensation of the form—the condensation of a profound sensation or idea into a few words, a brief significance.

Circus acts are very brief. They’re quick because the artists have to demonstrate their abilities before a demanding public. They have to show off because the audience will stop paying attention right away. They’re always trying to surpass themselves, because the audience gets bored. That’s why nobody ever does three front flips in a row on the trapeze – by the third one, the audience has stopped watching.

It’s interesting to see these long, eventful, and sometimes disjointed histories condensed into such a short lyrical form. Do you have difficulty restraining yourself as you write, choosing what to include and what to leave out?

Never. When I write in this format, my mind is set to this pattern. My stories are born brief. I don’t have to cut details or condense an idea. It never happens that a long piece of work comes to me as a short story.

Big Top Circus (Photo: Tim)

You include a long and detailed historical appendix to the collection; brief biographies of all of the circus performers that appear in your short short stories. Why?

I wanted people to know what was invented and what was real. In the first part, I worked with historical information to create short fiction. This follows the way that I worked chronologically: I started with my own ideas and impressions, memories from childhood, impressions of the circus and the idea of the circus. Then I started to read about famous people in the circus, about the origins of the circus and its various incarnations. I wrote, and then I investigated, and then I wrote some more.

It was important to me, however, that the reader understand what actually happened. It’s very important to me that they read the historical appendix. That they share my curiosity. Also, the authentic has a great deal of prestige in our society. Something on film, in photographs – it’s important that people understand that these things did occur, that these people did exist.

What sorts of things did you look for? Did you seek out a particular type of story?

Not really. Whatever jumped out at me as I went along.

The story that interested me the most was the story of the monkey woman who married her impresario and then died after giving birth to a child who looked just like her. Their corpses were subsequently exhibited, sold to a Russian university, exhibited, bought back, exhibited, lost, recovered without her child’s corpse, and exhibited again. She is currently on display in Oslo, at the university, but anyone who wants to visit her has to get special permission. The archbishop of Oslo is campaigning to have her buried. It seems like there is always someone trying to display her and someone trying to inter her. It’s a fascinating story in all, a terrible story – I didn’t add much.

Below are original English translations of a variety of Ana María Shua’s fictions, translated by Steven Stewart. Click here for an interview with the author.

Bearded Lady and Man as a couple.

A Bearded Woman

Some stories don’t even give your imagination a chance.

On a trip through Mexico in 1854, a circus promoter noticed the servant girl of one of his hosts. She was a shockingly hairy girl of twenty or so years. She looked like a bearded orangutan. She had protruding jaws, a double row of teeth (like a dogfish), a slim waist, and natural feminine grace. We don’t know if she followed him for love, money, or adventure, or to escape the tragic tedium of her life. The promoter exhibited Julia Pastrana all over the world; he made her famous and possibly happy.

She was already a pro when Theodore Lent met her. To swipe her from her agent, he married her. That way, in addition to getting what she made at the circus, he could sell much more expensive tickets to their own house, where the monkey woman would serve tea to the astonished guests. Lent got his wife pregnant and sold tickets to the birth, which took place in Moscow in 1860. The baby was born with the same characteristics as its mother and died two days later. Julia died three days later, always surrounded by spectators. Lent had the corpses embalmed and sold them to the University of Moscow. Nevertheless, when he learned that the university was exhibiting the mummies for “scientific” reasons, he reclaimed the bodies of his wife and child and took them with him to exhibit throughout the world. Some time later on, in Sweden, Theodore Lent married another bearded woman. He died insane in 1880.

Some stories don’t even give your imagination a chance.

The Tree Man of Java

Dede Koswara, the tree man of Java, is afflicted with a rare variant of human papillomavirus. Knot-like warts deform his extremities, making them look like tree branches. Through a costly surgical procedure, fifteen pounds of warts and calluses were able to be removed, but these soon started growing again. For a time, Koswara, who is the father of two children, was forced to work in a Badung circus to earn money for food. Luckily he no longer has to go back to the circus: thanks to a well-paying special on the Discovery Channel, he’s been able to buy some land for growing rice and a used car that he can’t drive with his branch-like hands. Not even Barnum paid his freaks so well (but neither did they have such a big audience).

