The burden of proof is also a defense burden

The burden of criminal proof is also a defence burden. A Brazilian case.

 

The tremendous trial in Brazil by the Supreme Court, the Brazilian Criminal Case 470 — known as the “ mensalão” or "big monthly payment" regards the purchase of legislative support by member of the executive power — and it has had the merit of raising greater attention to the burden of proof in criminal court. It got the attention of not only legal practitioners, but also journalists and hundreds of thousands of intelligent citizens who are — passionately and seriously — watching the case on television. 

The pedagogic side of the judgement cannot be denied, it can also reveal — and here the teaching continues — the existence of small human failures of the professionals dealing with this difficult and slippery activities, be it when accusing, defending or judging others. It needs to be noted that in the entire process, past events are examined; events that are already hidden and destroyed by time and which were not witnessed by the professionals acting during the judgement: prosecutor, lawyer and judge. In the trial, an attempt is made to reconstruct facts that were neither seen nor heard by those who sternly debate about a possible criminal act, based of proofs, which can be trustworthy or false. Or both a mixture of truth and untruth, given that witnesses are not always incorruptible when announcing their 'truth'. And not only the witness: the victim — if alive, of course — can lie too. So can criminal experts too, even if rarely. 

Everything can be distorted in the hands of men. Hence the old saying "the judge is the expert of the experts." Only he is in a better position to evaluate all the evidence, unify all the pieces of the puzzle. Those who have already been a judge when expropriating residences know that the property specialist indicated by the one to be expelled from his patrimony will almost always conclude that the residence is worth more than the value given by the side expelling or even more than the value given by the expert appointed by the judge. The expelling side, on the other hand, is often sure that the property does not value that much. 

Despite many dangerous "philosophical" issues concerning the perfect reproduction of past facts under oath, the truth must, at all costs, be searched, investigated, analysed and finally framed in legal descriptions, which, paradoxically, are today sometimes as drastic as extensive and abstract. 

One of the most important theoretical debates in the "big monthly payment" — not only between the Attorney General and lawyers, but also among the judges themselves — is whether the defendant has or has not a duty to prove his innocence. One of the Ministers insisted that the defendant does not have to prove anything, not even his/her innocence, only the accusation, he says, has an obligation to produce evidences. 

This extreme position, also embraced by American jurists — too easy for the defence — cannot prevail morally and is extremely damaging to the defendant himself when the evidence of the prosecution convicts him. Ask yourself: if the defendant is innocent — despite the proof of charges showing the contrary — would it be up to the prosecutor to search of new evidences that proves the accused’s innocence eliminating any doubt? Would it be up to the prosecutor to produce evidence first against, then in favour of the defendant while the defendant and his patron just watch polishing their nails? 

As I said, prosecutor and judge deal with information not seen nor heard personally, but gathered in testimonies, documents, surveys and words spoken by the defendant in court — when he/she does not refuse to talk. At that point — in order to know the facts more closely — the lawyer has a huge advantage over prosecutor and judge because the lawyer has the privilege to hear directly "from the source", the client, what actually happened; when the client, of course, tells the truth. Not always, it is worth mentioning, because sometimes the client lies to its own defender, thinking that appearing innocent in the eyes of the lawyer would make the lawyer fight for his innocence with more vigour and sincerity, impressing the judge or court. The conviction of innocence persuades, it transpires in the voice and body language of the defender. 

It takes a lot of theatrical talent to pretend outrage. The pretense, like a boiling bubble of consciousness, always emerges, driven by an innate ethic. Nelson Rodrigues, a Brazilian author, says that, when he was a rookie crime reporter, he attended a place where a man had just been violently killed. The widow desperately wanted to die. She screamed and tore her hair. She refused the traditional offer of water with sugar offered by her friends. Finally, somewhat dehydrated by many tears, she accepted a glass of water, but before drinking she asked: "Is this filtered?"  

As I said, it would involuntarily stimulate a general impunity, if the judiciary, by its representatives, had to sustain that, in absolute terms, the defendant "does not have to prove his innocence", thereby taking advantage of the fact that prosecutor and judge were not present when the crime occurred. Which is legally impossible anyways, because if they were witnesses, it would mean they could not act as prosecutor or judge. 

It's too comfortable, as I said, and harmful to the interests of society, in any country, that the accused, confronted by the police or in court, can remain silent, indifferent, when some facts incriminate him, and this silence cannot be taken as any inference contrary to his innocence. In the investigation phase, the silence is still tolerable, because at that stage the guarantees of the suspect are not yet present. In court, however, there is no justification for the voluntary muteness. I repeat: the defendant cannot be forced to speak, but silence results in some loss of belief in the accused. At least he/she should lie, because by lying, the version will be investigated and, being untruthful, it will inform the jury of the defendant's character, a factor that always contributes to the understanding of truth. 

The criminal procedure, contrary to what many say, was not only designed to protect the defendant (David) against the abuse of state (Goliath). Nowadays, the state in countries with lax laws and jurisprudence is perhaps more "David" than "Goliath"; such is the strength of organized crime, or even disorganized crime, when the laws are too soft. In Brazil, increasingly, "children" of seventeen years are recruited by criminals to steal and kill, taking advantage of the Brazilian legislation and income inequality, fed by fast-growing consumerism. 

The process was also invented to protect society, which has an interest in moving away from neighbourhood people killing, stealing, raping, or slandering, etc. Therefore, it is of interest for the common well-being — including the defendant, remotely, as a mere citizen — that the accused answers anything when asked by the judge, even saying that he knows nothing, saw nothing, heard nothing, practised nothing. Staying silent, he lies by default. He is not bound to incriminate himself. He only needs to speak, his speech functioning as a breathalyser. Who refuses the breathalyser test when in traffic, is implicitly confessing that he drank. In fact, deep down, being silent about the facts should be — with or without law, case law or doctrine — self-accusation by the defendant, leading the judge to think — "Besides criminal, he is arrogant ... ". Thus thinks the judge, while he will or not write as such in the sentence. In short: being silent indicates evil. It's a "push" towards condemnation. 

Defendants can be convicted on circumstantial evidence and legal circumstances. Otherwise there would be a guarantee of impunity for the most serious crimes. Planned crimes — the most harmful to society — are always committed in places and times chosen by the criminal. Without witnesses. I will provide an abstract example, which shows that evidence and circumstances permit, legally and morally, condemnation, unless the defence makes an effort to prove the contrary. 

Let's think about a hypothetical citizen — henceforth "Romeo" — who has no resources of his own, and has a relationship with a rich and mature woman. His companion supports him. Having been in love with another woman for months — young, beautiful but ... poor — he is unhappy with the impossibility (without tremendous economic loss) to get rid of the relationship he has with the boring companion and live with his beautiful girlfriend. She, however, very practical, has made ​​it clear that she does not want to be just a "twig". The business philosophy of existential beauty, transmitted through the old and painful ultimatum: "Either she or me!" 

After considering and planning the best solution for his dilemma, the anguished Romeo, without a criminal past, invents a plan that guarantees success: He invites his mature companion for a long romantic walk through a mountainous region that she always wanted to visit. She happily accepts the idea — she had been already suspicious of the coldness of her boyfriend — and two days later they leave by car for their second honeymoon. 

