This year is going to be mainly dominated by my dissertation on the Valech Report- the 2004 report on cases of political detention and torture under Pinochet.
Below is a start on a draft- more a self-blog of how I got here, and where I'm going to go with it.
Valech: Chilean society and an ever present history
Why am I doing this?
Italian reasons
Given the present climate, it is no longer at all controversial to claim that divisions stemming from the fascist past still live on in Italy. As a part Italian, these divisions were implicit in my upbringing. My ‘nonna’, although a ‘giovane fascista’ in her early youth, was an active member of the resistance movement and as such had transmitted onto me her hatred of what the fascists did when their mountainous rocks became the hard place. Now way past the 80 year old mark, there are people from our 900 strong village that she still wouldn't speak to, and the memories and the stories and the facts still divide brothers; in my case to great uncles of mine who, though neighbours and both well over 80, still don't speak to each other- one a decorated army official, the other a partisan whose sacrifices and beliefs have been left to the leftwing historians.
The leftwing historians. Yes, because these divisions aren’t only highlighted by family feuds or more recently, by the election of a fascist mayor. These divisions are part of Italian identity- your clothes, your friendships, your life choices reflect the left or the right. Your writings, your readings, are tinged by black or red. Everyday life- both in and our of congress- is characterised by ‘irruptions of memory’- from realising that the spectators of an ice hockey match are singing fascist hymns to the ‘piazza Fontana’ retrials that merely added to insult to death and serious injury.
Chilean reasons
This awareness that the past was never really put to rest in Italy greatly influenced my take on the Valech Report. In Chile, as in much of South America, there has been a lot of talk in recent years of ‘justice’ and ‘reconciliation’. But this talk happens in the context of a society that would, for the most part prefer to proffer the other cheek and look away.
Wednesday, 1 October 2008
Wednesday, 24 September 2008
Home II- return to the motherland
The second return. Back to Italy after 14 months of absence.
And it’s strange, as strange as London was for its very lack of strangeness.
Standing out here about as much as I’d folded straight back into her smoggy pleats back there.
Small town Italians are a funny breed. Lacking the style of the city, the self proclaimed stylish tend towards the lurid and the crass- true italiano style a delicate balancing act along the razor’s edge. A razor that claims many casualties in the provinces- lost to lizard skin and blue undercarriage lighting, slim fit sheaths on the unslim, all set off by a jaunty died pink rabbit skin trim.
In the one fancy bar in town, I discovered the true usage of daytime sunglasses- protection of the more sensitive from crotch tight lime green trousers set off by a prosecco paunch and blood red trainers- or hooker boots on indecently terracotta-d mutton. Or maybe that particular shade of orange should be henceforth known as pellecotta- not cooked earth, but cooked skin.
To be far, these are but the exceptions that test the rule- but jarring significant minorities in a mainly brashly stylish whole. A whole presided over by the king of brash- if the world’s a village; the idiot resides in its patent leather boot.
Berlusconi, oh he of the inappropriate Hitler comments and hair implants. With his pellecotta air of a modern day Mussolini- all pumped and pomped up image, with the man, hands wringing, deflated behind his mediatic shield.
This Italy worries me slightly, an ode to Europe’s apparently rescinding lurch to the right, the ‘fascio’ held alight.
And it’s strange, as strange as London was for its very lack of strangeness.
Standing out here about as much as I’d folded straight back into her smoggy pleats back there.
Small town Italians are a funny breed. Lacking the style of the city, the self proclaimed stylish tend towards the lurid and the crass- true italiano style a delicate balancing act along the razor’s edge. A razor that claims many casualties in the provinces- lost to lizard skin and blue undercarriage lighting, slim fit sheaths on the unslim, all set off by a jaunty died pink rabbit skin trim.