Nevertheless, one shouldn’t spurn the trees’ opinion, who have a different perspective on the whole situation.

The Ambassadors from Mars

The brothers George and Willie Muse were kidnapped by unscrupulous promoters. They were first exhibited as Iko and Eko, the Ecuadorian Cannibals, and some years later as the Ambassadors from Mars.

In reality only one of them, Willie, was a Martian, but he never achieved the rank of ambassador. He was sent to earth and was implanted into his supposed mother’s womb at the same instant George was conceived. The original plan was that he would develop and be born as the twin brother of any old child.

Unfortunately for the planned invasion, the other occupant of this particular uterus turned out to be a very rare combination of genes: a black albino. The twins were so strange that they soon became circus attractions and the Martian operatives, not wanting attention, abandoned the experiment. Willie Muse died on Earth, at 108 years of age, 30 years after his twin brother.

Tiny Lucia Zarate

As an adult, the Mexican Lucia Zarate was twenty inches tall. She weighed five and a half pounds and was perfectly normal in every other way. She was the best-paid dwarf in history. In 1880 she earned no less than twenty dollars an hour. She died one night of hypothermia when the train she was traveling on got stranded in the Sierra Nevada mountains.

Those who go on a pilgrimage to the site of her death consider her an intercessor before deity. Sitting at the feet of God’s throne, she is the only one in the whole hierarchy of saints who is capable of resolving the small problems the others disdain. We plead with you oh smallest Lucia to save us from calluses, bad breath, untimely visitors, people who talk at the movies, food stains on clothing, and itchy allergic reactions.

Secret Wish

Deep in the heart of every child, every mother, every spectator, lies that secret wish to see the trapeze artist fall, to see him smash his bones against the ground, spill his dark blood on the sand, that fundamental wish to see the lions fight over the tamer’s remains, the wish to see the horse drag the rider around with her foot caught in the stirrup, striking her head in rhythm against the edge of the ring, and for them we have launched this circus, the best, the ultimate, the circus where human pyramids collapse at their base, the knife thrower sinks his blades (on accident, always on accident) into his assistant’s breast, the bear shreds the gypsy’s face with his paw, and because of this, because the worst case scenarios play out and because we always want what we don’t have, the audience’s desires shift: sick of disasters and failures they begin to wish that the trapeze artist’s hands reach it in time, that the tamer keep the lions under control, that the rider make it back to the saddle, and instead of being filled with death and horror, the secret places of their hearts begin to brim with horrified kindness, with hope for the happiness of others, and thus they leave our show happy with themselves, proud of their humanity, feeling they are better for it, that they are decent, sensitive, and well intentioned people, the generous public of the most perfect of circuses.

Dragon (Photo: Ville Miettinen)

The Dragon

The problem is that the dragon doesn’t know how to do anything. He’s too old to fly and can hardly manage a pathetic liftoff similar to that of a chicken. Though two columns of smoke do weakly ascend from his scaly nostrils, he’s no longer capable of expelling his punishing fire. He’s interesting, the director says, very interesting, but better suited to a zoo than a circus. When the time comes he could be stuffed and make a fine addition to any museum.

And the owner, or perhaps the dragon’s agent, leaves the circus depressed, his troupe of winged species in tow, a sluggish-looking griffin, a family of vegetarian vampires, a former angel who clumsily displays the stumps of his amputated wings.

Naumachias and Pantomimes

In the beginning, they imitated us. The ancient Romans, more than anyone, achieved a level of perfection. In the circus pantomimes, the actors were typically criminals condemned to death. They would enter the arena with gold-embroidered tunics and purple capes. The clothing was shortly lit on fire and the wrongdoers would burn to death. The public called these garments the tunica molesta. These would also be smeared with resin: the blaze would convert the people into human torches that would light up the night. Sometimes the pantomimes would recreate historic events or essentially tragic myths, like the castration of Attis.