Arriving at the edge of a cliff, away from anyone's view, Romeo stops the vehicle and asks his companion out of the car to look at the beauty of the river and rocks a hundred meters below. Even though afraid of heights, the woman approaches the edge of the cliff and in that moment she is pushed to her death. No witness. Then, unkempt, almost "in shock", Romeo seeks the nearest police station and reports, desperate, the sad tragedy that resulted from a mere slip of the innocent lady. He complains, with wild stare, saying that deep down he feels guilty because, distracted by the beauty of the landscape, he did not see the woman approaching the brink. The apparent desperation convinces the sheriff, the clerk and even a street vendor who was, by chance, at the police station. 

It happens that the unfortunate victim has a suspicious sister. She finds Romeo’s version strange because her sister had a notorious fear of heights and therefore would have never accepted to even live in an apartment above the second floor. Why would she then dangerously approach the edge of a cliff? Besides, her dead sister had already told her that, at the suggestion of Romeo, she had made a substantial life insurance, instituting her partner as a beneficiary because he earned little, was poor, had no assets and no special skill or training. Finally, this sister mentioned to the sheriff that the deceased had told her privately that she was afraid that her companion was having "an affair". The police, alerted — "cherchez la femme!" — decided to research the background of the situation and found that three months before the "slip", Romeo had actually arranged a bulky life insurance for his companion figuring him as beneficiary. 

After tapping his phone conversations, with judicial authorization, the police did not actually hear any express admission of murder, but caught snippets of conversations of Romeo with a certain girl; conversations whose content was not compatible with the moral pain he pretended to feel at the police station when mentioning the sad accident. Continuing the investigations, including listening to the lover of Romeo — who apparently did not take part in the sinister plan — they learned that the accused had visited the lover the day after the alleged accident, not appearing to be shaken, quite the contrary. The police concluded the investigation by saying that all led to believe that the woman had been thrown to her death by the man who wanted four benefits with a single push: freedom, money, love pleasure and impunity. 

Called to testify, both in the investigation and in court, Romeo invoked his constitutional right to remain silent: — "Not just because I prefer" explained lying, "but because I was guided by my lawyer to do so." The evidence against him was therefore only indexing, dependent only upon the ability to deduct by the judge. 

Would the reader, in this hypothetical case, as a judge or jury, absolve the defendant only because there were no witnesses or direct evidence of the crime? The defence argues in their closing arguments that a slip can always occur anywhere, even on the brink of precipices. The argument concerning fear of heights would not be relevant because some people strive to overcome their irrational fears. They do so by approaching that fear. Certainly — says the defender —  that's why the victim dared even to please the accused by doing something she normally would not do: spy bravely into the abyss. As for the life insurance — would continue the final piece of the defence — it was merely a loving concern from a thoughtful companion, always worried about the future of her beloved if she was no longer there, as it came to happen. Finally, the fact he has a love affair, kept secret, had nothing to do with the accident. If the beautiful new girlfriend waited for a decision from Romeo, a decision of permanent connection, it existed only in her head, not in his, he had only a passing enthusiasm. For these reasons, the defence plead for discharge, claiming at least a "reasonable doubt." 

In theory, of course, there's a very remote chance that the accused, could be telling the truth. He was just a tremendously unlucky victim of coincidences. However, judges would probably condemn him. If the case was tried by a court of law it is foreseeable that the judges do not deny the strong circumstantial evidence against the defendant or easily accept the explanations of his attorney in closing arguments. They would say, among them: "This lawyer is smart, but everything he said is nothing but smoke. Where is the proof of his conjectures? " 

The "blame" for the conviction of the defendant in this case would, however, be on the defendant himself, remaining silent and not trying, for convenience, to prove his innocence.  

Imagine — continuing the example — that the lawyer was diligent and could confirm, with testimonials from locals, that the slip point was much sought by tourists because of its special beauty. These residents say, for example — without lying — that two other people had fallen into the abyss, right there in the last two years without arousing suspicion, and because of that the local municipality had already determined — before the fall of the defendant's companion — that a short wall should be built there, preventing further accidents. The work had not yet been done due to lack of funds. If experts on the defender side would also prove the existence of a real danger of a slip at that point, it would quite help the accused. As for the fear of heights, the lawyer, talking to people who knew the victim, would know that she had already told her friends that, after watching a movie on television, on overcoming irrational fears — snakes and spiders, for example — she said her intended use of similar techniques to approach fear. As for the life insurance, perhaps the broker, could testify, without lying, saying that the victim, when she called to make the insurance, would have explained that she did this for free initiative, without any pressure or suggestion of her companion. What about the suspicion of her sister; her word was suspicious because, in the contract, in the event of death of the unfortunate lady, the compensation would be paid to Romeo but if not, to the sister. If the defendant was convicted of murder, he could not receive the money from the insurance. The compensation would be then paid to the second beneficiary. Finally, as for his girlfriend, she was spiteful to testify because Romeo had told her before her testimony that he had lost his enthusiasm for a future relationship "asking for a break." 

With this revolutionary new evidential situation, the chances would be that Romeo escapes conviction. One question remains: Would the prosecutor ask more questions to prove the innocence or the guilt of the defendant? 

Summarizing and repeating: the accused must not prove his innocence, except when the evidence of the prosecution incriminates him. When incriminating, it is his obligation to produce evidence of his possible innocence. And silence contributes to cast doubt on his innocence. 

Actually, neither the prosecution nor the defence are physically "forced" to produce evidence. They will just suffer the consequences — logical and fair — of their own laziness: the accuser allowing impunity to a criminal and the defender seeing his client — even possibly innocent — being sentenced. 

Abraham Lincoln once said, talking about the toughest presidential decisions, that ethics is summarized as follows: after examining the alternatives he decided according to what would reassure his consciousness. If he "felt well" with the decision, this would probably be the best one. At this point, the moral intuition has great help. With good judges it is certainly the same. 

I beg your pardon in the above example because of the transformation of a legal issue in small detective story. Incidentally poorly constructed, because, as I said in the beginning, there was a crime, but it could have been a mere slip. In this detail I slipped. Fortunately, not in the edge of a cliff. 

For good didactic reasons, I shall be forgiven for mixing literature genres.

 

(01-9-2012)

 

 

Appetite of Gold -

Lady Josephine, a Brazilian woman, daughter of French parents, has always been a very communicative person. Indeed, she is gassy, so gassy she can go anywhere the metaphor allows her to. She’s a widow, eats very selectively – in order not to gain weight nor dote -, does jogging regularly and has at home an astounding armory of vitamin and mineral bottles, laxatives, anti-laxatives (if there is such a term), amino acid and all the substances potentially useful to retard the aging. Most of this armory was bought in the United States of America. 

With the intention of shielding this biological Pentagon – or Maginot Line, which goes better with her nostalgic French complexion – from the curiosity of Josephine’s grandsons, she uses a big cabinet, heavy, which drawers can provoke bulging ruptures, giving the considerable strength they require in order to be open. Which is a good thing, because the content of a certain flask, kept at the bottom of the highest drawer, if gulped by mistake, would bring serious problems to Josephine. 

