TO WRITE

Clarice Lispector says that to write is to make the word say what it is not. So it’s possible that writing is writing down what cannot be said. Writing as a conflict. Writing in order to look. It is through the conflict of writing that this encounter with Chantal Akerman begins. Her cinema is a conglomeration of writing, everywhere. Everything is written there all the time. Her texts continually speak of the constant desire to write. To articulate the words of the event. After all, she herself says, “Without writing, I can’t.” I can’t either, Chantal. What we share over the next hour is the result of this approximation and what this encounter can reveal, make visible. And to reveal is sometimes to read aloud, even in the dark, what (supposedly) cannot be said.
Carolina Bianchi

TO CINEMA

A man sits down at the next table, where the croissant man used to be. He has come with a pram, with a tiny baby inside.
Could it be a newborn? I’m not good at calculating the age of babies or children. He orders a Coca-Cola and prepares a bottle – water mixed with a white powder? With that, the baby entertains itself for a long time. On the phone, he tells someone that he’s resuming work on Monday and that “Alice” starts again tomorrow.
I take a cigarette break. I want to look around some more, open up my field of vision. I feel like I’m looking more at the paper than at the world outside.
A woman runs to catch the number 86 bus, another one already. They pass frequently. Every three minutes? Every five? I don’t think she’ll make it, her running is heavy. But she makes it in time and surprises me by taking a light, agile leap onto the bus. Another woman in a grey cap, shorts, and beige tank top with a black belt takes a photograph of the church. She’s standing at the edge of the church’s shadow, which takes up a large part of the square; the church is illuminated by the sun. Everything around her seems to be in motion, and this instant of immobility transforms her into a vertical line that is nice to observe.
A young man walks up to the fountain wearing a t-shirt in all the colours of the rainbow. He makes me realise that there aren’t many colours around. The green of the trees, the parasol. The beige of the fountain, the church, and people’s clothing. A Black man crossed the street a few minutes ago. Apart from him, everyone in this square is white, unlike the neighbourhood I live in. A group of tourists arrive on bi- cycles. They stop somewhere between the church and the fountain and listen to a man, also on a bicycle, who points in different directions, choreographing all the glances of those alongside him.
Alice finally arrives at the next table. Also by bicycle. She immediately picks up the baby, and her husband apologises for something, showing her the crumpled wad of blood- stained toilet paper in his hand. The colour of the bright red blood, lit by the sun, sticks in my mind. Alice doesn’t react much and compliments the way the baby is dressed. She orders a Perrier and they sit in silence for a while. Three yellow leaves fall to the ground, almost in slow motion, directly in front of me. I’m wearing a tank top, a skirt and sandals, but I know that this won’t last much longer.
Carolina Mendonça