But the pitched battles and more than anything the naumachias, simulated naval battles, were much bloodier due to the number of participants. The most significant naumachia was clearly the one organized by the emperor Claudius in the year 52 A.D. In an enormous artificial lake where a simulated Sicilian fleet battled a Rhodian fleet, 19,000 men fought to the death.

Among us, no show has been as successful as that of World War II, for its duration and for the number of people involved. Nevertheless, when it ended, some people condemned it. Fifty-five million people had died, and you don’t reproduce that easily. From that point on, and especially since the development of nuclear weapons (how wonderfully inventive they are!), they prefer limited confrontations, like Vietnam, tribal wars in Africa, the war on terror, the Balkans, ultimately limited situations that allow us to enjoy the show and make bets without truly risking this entertaining and warlike species.

Circus Prometheus

Art or entertainment? If the vulture digs his beak deep into Prometheus’s liver, is it art or entertainment?

It’s art if it’s blood that’s dyeing the bird’s beak, if it’s blood that spouts and gushes from the body, if it’s blood reddening the rocks to which the man is chained. But if it’s a mixture of glycerin and ketchup, it’s just entertainment, a big circus. Of course, there are those who believe just the opposite.

Meanwhile, since we can’t test it from this distance, you just have to enjoy the spectacle. There’s a show every day.

Sword Swallorwer Miss Behave (Photo: Amanda Farah)

Sword Swallowers’ Misfortunes

Sword swallowers are seldom talked about. They live under a cloud of misfortune: the audience can only see part of their act. For this reason, half of their act is designed to demonstrate that the other half isn’t a trick. Many have died trying to prove something.

Signor Benedetti would swallow objects given to him by the audience. According to a Havana newspaper in 1874, at one event he swallowed a general’s sword and several canes but failed in an attempt to swallow an umbrella.

Maud Churchill would pass her sword among the crowd so that people could examine it. In 1926, performing before the King and Queen of England, a spectator nicked the blade. Maud died several days later, believing that she had finally proven the authenticity of her act.

In 1947, Tony Marino was the first to swallow a neon tube and light it to demonstrate that it wasn’t a trick. The circus erupted in applause. The artist, caught up in the moment, bowed. They saved him in a hospital in Detroit.

In a town in Hungary in 1952, the German artist Stephan Baum swallowed a skeptical spectator whole. When a microphone was near his esophagus, a voice could clearly be heard saying “Turn on the light. This is a trick.”

“It’s been a long week,” explains Maxine Swann, sitting down with a glass of white wine. And coming from a woman who’s launching her third book in only a few days, that’s not hard to believe.

As a writing coach, contributor of The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal and The Huffington Post, and an award-winning author of the novels ‘Serious Girls’ and ‘Flower Children’, her writing has received literary recognition in the form of a Ploughshares’ Cohen Award, an O. Henry Award, a Pushcart Prize, and was also selected to appear in the 1998 and 2006 collections of ‘Best American Short Stories’.

Originally from the rural state of Pennsylvania, Maxine lived in New York, Paris and Pakistan before arriving in Buenos Aires, but something about migration to faraway places obviously agrees with her. For this edition of BA Lives, The Indy caught up with her to talk about her not-so-recent relocation and the theme of migration in her new book ‘The Foreigners’.

You’ve lived in Buenos Aires for almost ten years now, how did you come to settle here?

Well, I arrived in Buenos Aires in 2001 with the intention of staying for a few months, and, now that I say this, I realise there’s a pattern here. I arrived in Paris in 1991 to study for a semester and stayed for seven years. I arrived in Pakistan in 1998 with the idea of staying for a month and stayed for over a year. But I’ve never stayed anywhere as long as I’ve stayed in Buenos Aires. I feel like it suits me. I’m happy here – relaxed and playful, and inventive in a new way. Who knows why it happens, but I do feel like certain tendencies I have towards solitude, or being overly reserved, are corrected here.