Every time she arrives in Miami or New York, or any other big city – she goes out of the country usually every couple of years – the first thing she does, after unpacking, is to find a big supermarket or a mall nearby. Josephine knows she will find there that wonderful vitamin department; the unmistakable section, colorful and composed of flashy bottles, usually brown. After finding these shelves, Josephine stands face to face to them, for over an hour, dazzled, delighted, examining small gallons, almost sensing the beneficial effects of the ingestion of such divine products by anticipation; products that, according to the producers, broach a foil into the very heart of cancer, of osteoporosis, and all the degeneracies of the advanced age. 

Because she has read so many drug description leaflets, Josephine doesn’t have any issues in this section of the English language. When she doesn’t know the meaning of some technical word, she consults her dictionary of medical terms, an enviable collection to any professional. She knows all the updates, including when the scientists take a step back or turn around and begin to lynch what they once worshipped. Meaning that once praised substance or dose becomes lethal - killing or mutilating the poor enthusiasts or their sons, who didn’t have the caution or wisdom to listen to the wonders of the pharmaceutical art with a wary foot behind.

 

Lady Josephine – she was actually registered as Josephine, but to avoid constant corrections, she adopted the Brazilian spelling, “Josefina” – is sixty three years old, but if she said she was ten years younger, no one would find it strange. Especially because her vivacity is that of a much younger woman. If she is quite conserved on the outside, her head is even more, on the inside, because she is devilish sly. This addictive habit of caring too much about the health is simply an idiosyncrasy that also infects many young people, not necessarily meaning the advent of a null and void head. I notice, as a partial justification of this craze, that Lady Josephine, when once a young girl, contracted an incipient tuberculosis. She was completely cured, but this episode made her obsessively concerned with her health. 

Anyway, to close this topic, if this prodigious amount of fortifying flasks existent in her cabinet causes any amazement, I must say it’s nobody’s business but her own. Each one spends its money the way one finds it more appropriate. If it wasn’t for the crazy health enthusiasts, many people would be unemployed. And the tax revenues would be way lower; which demonstrates that tame madness redounds in national wealth. 

Mistress Josephine has never had any financial problems. She has never worked outside her home, except for a few months, when she ministered French lessons – a language she mastered because her parents spoke it all the time at home. She gave up such a task once she noticed her students were too accommodated or even dull, stuck at the “c’est” and “qu’est-ce que c’est” that to Josephine seemed so natural and obvious, but that just simply could not penetrate in the coriaceous linguistic neurons of some students. Besides, they were too lazy to use a dictionary. And once she was doing that more to have a distraction, because the remuneration was minimal, she concluded that she could distract herself with more interesting activities elsewhere.

 

Josephine has always had a servant-maid, of whom she’s a friend, but also the “mistress”, namely, she has never allowed an excessive nearness. “If you allow too much familiarity, my darling, she steps in. Starts missing work, asks for advance money, and cries over her misfortunes at you. And then she makes you feel embarrassed, petty, when you discount what you gave her in advance”, is her advice to her friends. 

Josephine’s father has been a successful tradesman. Her husband, a gerontologist – this contributed to increase her focus on health and wellbeing – was an appealing man, laughing, and knew not only how to stretch his client’s life, but also how to legally snap the heart and the wallet of those cheerful old ladies that, in packs, flied to his office, twitting, edacious for a drop of biological eternity. What no one understands is how he could not foresee his own heart attack, thundering, fulminant and somewhat mysterious – his electrocardiogram of the previous month said everything was perfectly fine, 100%. He was dragged directly to the grave with less than sixty years old, just a few hours after having an intimate conference after hours with his gorgeous secretary, attendant, massagist, etc. 

This relationship – especially in the “etc.” – of Josephine’s husband seemed ignored only by her, what caused admiration, because Lady Josephine not only had lynx eyes, but also a reputation of cannily vengeful. “Mysteries of the heart”, said her friends about the absent-mindness of the wife and the abrupt and unforeseen death of the husband. Only they did not know how much craftiness and chemistry were present in these words. In the fatidic night, arriving home tired, he was greeted by Lady Josephine. Since it was very hot, she kindly prepared him an orange juice, which he promptly drank, to please her. Half an hour later, he felt terribly ill and died. 

Apparently, his death came with no pain to her and since then Lady Josephine has been even happier. She has already made her calculations, on the tiny calculating machine she always carries along in her purse: even if she lives in her current standard of living in Brazil until she is a hundred years old, she will never need to appeal to any kind of “charity”, from relatives, or government – “I won’t climb the harsh alien’s stairs”, she likes to repeat. Her only fear is going well past beyond the hundreds, which is quite possible. 

She has been a widow for five years and the solitude - relative in her case - apparently does not weigh because, when she isn’t outdoors, she watches movies on television or reads – an activity she does on a large scale – especially histories and stories of crimes. She keeps in her company a doctor niece, nearly on her forties and divorced, who is hardly ever at home because she’s often on duty, and who has a boyfriend, a stealthy or timid individual with a tired face, but who has never been caught with a compromise ring on his finger. 

Lady Josephine chose not live with her only daughter, who is married. She even tried it out for a month but gave up because she could not accept certain habits of her son-in-law, a tall and corpulent man, with a frown, averse to subtlety and who gave himself the luxury of emitting farts during her presence in the living room. He only respected visitors - the special ones of course. To him, the mother-in-law was not a guest. Because he was too lazy to leave the room when such nefarious inspiration emerged, the gloomy giant remained lolled in the couch, devouring packets of salt peanuts and tiny cubes of cheese. Not being able to hold in any longer the malefic gas, he would lean to his side, just like the threatening Tower of Pisa, and would alleviate himself with healthy – to him only, may I clarify it – loudness, sometimes “à la Al Capone”, strafing the ears and the sensibility of Lady Josephine, the estimated mother-in-law. He would then beam an incongruent “Excuse-me…”. If the deed was indeed more polite, chastely gaseous, sparing the tympanum, he would not even excuse himself, as if it could be that he was not the author of the horrifying pollution which made Lady Josephine jump from the armchair like a spring and run to the kitchen, warning she was “dying of thirst”. And this happened with such regularity in the month of their living together, that the atrocious human cylinder, apparently with no irony intended, seriously suggested to Josephine if she should not do a blood test to check her glucose levels, once “diabetes makes one very thirsty, you know?”.  

In Lady Josephine’s opinion, once she is a fine woman, with a sense of smell, when he emitted the “inaudible” ones is when he should, more than ever – and fairly - fall on his knees, executing a solemn “hara-kiri” on the rug. A good opportunity, moreover – she thought, very imaginative – to a collect of tissue, with the purpose of an explicative study of the prodigious entrails. During moments such as these, Lady Josephine would feel globally disgusted, and unable to comprehend why her daughter could accept as a husband that organic mill. All his positive qualities – hard working, homey, and apparently faithful – could not make up for the effect of this bad habit, according to Josephine’s perception. That is the reason why she decided to continue living on her own place after her husband’s death. 