In the one fancy bar in town, I discovered the true usage of daytime sunglasses- protection of the more sensitive from crotch tight lime green trousers set off by a prosecco paunch and blood red trainers- or hooker boots on indecently terracotta-d mutton. Or maybe that particular shade of orange should be henceforth known as pellecotta- not cooked earth, but cooked skin.
To be far, these are but the exceptions that test the rule- but jarring significant minorities in a mainly brashly stylish whole. A whole presided over by the king of brash- if the world’s a village; the idiot resides in its patent leather boot.
Berlusconi, oh he of the inappropriate Hitler comments and hair implants. With his pellecotta air of a modern day Mussolini- all pumped and pomped up image, with the man, hands wringing, deflated behind his mediatic shield.
This Italy worries me slightly, an ode to Europe’s apparently rescinding lurch to the right, the ‘fascio’ held alight.
Saturday, 6 September 2008
The Red Russians
- or the Italo-Russian alliance, as an Italian made it, and an Italian named it.
Building new bridges by Soho's perma-red light.
"We'll go to a cool club- it's like our place- the barmen all know us and are cute- the Floridita...amazing drinks"
(latin-american buff comment coming up)
"Oh... I went there in La Habana"
And so off we went. It was an odd experience, me and a group of gorgeous It-Russians. But hey, i have hidden depths... :)
To be honest, it meant I was in a position I love: the 'outsider-insider bridge". 'In' enough to talk, and dance and have a great time with the group, 'out' enough to be relfecting on its interaction with the rest of the world.
Did you know that you can buy bundles of youth, glamour and beauty at Floridita. Or at least, people try to. We were at the bar, and the girls were served up with a pinky-red shot that had been created just for them on a previous visit... I christened it the 'Red Russian' and I would reveal the ingredients, but I believe it would tarnish the glitter and mystique that this world needs and feed on. So, having rapidly disposed of the little shiny galls tubes of pretty pink juice, we were all standing and dancing by the bar.
"I'll have four of those" says a man, nodding in our general direction (I am pretty sure that he meant the shots all along...)
And he did.
But why? It is quite a common thing to do in a restaurant I suppose: you see the food, see it is being enjoyed and decide you'll try it too. But, at least you have quite a clear idea of what's inside- veg, steak, fish. It isn't just a glittery phial of pretty pink juice.
Obviously the night-life world is one that needs and feeds on glitter and mystique- it must be a 30-something business man thing to do, to point at a drink and just basically say : "That looks mysterious and glittery and alluring- we'll take four"
But was it only that? I feel that there is a lot in common with these nightclubs and the basic tenets of advertising. The product in this case wasn't really the drink, the product was being young and beautiful and successful and glamorous: and the pretty pink juice in a glittery glass case was the bottled version.
This group was made of the kind of people that would probably have age well- good looks and the money to maintain them- were it not for the fact that they seemed to be doing their level hardest not to. They were all in their late thirties I'd say, but their style still screamed "I am a public school-boy/girl." Right down to the floppy hair and the attempt to pull off the Hugh Grant charm.
I almost lent over to my friend and suggest she find a way of being paid for this, as her very presence seemed to up drinks sales, then realised that job exists- a hostess- and it's not a very polite thing to say to anyone...
If the drinks buying was a lot about status, it was more so, it seemed, about testosterone. (part ii)
Building new bridges by Soho's perma-red light.
"We'll go to a cool club- it's like our place- the barmen all know us and are cute- the Floridita...amazing drinks"
(latin-american buff comment coming up)
"Oh... I went there in La Habana"
And so off we went. It was an odd experience, me and a group of gorgeous It-Russians. But hey, i have hidden depths... :)
To be honest, it meant I was in a position I love: the 'outsider-insider bridge". 'In' enough to talk, and dance and have a great time with the group, 'out' enough to be relfecting on its interaction with the rest of the world.