Can you tell me a little about your latest book ‘The Foreigners’?

Yes, of course. I started writing ‘The Foreigners’ without knowing what the book would be about. I just knew I wanted to capture Buenos Aires, so I began with descriptions of the streets of Chacarita, that kind of thing. I wanted to capture certain feelings the place had given me- of freedom, happiness, loneliness. Of course, I’m also a foreigner here, so my Buenos Aires is a foreigner’s Buenos Aires; which is the other thing I wanted to write about – what it means and how it feels to be a foreigner. So I chose my characters based on that. They each have a different experience of “foreignness”, that I’ve either experienced myself or observed in others.

What interests you about the theme?

I think the interaction between a living creature and its environment is really fascinating – the intensity of that relationship. There’s a metaphor running throughout the book comparing foreigners to invasive plant species. Some plant species, when placed in a foreign environment, simply wither straight away. There’s too much moisture in the air, or too little, or not enough minerals in the soil, or too much iron, who knows. I’ve spent a lot of time living abroad and, in my experience, the same thing happens with foreigners. Some are immediately diminished by their new surroundings, while others flourish in entirely unexpected ways – sometimes beautifully and sometimes frighteningly – growing rampantly, choking other species, blocking their light, that kind of thing. I think sometimes foreigners feel free to act with a kind of impunity, where the codes are all unfamiliar and their own identities in the new place are suddenly hazy. There’s a chain of events in my book that also has to do with that.

Your previous books ‘Serious Girls’ and ‘Flower Children’ have both been based on your own upbringing and adolescence. Did writing about adult characters in this book feel like a natural progression?

Yes, I think so. I did suddenly find myself fascinated by adulthood. That said, this book is much less autobiographical than my other books. Part of the evolution also had to do with that, feeling freer to invent, and create rather than reflect the world, even if the reflection was always substantially deformed. I often think that when we write fiction we write our dream version of the world, everything switched around, several people conflated into one – your uncle becomes the dog on the corner – that kind of thing. Here I think I stepped even further away, which is maybe why writing this book was so enjoyable.

As a foreigner yourself, there’s perhaps an assumption this book is at least tangentially autobiographical. To what extent are the characters in the book based on yourself or your own experiences as a foreigner in Buenos Aires?

There are definitely some parallels in the book with my own experiences – the loneliness that the Austrian woman feels, and the moments of delirious freedom that the American woman does.

All three of your novels, ‘Serious Girls’ in 2003, ‘Flower Children’ in 2005 and now ‘The Foreigners’ in 2011, have been completed since moving to Argentina. How do you find the creative climate in Buenos Aires compared to other places you’ve lived?

I think there’s more space here to be experimental than in the United States. There, literature seems to be increasingly at the mercy of the marketplace – meaning everyone’s main concern is how many books you sell. Not only editors, but writers too – because the amount of books you sell determines the value of your next book contract. So, needless to say, it’s not an environment that encourages audacity. Here, probably because there’s nearly no money involved, the criteria are different. I feel for writers here from a financial perspective, but on the other hand, I find it very refreshing.

You also run two writing workshops each year. Tell me a little about the workshops and what motivates you to teach?

I’ve been directing writing workshops for a while, in different settings. I think teaching is a perfect antidote to writing. I enjoy helping people figure out how to express what they’re trying to express. Having spent so much time struggling with that myself, I also think it makes sense to pass along whatever knowledge I’ve come up with. Also, writing is so solitary. I like trying to find ways to make it more social. I still hope to find a way to write a collaborative novel – it’s one of my cherished future projects!

And finally, with three books already under your belt, what’s next?

At the moment I’m writing a new novel that takes place in Pakistan. It’s a book that’s been germinating in my mind for years so it’s great to finally have it on the table.

Copies of Maxine Swann’s ‘The Foreigners’ will be on sale at the public launch party where Maxine will be joined by special guests discussing the book. Readers of The Argentina Independent are invited to attend at 7.30pm, Costa Rica 5824, Palermo Hollywood, Buenos Aires.