Lady Josephine does frequent timed joggings, read a lot, as I’ve said, and frequents a variety of courses – from learning foreign languages to the confection of cakes. And she quite appreciates the mysterious side of chemistry. She visits her friends, plays cards – she is a master on the art of bluffing – goes shopping and attends the Sunday mass. She is as well a clever woman concerning money – which seems to be a French characteristic – making it impossible for her to be harmed. She decides for herself how to invest her money in the stock market. When she is not using her logic, she calls on her “financial instinct”, something she doesn’t even try to define because it would be impossible. Therefore, if she was to work, due to a momentary necessity, for her own sustenance, she would turn out to be successful in the world of finances. Howsoever she is happy for being able to manage her idleness with notable competence.  

This morning, Lady Josephine has gone outdoors to take a walk and buy a gift to her grandson. 

After taking the bus nearby her apartment, she was happy to find that the vehicles had two empty seats – one right at the back, near the turnstile and another one, close to the exit door, on the right side. She chose the latest, for the advantage it had to be close to the window, meaning she could watch the view. 

Her seat mate is a boy- tall, slender, pale and with black hair. His figure quite resembles Collor’s, a Brazilian ex-president.

The young man, noticing Josephine’s presence standing next to him, instead of simply moving away and handing over his space, stood up, kindly, allowing her to pass and seat by the window. She thanked him for the niceness; he smiled at her and sat back again. 

The bus continued its journey and Lady Josephine kept observing the street hustle. It was ten in the morning and there was no hurry on her hand. The ride would take about thirty minutes until she was close to the mall where she was to buy the present. 

After ten minutes of silence – a torture to the active throat of Lady Josephine – she was already mentally sketching three phrases that could initiate a “natural” conversation with the boy next to her. 

Why could not she simply talk, without any planning? Because in matters of talking to strangers, Lady Josephine had a tremendous curriculum and this very experience had taught her some heed. A certain time she perpetrated the imprudence of being too effusive with a young boy next to her, innocently touching her forearm, as she often does, when interrupting a dialogue. But she soon realized that the boy, with a crook smile – missing a tooth – was offering her sexual services over the counter. He was certainly presuming a cozy conversation with an attractive “mistress”, fragrant and well dressed, reinforced by two or three touches in his arm, could only have one meaning: the old lady was naughty, flirtatious and was recovering with an urge all the time lost when she used to be a honest woman. And most of all she was willing to pay for this. Josephine, aghast, descended from the bus immediately. 

Lady Josephine, this time impressed by the distinct appearance of the young man beside her, selected two possible topics to strike a normal conversation. But it was not necessary to plan any phrase whatsoever. She noticed that the young man, after unzipping his coat, took from his pocket an envelope with two pills inside it; pills of a medicine widely used for contention of diarrhea. And to her joy – for she was an expert in this area – she knew these pills brought serious risks to health. 

The young man ripped the envelope and put the two pills inside his mouth; he gathered saliva and swallowed then, remarkably moving his Adam’s apple. 

Lady Josephine could not contain herself:

“Excuse me…but you should not do this!” 

“This what?”, the boy asked, gazing at her. 

“This pill you took is harmful for your health.” 

“Hum, up to this moment I have never had any problems with it…” 

“Well, it does not mean it will kill you instantly…but it was on TV that the government has prohibited its sale. I don’t understand how people still sell it on drugstores! 

“I have at home a batch of these envelopes. I bought it months ago.” 

“Well, you should throw them all away, in this case!” Josephine insisted, caring to moderate, with her best smile, this cheeky intromission in the life of others. 

He only looked ahead, raising his elbows. He made a vague gesture with his hand and pondered: “I will think about it…” Next, he observed, glaring at her with some insistence and smiling: “Congratulations! You’re quite observant! As I can imagine, nothing goes unnoticed for you on the roundabout. 

The compliment quite pleased her. Her day was saved. She was in the presence of someone smart, maybe even cultured. This “roundabout” was symptomatic. Happy for being able to chat, Josephine advanced: 

“It’s because I’ve always been curious on health issues. I was married with a doctor, you know? But back to the pill, you can substitute it for any other medicine that, as they say, has no contraindication. If you want, sir, I can write down the name of one as soon as the bus stops for a second.” 

“If you’d be so kind..! I use it quite often. I can see I was very lucky to have you sitting next me, madam…” 

“Instead of taking these medicines for “holding in”, wouldn’t it be wiser to look for a doctor?” 

 

“I don’t see why. This has an emotional background, only. Or, should I say, it has an emotional “bottom” itself….An  emotion I share with others”. Saying this, he smiled, thoughtful, as if he had realized something new.

 

Josephine did not quite comprehend, but didn’t want to insist either. Deciphering charades about “bottoms” or diarrhea, in a lovely Spring morning, did not appear to her as good perspective. This being, she changed the subject, chinning on various themes. The young man told her he was a bank clerk and an Economy student, and that he was, at the moment, unemployed and with difficulties to maintain himself. He also said that his father was a man with means, but rude and overbearing, what averted him from asking any help to his father. He avowed being too proud. So snobbish that he once ended an “affair” – a new word that enchanted Josephine – with a rich and pretty lady, way older than him, only due to her insistence in offering him presents of high value – expensive clothing and other goods – a behavior that braved his amour-propre. He considered, with a half-smile, sweetly regretful, that maybe he had been fussy with this excess of ethics, because he was now arrears on rent. He stressed, with an abashed voice, that he had sincerely loved that lady and still missed her, albeit their large age difference. He took a pause and, dreamy, emphatic, cried: “I think love is a wonderful thing! It does not obey any rule! Age difference, social condition, none of it matters! One loves, and that’s all! … Don’t you think so?” 

Lady Josephine, at this point, with her ears up, such as a female Doberman who sees a thief leg passing through the fence, suddenly did not “find” anything any longer. She only felt the dog catching lace flying toward her. She even thought of getting up, but restrained herself. She never forgave those friends, colleagues, or famous celebrities, senile – married or spinster – when close to the grave, instead of holding the chaplet to save the soul, would prefer to clasp warm pieces, well less holy. She would never ever sustain any big boy decades younger than her. Despite of living, it all indicates, in chastity for many years, it would not be a problem to continue this way. Her fire was never too great and now it was almost inexistent. She knew how to direct her energies. Maybe, only maybe, she could even marry one day with a man of her age, or even slightly younger – preferably - but only due to a necessity of fellowship; provided that the candidate was absolutely loyal and would not proclaim himself as a master of her life. Especially regarding the financial section. 

With a few phrases and especially silences, Lady Josephine made it comprehensible to the lax Romeo that topics on love – weaved in dollar signs and wrinkles - did neither thrill nor enthuse her. But she only “said” such words implicitly. She steered the conversation on her little grandsons, as if interposing between them the innocence of the children and her condition of grandmother. 

The young man felt the hostile reaction. But, not to spoil everything, did not insist, at least for the time being. Thus, maybe through an effect of the unconsciousness, he conducted the conversation to the topic of criminality and drugs, which threaten even the children upon the school gates. “Warn your grandson very well!” was his advice, foolish, as if Josephine needed such admonition. 