Did you know that you can buy bundles of youth, glamour and beauty at Floridita. Or at least, people try to. We were at the bar, and the girls were served up with a pinky-red shot that had been created just for them on a previous visit... I christened it the 'Red Russian' and I would reveal the ingredients, but I believe it would tarnish the glitter and mystique that this world needs and feed on. So, having rapidly disposed of the little shiny galls tubes of pretty pink juice, we were all standing and dancing by the bar.
"I'll have four of those" says a man, nodding in our general direction (I am pretty sure that he meant the shots all along...)
And he did.
But why? It is quite a common thing to do in a restaurant I suppose: you see the food, see it is being enjoyed and decide you'll try it too. But, at least you have quite a clear idea of what's inside- veg, steak, fish. It isn't just a glittery phial of pretty pink juice.
Obviously the night-life world is one that needs and feeds on glitter and mystique- it must be a 30-something business man thing to do, to point at a drink and just basically say : "That looks mysterious and glittery and alluring- we'll take four"
But was it only that? I feel that there is a lot in common with these nightclubs and the basic tenets of advertising. The product in this case wasn't really the drink, the product was being young and beautiful and successful and glamorous: and the pretty pink juice in a glittery glass case was the bottled version.
This group was made of the kind of people that would probably have age well- good looks and the money to maintain them- were it not for the fact that they seemed to be doing their level hardest not to. They were all in their late thirties I'd say, but their style still screamed "I am a public school-boy/girl." Right down to the floppy hair and the attempt to pull off the Hugh Grant charm.
I almost lent over to my friend and suggest she find a way of being paid for this, as her very presence seemed to up drinks sales, then realised that job exists- a hostess- and it's not a very polite thing to say to anyone...
If the drinks buying was a lot about status, it was more so, it seemed, about testosterone. (part ii)
So home. Where some of the heart is.
One of the fantastic things of being home after a year, is seeing people who mean a lot, but had been busy getting on with their lives, whilst you were in South America making paths half the world away. London has grown and changed and shrunk in my absence, as cities do, and it's great to see the various 'Londons' of people you care about
There's that moment , the "So.... a year. Fuck. Where do we start?"
And then you both laugh and then you're off... It's you and me and us as much as it ever was. And a year or a month or a week away, both makes it and breaks it; changes nuances and stories; but tends to leave the whole intact.
Tends to leave the whole intact. Not always. Sometimes that year or a month or a week away creates a massive chasm the seems to never be bridged. But when bridges never build well, or are burnt, of just washed away, it's never really the bridges fault: it's generally the fault of those who built them first time round.
And maybe one of the nicest things of being back, is that whilst we are repaving and remodeling and rethinking all the old bridges, we get chances to make new ones. New bridges, new paths, new stories, that aren't tarnished by the knowledge that this is all temporary.
Because this time, this time, mama's back!
There's that moment , the "So.... a year. Fuck. Where do we start?"
And then you both laugh and then you're off... It's you and me and us as much as it ever was. And a year or a month or a week away, both makes it and breaks it; changes nuances and stories; but tends to leave the whole intact.
Tends to leave the whole intact. Not always. Sometimes that year or a month or a week away creates a massive chasm the seems to never be bridged. But when bridges never build well, or are burnt, of just washed away, it's never really the bridges fault: it's generally the fault of those who built them first time round.
And maybe one of the nicest things of being back, is that whilst we are repaving and remodeling and rethinking all the old bridges, we get chances to make new ones. New bridges, new paths, new stories, that aren't tarnished by the knowledge that this is all temporary.
Because this time, this time, mama's back!
And the beginning.
So I'm Home.
home home home home :)
This blog sets out to be based on current reflections on life and loves in London, Oxforshire and Italy whilst I attempt to get my Latin America blog up and running.
Hopefully it'll be an elcectic informed and interesting view on London-based life.
home home home home :)
This blog sets out to be based on current reflections on life and loves in London, Oxforshire and Italy whilst I attempt to get my Latin America blog up and running.
Hopefully it'll be an elcectic informed and interesting view on London-based life.
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