On 10th January, 2010, Argentine poet, writer, singer songwriter, musician, playwright and composer, María Elena Walsh passed away at the age 80. She had been staying at the Trinidad Clinic after her long fight against bone cancer, diagnosed in 1981.

Walsh, born on 1st February, 1930, to an Argentine mother of Andalusian descent and her father was, a railway worker was of Irish descent. She was an emblem of artistic cultural for Argentina and an icon for many since their childhood. Adults grew up to her songs, writings and creativity and passed along the traditions to their children. Her fans and followers for generations lament her passing, not just simply for her many works in childrens stories, songs and poetry, but also for her artistic works in literature and music for adults, too.

María Elena Walsh grew up in a suburban home, surrounded by life and livelihood to cultivate her natural gifts. Her home was “very big, with a garden, patios, fruit trees, a henhouse, dog, cat, canaries, turtle, bicycles, books and a piano. What more can you ask?” Walsh recounts in an author’s note in one of her childrens books. Even at the early age of 15-years old, she was published in La Nacion and El Hogar Magazine for her poetry, and thus began her journey to becoming the artist who would be read and listened to by children and adults for years to come.

In 1947 Walsh published her first book, Otoño Imperdonable, a book of poems that received recognition by Latin American writers and was critically acclaimed. Though many of her works were oriented to a child audience, her songs and poems were constructed carefully to exceed the younger demographic, too. Songs like “Manuelita”, “El Reino de Revés” and La Canción de La Vacuna” and many others are all part of a collection which aimed and succeeded to inspire young minds and to uphold the artistic legacy of their culture.

María Elena Walsh’s wake is held at SADAIC (Argentine Society of Authors and Composers), and she shall be buried on Tuesday morning at Chacarita Cemetary.

“Writing is easy: All you do is sit staring at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead.” Gene Fowler.

If you have been in this situation, and the drops of blood have not quite begun to fall, then don’t despair. Slitting your wrists or throwing your computer across the room are not the only options; you can also join a writing group. The support and advice of other writers can inspire you to collect your ideas and finally put them on paper. Or, like essays at school, the idea of having a weekly deadline can be enough to scare some text out of you.

As you would expect of Buenos Aires, a city where the number of bookshops seems to rival that of supermarkets, there is no shortage of groups to join. What is more surprising is that several of them are in English. So if you want to capitalise on the city’s creative energy and get that novel written, then think about joining the movement.

The support and advice of the group can inspire you to get your ideas on paper. (Photo/Jessie Akin)

I heard about a group that met weekly in a cultural centre off Corrientes, and decided to sample the scene. The club was started two and a half years ago by three friends and has expanded since then, so that it now has about 12 regular members. The structure of all of their meetings is fixed: first everyone in the group explains what they have written that week; secondly the group leader suggests a random topic and everyone jots down whatever they can think of in ten minutes before reading out their composition; and finally two members of the group hand out longer pieces of writing that they have produced and everyone else offers feedback.

Whether you are already a regular writer, or an aspiring author who needs some encouragement, the system has benefits. Being forced to explain to 12 people what progress you have made over the past week means that you do make an effort to produce something. It adds routine to your literary life and forces you to work to a deadline. On the other hand, if you are already a prolific writer but need help developing your style, the feedback given by the rest of the group can be helpful.

However, Cliff Williamson, who led the meeting I attended, insists that the group is not meant just to be about helping people who have trouble writing. “When I first came I felt like this was a counselling group for people who wanted to write but didn’t,” he says. “But now we have some very serious and committed people.”

It is true that several members of the group have recently had works published. One example is Steve Sundberg, who recently released ‘Street Logic’, a partially autobiographical novel about outreach workers struggling to combat homelessness in Boston. Another is an author who publishes under the name ‘Sallycat’, and who wrote ‘Happy Tango’, a guide to dancing in Buenos Aires. Other members have published self-help books, poetry and travel writing. In fact, what is impressive about this particular group is the wide range of literary styles. Among the members are journalists, poets, screenplay authors, novelists and business writers, as well as people with little previous experience who just come along to see what they can do.