At some point, the boy provided an ostensible glare at Lady Josephine’s hands, observing them with studied indifference: 

“Nowadays, all social classes feel very intimidated. Nevertheless, I see that you, madam, are wearing three rings that appear to be of tremendous value… Aren’t you afraid of robbery, ma’am? I say this because one can briefly notice these are authentic jewelry… Aren’t they? 

“They’re fake”, she partly lied. Two rings were authentic. Only one of them was a reproduction. She found the height of cowardice to keep all her jewelry always locked in her vault. What was the use of owning jewelry if you could not wear them? 

“They look pretty genuine to me, made of gold and diamond”, the young man insisted. 

“Yes, this people from Taiwan trick people with mastery…” 

“Whence you shouldn’t wear them… you can be robbed by mistake, even hurt, which would be a pity, for such a charming lady…Really, I cannot quite contain myself, I found you, ma’am, so attractive…” 

“Thank you…But I think it’s time for me to get down…”, saying this, she started. 

“Why, already? Have a seat!”, he moved his hands, holding the backboard  of the front seat, with one hand, blocking her way out, inasmuch with the other holding her arm, preventing her of getting up. “Didn’t you say you were going to the mall?”. During their chat, Josephine informed the boy she was off to buy a gift to her grandson, mentioning the name of the establishment.  

“But I just remembered I need to stop by a friend’s house...” 

“Well, oldie, if it doesn’t go “per well”, love-based, it goes by evil… This is a robbery! Do you get it?”, he opened his coat slightly and put his left hand in, as if grabbing a gun. A volume, similar to the one of a revolver, outlined, pointed in her direction. If it was really a revolver, or just a finger, or a large pen, she did not know, but found better not to confer. He added, in a low voice, close to her ear, as if making a confidence: “Madam, you descend when I tell you to! Take off your rings and give them to me. If you give the slightest hoot, you die!” 

“But they are fake!”, she murmured. 

“Small talk”, he smiled, convict. “Well, I love fake jewelry! I’ll take the risk….Come on, take ‘em off and give ‘em to me, without showing jitters.” 

Frightened, but not in panic, mentally calculating her loss, Lady Josephine started to take off her rings. First she took off the fake one and gave him. The boy simply took it and swallowed it, just like he did earlier with the two pills. The second ring – worth between three and four thousand dollars – seemed impossible to come off. Actually it was a ruse of her, making a grimace. “It’s hard! I never take it off! It doesn’t want to come off…””, she mourned. 

“It will! If it doesn’t now, I can make it easier for you, cutting your finger along it, you smarty old woman. I carry a knife for this kind of emergency…” 

“But it doesn’t want to come off!”, she insisted again, always in a undertone. 

“With dribble, it comes off…”, saying this, he put two fingers inside his mouth, wetting them with saliva, and placed them on the finger of his victim. She shivered with disgust when touched by the spittle, one more injury – not to mention the “you smarty old woman”. The young man himself manipulated the ring removal, which came out without much effort and was likewise engulfed by the pale face ostrich. 

The third ring had an equal stomachic fate, with no further problems. 

After the golden meal, the lad told Lady Josephine to open her purse. He took the money, but undervalued the checkbook and the magnetic card. His technique – she later inferred – was, if immediately grabbed by the police, not having any belongings in his hands. They would not inspect his stomach. A laxative later would do the rest. 

“Now you stay quiet, old lady. I’ll get down and you will not give a tu-whoo…If you hoot, I’ll shoot your head from the street… Do you doubt?” 

“No….” 

The next time the bus stopped, the young man quickly stood up and descended by the front door, a second before it closed, as if he was distracted, aloof. On the sidewalk, he stood staring at his victim with a stated air, keeping his left hand under his coat. And the wise lady did not emit any sound. How to be certain that he would not shoot? 

She got down near the shopping center, without roughhouse. Her hands were shaking. She calculated the sum of her damage and concluded, with wrath, that the bandit probably was not holding any gun altogether, because that would be compromising. If detained, it would be one’s word against the other’s, with the risk of the scoundrel alleging that the accusation was a revenge of an old and disdained lover. 

The next day, Josephine stayed in bed all morning, still weak, feeling a cold rage. Even knowing that a lightning does not fall twice at the same spot, she promised herself that she would find a way of crossing again with that Romeo whose intestines would certainly be tainted, due to the successive medicinal orders of advance and retreat, according to the necessity of opening or closing the intestinal dower-chest. Maybe she could attract him through a newspaper ad that only he would understand, pretending to be in love with delay. She still held secure that rare book – bought a month before her husband’s death – about poisons, the common ones and the sophisticated; including that liquid treasure which provokes heart attack without neither leaving any clue nor raising suspicions. 

A week later, Lady Josephine’s head was still simmering with complicated revenge plans, all of them still incomplete, but that would soon become as perfect as those crimes engineered by Agatha Christie, her favorite writer. 

A new challenge freshened her soul.

 

The End.

 

Author: Francisco Cesar Pinheiro Rodrigues.

Translator into English: Marianna Perna

 

Cryonics. Fiction and reality

Cryonics.Fiction and reality

 Francisco Cesar Pinheiro Rodrigues

Translator: Marianna Fernandes Perna 

As an author, I feel injusticed. Which probably doesn’t cause any estrangement or surprise for well-informed people. I imagine that no writer – either good or bad – considers himself entirely fulfilled. If he considers himself “the best”, he’s absolutely mistaken, for perfection is unattainable and incongruous with any kind of art. He certainly falls for some subtle nonsense  - even if he’s a Nobel, mixing winning money by writing books with being an actual great writer. These do exist – in a small account – and I, granted with a minimum sense of reality, do not include my own self in this selected list. If I did so, for some reason, I would not tell anybody because immodesty is offensive and along it, the just mentioned dumbness would be showing their claws. 

As for the authors – men and women – that have gone rich writing books of mediocre quality – fully consciously – there’s no reason for criticizing. Quite the contrary. They are quite clever. They’re winners. They knew exactly what they wanted – to win a lot of money – and they did what was necessary to obtain this goal. They’re pragmatic men and women, good managers of themselves, stunts of psychologists and marketers with a large sense of what pleases and what doesn’t, not only the reading public, but also the editors – these attributed mediators between the talent and the public.  

Without an editor there’s  no deal. Printing, advertising and distributing books is an esoteric science, expensive and risky. Someone has once said that the writer and the editor must do as a chicken: it’s not enough to simply lay the egg, one must cluck it. But it’s only for the hen that this has no costs. Editors need an elevated flair, better than airport drug detectors dogs - a flair rather mercantile than literary – to avoid that their printed products don’t end up stranding and provoking monumental gastritis. Basically, editors are booksellers and not officials at the Ministry of Culture, in charge of increasing the country’s education. Only on exceptional cases do they release respectable – yet financially stinky - literary pieces. On top of it all, the Estate isn’t rich enough to assure editors that all their stranded books will be reimbursed by the national treasure. There are many other priorities for the day rather than raising the spirits of writers that see their work being rejected. 

In 2005 I published, on my own account, a novel – “Cryonics” (Editions “Inteligentes”), about cryonics applied to human beings. We all know how serious the Cryonics chapter is to the book of Science, dedicated to study the effects of extremely low temperatures on living and non-living beings. The iceness interests the researches of speed of electricity in various materials, as well as the spatial research, the research on ovule and spermatozoon banks and many others. 

