Headed down to La Boca yesterday to see an exhibit at the Fundación Proa, a show of the private collections of several Argentine artists. The trip down was a perfect distillation of that Argentine mixture of relaxation and off-the-the-tracks peril. The 152 bus careened and clattered its bursitised joints down Santa Fe and Alem, regularly filling and emptying like a long-running ensemble drama, while the driver played such still-popular-here classics as Billy Idol's "Cradle of Love".
The day would have been pictured on Fall's brochure if Fall were to do publicity (trying to out-market Spring, that optimistic, over-privileged season, for example). Seventy-seven degrees (25 Celsius) and a slow breeze, it was the kind of weather that brings out the fashion killer-ap--multiple-layers gathered around still-tanned, visible skin--and a certain laziness that is signaled by a second mid-day drink ("Como no?") at an outdoor cafe where the conversation wanders from Argentine economics to "Oh, my, god, did, you, see, her, shoes?" Sadly, this is somewhat wasted on the part of La Boca where the Proa is located, near the Riachuelo, because not only is the nearby Caminito alley filled with tourists squealing at--and being harassed by--over-painted tangueros and silver-clothed "I'm-not-moving-See?-So-pay-me" mimes, the heat on such a day releases from dormancy a certain, er, piquante odor that 'sulfurous' barely describes. (To experience this at home, allow a dozen eggs to fester for a week, then crack them into a bowl and huff the odor while looking at the above photo, like a postmodern scratch-and-sniff.)
After pinching through the crowded exhibit of (largely) contemporary world and finding our way to the roof, we talked with Juaca (the daughter of one of the collector/artists) about the oddness of seeing that painting that's always hung above the toilet in your parents' second bathroom being displayed in a museum, the minister under Menem who said she'd clean the Riachuelo and swim in it to prove she'd done it right (let's just say she's still dry), and what chemical composition was needed to create such a perfect version of eau de rotten egg.
Downstairs, I was nodding agreement with one of the simplest paintings in the show, a piece (below) by Federico Peralta Ramos--who is evidently famous for blowing a Guggenheim fellowship on a big dinner for his friends--that featured a kind of prose poem, in blue, on a white canvas ("How beautiful is it to walk through the streets of Buenos Aires, enter a bar, and have yourself a little coffee.")--when a woman parked herself to my right. I could feel her inflate with the need for reinforcement. She slipped into rapture.
"Qué linda es la obra de Ramos!" ("How beautiful is Ramos' work!")
"Sí, barbaro," I said. ("Yes, cool.")
"Qué linda es la obra de Ramos!" she repeated, evidently unsatisfied by my answer.
"Obvio. Brillante." ("Obviously. Brilliant")
"Conoces a Ramos y su obra?" she said, taken about by the lack of crack in my voice. ("Do you know Ramos and his work?")
"No. No lo conozco." ("No. No I don't know him.")
"No? No? Todo su obra es así...con pequeñas poemas. Es lindisima," she said, then tiptoed away while throwing me a concerned glance, as if my not knowing Ramos might suggest a certain lack of moral stature. ("No? No? All his work is like this...with little poems. It's beautiful.")
[Please excuse the quotes and translations...it's from memory.]
Later, on the way home, one last piece of over-explicit B.A. graffiti. Because, well, why not?