Street Logic, by Steve Sundberg

Writing groups can be tricky to negotiate. One blogger described them as always falling into three categories: “circle of friends, master and slaves or sharks and dinner”. It can be difficult to create the right dynamic, particularly as many people feel that sharing what they have written can be deeply personal. However, in this particular group the atmosphere seems to be productive and supportive. One of the founding members, Karla Freeman, explains “there’s no competition here”, and that’s the secret of its success.

Nevertheless, although the group is all very well, at first it is difficult to see how it is special to Buenos Aires. The members are all English speakers, and sitting in one of the meetings, you have the feeling that it could easily be transplanted to Britain or America. However, the members assure me that, despite this, the city does have an effect on the authors. For one thing, the subject matter of the books often seems uniquely influenced by Buenos Aires, and particularly by tango; at least three of the authors specialise in tango writing. The Spanish language also has some affect, as Cliff says: “We’ve had a number of poets and in almost every case they have used some Spanish.”

On a more general level, some of the writers maintain that just the atmosphere of the city stimulates them: “we have all this creative energy, and for me, that’s Buenos Aires. It’s a creative city,” Karla claims. Cliff agrees: “There are some secrets in the city that just make people feel artistic.” “Creativity is about putting together two unlike things,” he explains, and that’s what happens when you combine English and Spanish. So if you need some literary stimulation, this is the place to come.

To find out more about the writers group visit their blog at http://bawriters.wordpress.com/ or contact Cliff Williamson by emailing cliff@transpack.com.ar

For more information about groups and events for writers in Buenos Aires, visit http://writersinba.blogspot.com

The celebrated author and journalist Tomás Eloy Martínez has died at his home in Buenos Aires following a long struggle with cancer. He was 75 years old. Martínez was widely regarded as one of the most important Argentine writers of his generation. He worked as a columnist for The New York Times, Spain’s El País newspaper and Argentina’s La Nacion. His novel ‘Santa Evita’ has been translated into more than 30 languages.

In the years leading up to the last military dictatorship Martínez chronicled the escalating state violence and repression, and in 1974 published ‘The Passion According to Trelew’ which documented the brutal massacre of almost 20 anti-government radicals. The book was banned by the military dictatorship and was burned in public plazas in Córdoba. Later it was incorporated as evidence in the investigation of the slaughter.

After being threatened by the Tripla A, a right-wing paramilitary group, Martínez lived in exile in Caracas, Venezuela from 1975-83. There he remained active in journalism, working as an editor at El Nacional and founding the newspaper El Diario.

He also worked as a professor and in 1984 began teaching at the University of Maryland in the US. In 1995, he became distinguished professor and director of the Latin American Studies programme at Rutgers University in New Jersey.

Many of his best known works, including ‘The Perón Novel’, ‘Santa Evita’, and ‘Requiem for a Lost Country’, combine fiction with history to describe Argentina during and following the Perón governments.

His wake will be held today in Memorial Park (Pan American highway access north branch Pilar, km 47) from 8.30am to 4pm. Following the wake his remains will be cremated, as he wished, and the ashes will remain in the park.

Photo by Piers Calvert

 

Although 27-year-old Swiss author Dorotea Schepens didn’t plan out her latest book, she certainly planned the epic journey that allowed her to finish it. Selling up her flat in Geneva, she boarded a cargo slip in Belgium at the beginning of December 2007 and spent the best part of the next five weeks in complete silence, just writing. The silence wasn’t, as you would expect, necessary to help her concentrate (although she agrees it helped) but rather to understand better her two main characters who finish the book travelling in silence aboard a cargo ship.

You have a masters degree in philosophy and history of religion from the University of Geneva, you are a dancer and also a classically-trained pianist. When and why did you decide to become an author?