As for human beings, Cryonics ended up interesting the more “visionary” minds which found promising to inaugurate a separate branch of Cryonics to study specifically the freezing of human beings. Such “visionaries” – maybe it would be wiser to say “enthusiasts”  - imagined that if a man, not too old, had an incurable disease and an imminent death, there would not be anything wrong on freezing his body right after his natural death, as if he was a spermatozoon or an ovule - instead of letting it be buried or cremated. Kept on a close to zero degree – in which the agitated atoms become almost entirely static- there would be no decomposition, right? 

“But the individual would already be dead! How to resuscitate a frozen dead body? Being dead, his soul is no longer present! Where would we gain it back to reintroduce it on the deceased?” the spiritualists, wrathful, would say. 

Based on this hope, not morally reprehensible, the “utopic enthusiasts” began to imagine all the possible techniques to freeze a person right after dying, avoiding the addlement, especially of the neurons. They imagined – using only their logic, misleading several times, because inobservant of factual details – that if a living being remains frosted in a way that its cells do not rot, paralyzed by the coldness, then it is possible that some decades later, when science and technique are both very advanced, this living being can be defrosted and manipulated for regaining life. The damage caused by a prolonged sleep would be fixed by the future science. Something somewhat similar to watching a movie on DVD, pushing “pause” and then coming back to continue watching the same movie. If nothing has rotted when extremely frozen, why would it be impossible to “resuscitate” it a few decades later? Everything will depend on the future techniques, which will be way more advanced than the current ones. 

This expectance for a human being that is aware of his closeness to the grave, or to the cremation, has a considerable secondary psychological effect: it is much more comforting to know that you’re going to lose consciousness in a surgery table and maybe – at least, maybe – wake up in a more scientifically developed future, than to know with absolute certainty that you’re going to die no matter what, and be buried or burned in a crematory, until there isn’t much of you left that can’t fit into a small casket “If the cryonics don’t work, well, nevermind. I’ll be dead already and won’t even know about it. It is like falling asleep for a risky operation.” Something much more flavorful than the certainty of the upcoming death, with its frightening “nothing”, or Hell. In fact, it’s a similar circumstance to the bets of lottery. “Probably I won’t win anything this week, but I can win next week. And my investment on the freezing technique will not be too grand. The only harm, in case cryonics don’t work, will be of my inheritors with the cost of the whole procedure. If it works, then the disadvantage will be greater – but not to me! - because the heirs will have to give me back part of my fortune which was distributed to them!”

Let us see now the technical side of this idea and then the discouraging conclusion to which I was led. 

There is no doubt, as I’ve said, that the extreme low temperature of cryonics – negative 196º Celsius – avoids the decomposition of the tissue in, let’s say, 99%. However, this iceness does not only produce positive consequences. There is a negative side to it: with the freezing, the water inside the cells of our body turns into ice crystals and swell; and, since they’re crystals, they are provided with edges and these end up piercing the cellular membrane and the precious liquid inside the cells without which is impossible the “new life” pours from the cells. Once the defrosting takes place, there would be billions of cells completely unusable. This is the major technical obstacle to the efficacy of cryonics. 

A new hope was born some years ago, though: arctic frogs congeal during winter, remaining dead, apparently. However, with the coming of Spring, they “wake up”, ready to continue their “complex” biological cycle: eat and copulate – because these ugly cretinous can’t think of anything else. To embrace such task of resuscitating, the organism of a frog from the Arctic - the Rana pipiens (“leopard-frog”) - produces a type of sugar that stops the water from the cells from turning into ice and with that the swell which provokes the cellular injury does not occur. Therefore, the cells remain frosted, glazed, but without the flare. And without it, all the cells will conserve the indispensable water inside them. 

This is what the cryonics adepts wanted to hear. The other obstacles would be manageable, as for example, the exaggerated legal prohibitions, which require that the patient is “totally” dead in order to begin the preparative for the freezing, with the replacement of all the blood for glycerol. This legal requirement means keeping a technical team in prompt, and this waiting can last for days. At the very moment that the heart stops beatings, a marathon against time starts because every second is precious. If the brain is deprived of oxygen for more than a few minutes – the exact number is a subject of discussion – the neuron starts to fester, which would preclude the cryonics to take place. And that is because who wishes to be frosted to wake up in a few decades also wishes to be as lucid as he was before passing away. 

With the excellent news that a few frosted frogs can return to life, it would be enough for the cryonics fans to strive to synthesize a substance that once introduced into the patient right after his death would prevent the water inside the cells to turn into ice. Without ice, I must say again, no dilatation and no rupture of cells. 

At this point of the enunciation, I must admit that my biggest hope, when studying the subject and writing the romance, was not so much in propitiating a person with incurable cancer, for example, a few more years of life after his “resuscitation”. That would  be too much work and money to have just a few years of life again. My “secret ambition”, “unconfessable” – not exactly aimed at my ownself – was the perspective of a much wider and omnibus thing, a nearly physical eternity. How is that? I will explain. 

If the patient, after decades of “cryo-preservation” was to wake up clearheaded and happened to be an exceptional scientist – an Einstein, or equivalent – with a huge luggage of knowledge and original thinking, it would be useful to humanity that he lived – lucid, lucid! – two hundred, three hundred or more years, with iterant additions of new neurons – truly drawers that store up information – which would add new knowledge to the already existing ones. 

Where would we obtain these new neurons? Through embryonic stem cells, capable of transforming into any kind of cell - including the neural ones. Even the most brilliant and clever heads grow old and weak. “Mean and stingy” Nature has this limitation. It insists that no one may go beyond 130 years. If this happens to take place, we will be seeing a living mummy, blind, mute, deaf and bewildered. 

Indeed, even the best brains do grow old, unfortunately. However, with periodical additions of new neurons – even with the occasional necessity of surgical interventions on the skull – with such neurons “eager to work”, the human mind would take a tremendous shift ahead. Back to the great physician, an Einstein three times more capacitated in terms of neuron quantity certainly would have a lot to teach us.

At this point of my meditation, I received a bucket of cold water directly at my speculative enthusiasm. I remembered that – as most people know – no cell is immortal. Neuron is a cell. And what’s more: new neurons, obtained through embryonic stem cells, would be “baby cells”, totally ignorant. They would need to learn to speak, to read, to go to elementary school, to secondary, undergraduation and post-graduation before being able to help and add something new to the old scientist. Old neurons, although wise, would be growing weak and dying at the same time that the “dumb kids” would be sprouting in his brain, erst privileged. This recurrent “barbarian invasion” - as has said a certain philosopher, when referring to every new generation - would keep taking place at the cerebral cortex. 

Since I ignore any possibility of making the neurons immortals, sadly, I don’t see now, in cryonics, a major use to it than for the patient to continue the life that he had before being frost, living, after “waking up” again, the years that he would have normally lived if he hadn’t been grasped by the mortal malady. That would probably be a few years more, given the means of future medicine. Nothing more. Only a slight “stretch” after a long “respite”; and not centuries of accrual. 