I had written essays on poetry and philosophy, as well as writing a previous novel, although it is yet to be published, so I have always been interested in writing. It’s as if the music and the dancing combine to improve my writing. They are all closely connected. I also worked as a waitress, which taught me a lot about people and was an invaluable experience for me as a writer. It isn’t something you necessarily decide to do, but rather something you have to do.

What is the book about and how did the experience help you better understand your characters?

The book is a tragedy about a young man who works in a library and an older man who works as a bank director and who regularly pops in to indulge his love of literature. One day the two exchange glances across a bar and become locked in a psychological battle played out in silence and with life-affecting consequences for each of them. The book ends with their journey on a ship. What was fascinating for me was that despite the silence, you are still accepted as part of the community on board. You are still a person, but a simple person that doesn’t speak. It was interesting as well as helpful to watch the other people on board and notice how relationships develop over the course of the trip.

Describe an average day for you aboard the ship.

It was approximately 200-metres long and full of cargo. There was a crew and eight passenger cabins. I used to wake up about 6.30am, take a walk around the ship and then spend the next ten hours writing, of course allowing time for meals. There were other people on board but I kept myself to myself, usually with a book or music when in company. Obviously there were times when you had to speak, but in those situations I would just say one or two words and do my best to keep myself to myself. I was living like a monk and became incredibly relaxed. In order to really get to the bottom of things, to understand things better and really feel the world you have to strip away at all the layers, and that is what I was able to do by having so much thinking time, so much time alone. For me, the journey to, rather than the arrival at, is what is most important. Life, after all, is a journey.

What inspired you to write the book?

I really don’t know. From things I have seen, or experienced, I suppose. I don’t know from where a story arrives in your mind, nor do I particularly want to know. It is like a tune that enters my head, which I then develop.

Photo by Piers Calvert

 

What was your first impression of BA when you docked?

My first impression was that it was like a city with no horizon, and, having lived here for a little while now, you realise that you could spend your entire life here without seeing it and forgetting that there is life outside it. It was like an island in its own right.

What advice would you give to aspiring writers who just can’t seem to sit down and start writing?

Generally speaking, everyone is different and has their own way of doing things, but if I had to give advice, I would say: don’t force anything, just believe in yourself. Things can often start with just a phrase or a few words. Perhaps try writing something without demanding anything from yourself and without knowing exactly what it is that you are writing. Perhaps try describing something, whether it be an emotion or a person or a landscape and treat it like an exercise. More often than not, by doing this something will spring from one idea and lead to the next, and so on…

What brings two artists together, causes them to create their own world within the big city of Buenos Aires, draws them deeper into their memories, their dreams? Is it perhaps nostalgia, that aching silent melancholy for the life and society that once was, yet won’t be ever again? Life is changing, the pace is quickening, and for many there is rarely time for tea. Stepping into the delightful and rich microcosm that Angel and Jorge have created, I spent four precious hours with them, delving into the past, lamenting and celebrating the present, and looking into the future at a culture that continues to change.

Artist Angel Pini was born in Buenos Aires in 1934. He started painting in the 1960s, and has exhibited his work in Argentina, all over Latin and North America and Europe. His style has been influenced largely by German Impressionism, and since the beginning of his artistic career he has been fascinated by the relationship that exists between the natural environment and humanity. “Long sojourns in Brazilian wilderness or extended safaris into the urban jungle of lively bars and late hour restaurants, where characters are integrated in the local atmosphere, have always excited my imagination as well.”

Having travelled extensively throughout the world, he has returned and now resides permanently in Buenos Aires, immersed in his world of art, literature, music and all the vibrant memories of his youth.

Author and journalist, Jorge Beltran, was born in 1939. He has written and published seven novels, winning various literary awards including the Silver Plume award from PEN Club International, as well as the Grand International Prize for Literature from The European Academy of Arts in Belgium, in 1989.

Angel and Jorge met 30 years ago, both hugely caught up in the arts world of Buenos Aires and beyond. Forming a deep and close friendship, they share ideas, attitudes and identities, constantly seeking to deepen their understanding of art, culture and humanity.