I insist: even if a person can indeed “resuscitate”, without damage – which is already a tremendous technical feat – “the risen” would still grow old every day. If he would recurrently receive the implant of embryonic stem cells capable of transforming into neurons, these would be, as I’ve said, “empty boxes” that would require a fill starting from zero. As the years would go by, the grand scientist would not be himself anymore, because his old and wise neurons would be dead. Einstein would no longer know that he was born in Ulm and that he is German, unless some taught him that. Gloomy, isn’t it? 

If there is a God that deliberately created such a special creature, “at His image” – the beast man – it appears that it was not in His intentions to put in the Earth a greedy, proud and not reliable being, that one day would try to live forever and maybe swipe His power. Not relying entirely on his special creature, He implanted in its brain neurons of limited duration and stamped these invisible words: “Perishable article. Expiration date: 120 years. Advisable  to consume well before the expiration time.” 

This is, for now, the discouraging future of cryonics. But my novel is good, or at least illustrative. It’s a pity that it hasn’t been propagated. To hell with modesty. 

(16-9-2012)

 

The era of mediocrity. Part III. Modern Art

Finishing my previous article, n. II, of the series “The era of mediocrity”, I classified Pablo Picasso as more a sophisticated psychologist and expert in marketing than artist. I never considered him a great painter because – in my sinful ignorance – I consider it the indispensable qualification of any painter to be able to paint very well. I repeat: very well. A very uncommon talent, and perhaps unreachable with dedication only. Such as  “musical hearing”, a natural gift. It is really not easy to reproduce with accuracy a face, a horse in motion, the human body in less conventional positions, the movement of ocean waves, a waterfall, etc.

Of all items of generic “era of mediocrity” – chronologically short or enduring – the one that demanded the greatest effort from me to read and pin down was the question of what is art: How to analyse the reaction of the public in front of a painting or sculpture, the unexplainable outburst of feelings of beauty or the vast nomenclature that appeared after Classicism? Anyone who wants to understand the meaning of Impressionism, Post-Impressionism, Fauvism, Cubism, Expressionism, Futurism, Dadaism, Surrealism, Concreteness, Abstraction, Primitivism, "Pop Art", "Minimal Art", etc., will face enormous difficulties to establish frontiers between various 'schools'. Additionally, to further complicate a slippery topic, one will have to take into account the “post” this and that, because the artistic species are always restless. 

However, there is a common trait of all these movements: the more modern the work, the less the “effort” for the artist. In other words: the more modern the painting, the higher the degree of (effortless) abstraction, subjectivism, appreciation of quantity over quality, and the need of marketing. If by mere joke, or to prove an artist’s prestige, one person who never painted anything before could get a canvas and quickly paint some lines and request Picasso to sign the work. This painting, in less than a minute, would value millions of dollars, and prove that it is not the painting that matters, but the “brand”. The most “knowledgeable” of famous painters, perceiving the above painting, after confirming Picasso’s signature, would perhaps say that the painting once again proved the versatility of Picasso’s talent.  

Vincent Van Gogh sold only one painting while alive. The few people that bought his paintings, for a cheap price soon after his death, had the greatest financial interest in proclaiming the geniality of the artist. There is no doubt that Van Gogh was an extraordinary human figure, but it is bewildering that his work only became so valuable after his death. A proof that “financial psychology”, if we want to name it, has an enormous impact in the value of artwork. One can ask how the genius of the Dutch artists, while still alive, could be so well-hidden from all the experts at the time, that it was necessary for the work to change hands to become valuable? The art traders, who know the art of trade, have better “art eyes” than the art scholars?  

                        I would feel more comfortable if I knew that the geniality of Van Gogh was discovered while he was still alive. He was a man of suffering, tragedy, who only inspires sympathy. One detail: he could paint. His good character, sensibility and personality deserve the highest respect, but his example is a proof that money contaminated and dominated the world of art. Paintings and sculptures became much more a financial subject – similar to the actions of corporations – than a subject of art in the real sense. The explanation of why I have included art in my series of articles about mediocrity is because money made the arts mediocre. 

Leonardo Da Vinci took five years to paint the “Mona Lisa”. He would paint some few hours a day, and many days devoted to perfection of details. In any way, a considerable time to paint one work. By contrast, Picasso said, as quoted online, “Give me a museum and I'll fill it”. As a museum is often very big, only a very fast and tremendously “abstract” painter would fill it alone. With some twenty or thirty paintings a day, he would be able to achieve that in a few months. This proves that what mattered to him was pure quantity, and a declaration by the artist that there was, in those few strokes, some  deeply emotional “meaning”. So deep that only he could feel it. Believe it if you can.  

One modern art observer, Tom Stoppard, said that the only criteria to distinguish a painting from a modern sculpture were the following: if the work is hanging on the wall it is a painting, if you can walk around it, it is one sculpture.  

Richard Schmid, probably knowledgeable on the topic — as he figures in art webpages — said “I honestly believe that art students from the next century will laugh at the movement of abstract art. They will be amazed about such a step back in the world of art”. 

Al Capp, another commentator, with a stronger style, would say “The abstract art is the product of the ones without talent, sold by the ones without principles for those immensely stupid”. 

Another commentator of modern art went as far as saying that “Trying to understand modern art is like trying to follow the plot in a bowl of alphabet soup”.  

And, finally, what says the prince of painters, Leonardo da Vinci? He said “Where the spirit does not work with the hand, there isn’t art”. Elitism? No, simply respect to the “other side” of art, its receiver: who sees it or hears it. The spontaneous reaction of the public cannot be denied. 

In other words: without the “hand” of the real artist, the subjectivism of the painter is not enough, even if he truly feels the emotion — the great excuse for the modern painter, who relies only on what he feels, not what the public perceives. 

As a rough comparison, a poet who stutters terribly can not complain about not having won a contest of poetry declamation, even if he is the most intelligent, inspired and motivated, which could even make his stuttering worse. He may well use his inspiration, which could be immense, to write verses. He is not less of a poet for his speaking problem. He will be a great poet, not a great speaker. I make this comparison, perhaps ruthless, to demonstrate that what matters more in the artwork is the impact that it creates in those who see it and listen to it. In a classic piano concerto, a technical and emotionless pianist might sweep away the audience and may be considered a greater pianist than the one that's terribly emotional, sweating and moaning, who plays it all wrong and almost beating the piano. 

If what matters is the emotion of the artist – and not the product of his hands – lets imagine that science had invented a machine capable of capturing the degree of emotion and inspiration when a musical piece is performed. A new type of machine with attested efficacy, similar to lying detectors nowadays. The difference is that the latter detects the presence of a lie, and the former would prove the sensitivity of the artist. Lets explore this possibility.  

Announced, not modestly, is the arrival of a new musical genius in the country, a foreign pianist — so brilliant that few listeners would have the capacity to understand the profoundness of his art. His representative would declare that the inspiration of the artist could not be artificial, because in his arm, there would be that machine which proves the maximum degree of feeling a person can endure. In the advertisement that would precede his inaugural concert, there was a warning that people without an exceptional degree of sensibility and musical knowledge should not even buy the tickets because they probably would not be able to “capture” the profoundness of an art hidden under such simple appearance. The secret of that great artist would be in exerting an aesthetic and philosophical wealth that no Brazilians would have noticed before in Brazilian folk music. The refusal of the artist’s representative to sell tickets to everyone would even increase the demand for tickets.

On the expected day, with the Municipal Theatre packed, attached to the artist’s arm in a video recorded ceremony, the “detector of honest emotionality”. After impressive silence the artist starts playing, with one finger only: “Jingle bells, jingle bells
Jingle all the way. Oh, what fun it is to ride
In a one horse open sleigh. Jingle bells, jingle bells
Jingle all the way.
Oh, what fun it is to ride
in a one horse open sleigh…”. 

The audience, shocked, holding their laughter but afraid to be taken as ignorant, remains with serious faces and observes the enormous screen, connecting the “detector of honest emotionality”, hoping for a bad “emotional result” that would allow the hoot awaiting in the throat. The machine, however, confirmed the highest artistic emotion that a human being could feel. The extraordinary inspiration of the artist would be proven. With that, the public would only disclaim their own opinions: — “I am really tremendously ignorant!” and if the artist would suffer a stroke and would fall dead soon after finishing his concert, there would be a long theoretical discussion about the genius of the pianist and the reasons that made him chose such melody and not another one. — “What is the meaning of the bells and the horse in the song?” and so on. 

Exaggeration, surely, in such an example, but in substance it is what happens with the excuse that the artist has to express only what he feels to externalise his art.  

In painting, everything was fine until Classicism, when a technical innovation outside the artistic world changed the peaceful atmosphere that valued the art to paint the things as they would be presented to the eyes of people: photography. With a simple “click” it was possible “to copy” anything, with the precision of lines and balance of proportions that not even Leonardo Da Vinci would reach. The spread and improvement of photography was the salvation of various artists who, notwithstanding its potential sensitivity, had no natural ability — nor the patience — to reproduce on a canvas what met the eyes. 

The path was then open — and paved —, for people that admired the arts, who would emotionally identify themselves with art and would like to be part in this mysterious world, full of seductions. Including females. The women of that time – the late 19^th and early 20^th century – would feel a special attraction towards the “artists”, impetuous and barely constrained by conventions. Nowadays, probably, they prefer the “artists of finance” and from mass sports, a lot more profitable, I mean, attractive for them. The painters were, by then, almost always men. 

The world of art — when sincere and authentic — has a really interesting face. Its intuitions are often accurate. The canny politician from Bahia, the late Antônio Carlos Magalhães, used to say that it is insanity for a politician to attack the artistic class. One should never do that. Freud confessed that he rarely reached any discovery before a poet. The true art has this advantage: it reaches, “not intentionally”, but by intuition, areas not yet reached by science. It flies, while the scientist walks. 

With the advent of photography, there were the ones who were only “clever”, looking for an easy and quick way to success and fame, and its by-product: money. An artistic “democracy”, allowing every dare-devil without enough talent to paint, “to show off”, call attention. Besides, the more shocking the work, disharmonious to the real appearance of objects, the greater the “scandal” and capacity to grab attention, with commercial input. For the more sceptical observers, who would say that there was only audacity in there, and not art, two replies would emerge: 1) who wants the exact reproduction of a landscape or object shall take a picture; 2) in art, what matter is the artist’s feeling, not the material product of that feeling. 

Pablo Picasso was the one to advance most openly the argument that what matters in painting and sculpture is the artist's emotion, not what we know as “mere reality” For him, the painter can even paint with his eyes closed, as long as he is “inspired”. The public should not be concerned with appearance. They need to “feel the same way the artist felt”. And he would say with great conviction — extraordinary psychologist that he was — that some millionaire had begun to buy his paintings, hence causing enormous value of any work signed by Picasso. He would go as far as saying that he was not sufficiently rich to have a “Picasso” in his own house.  

Lets have a look at some quotations by him obtained online:

“I paint objects as I think them, not as I see them”.

“Painting is a blind man's profession. He paints not what he sees, but what he                       feels, what he tells himself about what he has seen".

 “The people who make art their business are mostly imposters”.

“The world today doesn't make sense, so why should I paint pictures that do?”

“To draw you must close your eyes and sing”. 

“Who sees the human face correctly: the photographer, the mirror, or the painter?”

Considering all this, what explains the endurance of modern art, its great economic value, even when it is shocking and conflicts with the visible reality?" 

To me, the explanation is at the artist’s personality. In its audacity, its strength, “charisma”, “strong personality”, as found in Picasso, the great psychologist. Or in integrity and compassion, as in the cases of Vincent Van Gogh and his friend Paul Gauguin. It is impossible to read the biography of those two without being move by such sensitive souls. Did they know how to draw? They knew enough, without pressing themselves too hard about copying real objects. 

The character of an artist “contaminates” his work, both positively or negatively. It strongly impacts the acceptance by the public. Even the political orientation matters. Picasso himself benefited from that. In general, he was likeable. Had generous ideas and was outspoken in his opinions, as one can see in the quotations above. If he had been right-winged, or fascist, he would have never been considered a famous artist. “Guernica” pushed him. The same happens in other arts: the personality of the artist “contaminates” his work, up or down. 

Abstraction is the most fertile ground for philosophy. I think that, for at least a long time, the human being will still demand a degree of virtue, difficulty and work in every art. In sport competitions, in the circus, in cinema, writing short stories, novels and poetics, it is expected that the artist expresses himself with ability surpassing the average. It is not acceptable that the artist only “feels” beautiful in his own mysterious “box”, writing only non-sense, or texts incomprehensible even to the author himself. Hence the deeply-rooted general prejudice against modern art that does not even please the eye and, intellectually, may mean anything: — “It is too easy. Even I can do that...” 

Now, a short note about music. Of all types of art, I think it is the one that is the least susceptible to deception. The musical mediocrity cannot stay afloat for too long, because it can be evaluated within minutes. It sinks, because there is no financial advantage to keep it up if it does not please anyone. You only need one minute of listening to a new song, to know if it is worth it or not. The abundance of compositions and the size of the public are such that it is not worth spending time with the marketing of music that no one wants to listen to or purchase. However, with modern art, there is a restricted market of rich buyers, turning paintings into a reserve of value, in case the name of the painter is well known. The painting is material, touchable, concrete, it is there, as if it was a debt claim. As for music that no one wants to listen to, it is mere noise, it does not capture anyone's interest, it is impossible to transform it into a gem. 

Only regarding jazz I have some doubts. The majority of the people do not like it, because it does not have an identifiable melody. In my view (perhaps I’m ignorant on that), jazz should be used only as a technique of composition. The musicians could be improvising endlessly but when, by chance, the wandering performers "would come across" a new melody, they should develop it, composing a “normal” song. What makes me reluctant to be negative about jazz is to know that the writer José Verissimo - which I consider very intelligent - enjoys this music style. If he is a fan of this style, maybe it must have some beauty that eludes us. 

In the next article, we will talk about literature, and in the following about politics, especially international politics, whose mediocrity towers over any other kind of mediocrity.

(2-4-2012)