“Hello Angel, it’s Julia.”

“Ah… Princess Julia. Have you brought Queen Elizabeth with you?” (Liz is the photographer).

“Er, no. She’s on her way.” (with her fine steed and crown perhaps?)

I enter into Angel’s studio, and a few minutes later, Liz arrives. We’re inside a zone which feels…precious. I can sense its fragile nature and something else that to me resembles secrecy. I have chanced upon a hidden world, and that is exactly how they want me to feel. The new generation of Argentines is rushing ahead and yet these two are keen to stay within the framework of their time and enrich their lives through conversation, art, music and literature. They are in the world, and yet not of it. I wonder whether their true home lies in the friendships they shared in the past.

Jorge began writing when he was seven years old. He wrote a play called ‘No estoy tan solo como crei’ (I’m not as lonely as I thought). When he was 12 he wrote a novel with a friend. When he was 18 he started to write seriously, and at 22 he had completed his first novel.

“That was a turning point for me. A friend of mine read my work and he said to me, ‘Jorge, do not doubt yourself, because seriously you are a writer’. That encouragement was crucial to me. I could not have carried on alone. You always need someone to believe in you and to push you on.”

Every novel focuses around one obsession. It might be a feeling, a person, a landscape or a situation. That obsession provides the initial inspiration; the rest flows from that.

“Buenos Aires appears in all my novels. I was born here, my family date back to the 1500s. These days I don’t feel necessarily like I belong here, but it is my home. One of my novels, ‘Tic Tac’, describes someone travelling in exile, running against circumstances. This is often how I feel, and have felt in my life. Love, friendship and loneliness…these are my three obsessions.

“All the people I looked up to, those writers and artists who taught me so much (including Borges), they are all gone now. I feel like an orphan. That is why Angel’s friendship is so important to me. Within our relationship our old world still exists and keeps on existing. That’s when I feel at home.”

Angel adds: “I agree. At our age, you have to fight against the negative melancholy. Melancholy can be a positive emotion for an artist or writer…it can be healing or it can destroy you. That’s what I feel about Buenos Aires. I feel melancholic and nostalgic, because it is no longer what it used to be. There are certain parts of the country that I used to love that are no longer in existence. But all I can do is make the most of what I have left. Talking to Jorge helps. We listen to music, and create an atmosphere similar to what we knew. The world today is all about advertising and image and self-promotion; but it starves the imagination. No one talks about music anymore, they only talk about themselves. This was not what I was brought up. And so this is why we have created this (he refers to his studio), our little corner of truth and beauty; this is all we have left. I used to live in Brazil, and it was beautiful. Now it is totally different, and I will never go back there. I will just save it in my memories.

“The world is speeding up all the time. It’s a speed generation. Everyone is an expert in their field before they have even begun.”

In the world but not of it

Angel adds: “Within Argentine society today…we feel like Robinson Crusoe and Friday. We fit and we don’t fit. We have been gently discarded by society, which means in many ways we are free. We can say anything.

“Argentina is a difficult country. I don’t feel comfortable here, and I don’t see myself as South American. I admire South America’s roots (the Incas etc) but I look at them like I look at the pyramids in Egypt – like a foreigner. I feel well in Europe. It’s not snobbism…I don’t know why but I just feel it in myself, this affinity with Europe. Though really for me, no country or city is my home. My home is any place where my affections lie, where I am well treated. My affections are my country.”

Thirty years ago, Angel Pini and Jorge Beltran were integral to their society and well known by their peers. Today, still hugely respected in their fields, they hold tightly to the things they know and love, and the memories of the people and places they adore. They continue to write, to paint, to question, probe and observe the ever-changing world around them.

Angel’s current exhibition, ‘Happy Hour’, is on display at the Elsi del Río contemporary art gallery in Palermo Hollywood.

Jorge’s latest novel ‘Golpe de Suerte’ (Stroke of Luck) has just been published (in Spanish) and is on sale in all major bookshops around Buenos Aires.