Villa Pamphili, la cicatrización de las mujeres: placas vandalizadas de Rosa Luxemburgo y Vittoria Nenni
ROMA> NOTICIAS
Domingo 8 de marzo de 2020 por Laura Bogliolo
Una de las placas destruidas por los vándalos en Villa Pamphili. Un ataque contra mujeres en el corazón de Roma. 48 horas después de las celebraciones del 8 de marzo, otras dos placas dedicadas al recuerdo de grandes mujeres fueron destrozadas en Villa Pamphili, el parque más grande de la capital. Las placas en via Rosa Luxemburg y via Vittoria Nenni ya no están allí, destrozadas por matones sin escrúpulos que difícilmente podrán dar un nombre y una cara. Hace un mes, la placa "Viale dell'8 marzo" fue destruida en piedras, un gesto que también provocó la ira de la alcaldesa Virginia Raggi. El primer ciudadano en Twitter dijo: "Villa Pamphili, rompió la placa para el Día de la Mujer, un gesto vergonzoso que ofende a toda Roma y sus ciudadanos". La ofensiva continuó y explotó en la noche entre el 5 y el 6 de marzo: la placa dedicada a Luxemburgo, por cierto, ya había sido golpeada y reemplazada a fines de febrero. En mil piezas también la que recuerda al antifascista italiano, víctima de los campos de concentración nazis, tercera hija del líder histórico del Partido Socialista italiano Pietro Nenni. Para descubrir la destrucción una vez más fue Paolo Arca, presidente de la Asociación de Villa Pamphili, apasionado "guardián" del parque. Arca habló claramente de "un ataque contra las mujeres" y relató su batalla por el decoro en el parque: "El 8 de marzo de 2015 escalamos la placa en memoria de Anne Frank y limpiamos la pintura negra con la que alguien se había oscurecido. Desafortunadamente, dice, con un aumento particular en el último mes, los vándalos se han dirigido a otras placas dedicadas a mujeres con el lanzamiento de canicas de acero. Esperamos que los autores de estos vergonzosos gestos sean identificados y obligados a responderlos ante un juez ".
Mayor seguridad, es lo que piden los visitantes del inmenso parque, cámaras para tratar de frenar el vandalismo, los carteristas, pero también la degradación en la villa. La parte occidental del parque ha sido repetidamente escenario de vivaques pero también de fenómenos aún más alarmantes. «Hace unas semanas encontramos una jeringa en el camino de tierra detrás de los inodoros (cerrados) en via della Nocetta», informa Arca. Las jeringas, luego retiradas por el personal de Ama, también habían sido identificadas a lo largo de la parte que limita con Via Aurelia Antica y cerca de la entrada en Via di Donna Olimpia. En otro rincón del parque, se encontraron restos de carteristas: documentos, llaves, tarjetas de crédito. "Se necesitan servicios de ropa de civil, y el acoso en las áreas y en los días más riesgosos, pasar en automóvil por las avenidas en un área de 184 hectáreas de bosque es inútil", agrega la asociación. La cavidad del puente peatonal que cruza a través de Leone XIII, por ejemplo, ha sido durante mucho tiempo un refugio para rezagados y personas sin hogar.
Hace un mes, otro desalojo por parte de la policía local. "No necesitamos intervenciones aisladas, sino diarias", agregan los visitantes. El puente, entre otras cosas, había sido remodelado, las obras costaron más de veinte mil euros, pero en enero, después de aproximadamente un mes, se volvieron a destrozar. Incluso los accesos a las cavidades subterráneas de Villa Pamphili están manchadas con pinturas. Los parques infantiles, la pista de patinaje deteriorada y lo que queda de una cancha de baloncesto cerca de la Casale di Giovio también se descompusieron: abandonados por un tiempo y sin mantenimiento, recientemente han sido cerrados porque se los considera peligrosos.
lunes, 9 de marzo de 2020
domingo, 8 de marzo de 2020
Drogen, Gewalt, Organhandel und die Suche nach großen Gefühlen: „Die Hosen der Toten“ ist das letzte Buch der „Trainspotting“-Reihe von Irvine Welsh.
4 Min.
In seinem Roman „Trainspotting“ schuf der schottische Schriftsteller Irvine Welsh Anfang der neunziger Jahre mit dem heroinabhängigen Mark Renton und seiner kaputten Clique aus dem Arbeitermilieu in Edinburgh charismatische Verlierergestalten, die als Stellvertreter für eine ganze Generation von hoffnungslosen, desorientierten, überforderten jungen Männern wahrgenommen wurden. Ihr Leben war geprägt von Deindustrialisierung und Perspektivlosigkeit, von Drogen, Gewalt, Sex, Tod – und Fußball. Das war harter, roher und stets auch tragisch-komischer Stoff, der von Danny Boyle im gleichnamigen Film in die Kinos gebracht wurde. Die Geschichte „seiner“ Jungs sponn Welsh danach weiter, jetzt erscheint der letzte Teil der Reihe auf Deutsch: „Die Hosen der Toten“.
Die Hauptfiguren sind jetzt um die 50, Mark Renton ist mittlerweile international erfolgreicher DJ-Manager, der kriminelle Psychopath Franco Begbie anerkannter Künstler in den U.S.A., „Sick Boy“ betreibt einen Escort Service, „Spud“ bettelt auf der Straße. Renton will bei seinen Kumpeln alte Schulden begleichen, aber das ist schwerer als gedacht. Es geht, auch befeuert durch reichlich Koks und MDMA, um Wiedergutmachung und Rache, um schnellen Sex und die Suche nach größeren Gefühlen, um illegalen Organhandel und die Frage, ob man sich wirklich jemals ändern kann. Welsh jagt seine Protagonisten von einer aberwitzigen Situation in die nächste, das ist nicht immer zwingend, aber oft ans Slapstickhafte grenzend absurd lustig, manchmal brutal, und er lässt sie in einem stets groben, teilweise frauenverachtenden und immer wieder nicht nur latent homophoben Straßenslang reden, der aus der Zeit dadurch völlig gefallen wirkt. Oder vielleicht auch einfach extrem realistisch.
In den Neunzigern standen die vier für eine ganze Generation. Mit 50 fluchen sie permanent, denken dauernd an Drogen und beurteilen Frauen meist nur nach ihrer sexuellen Verwendbarkeit. Stehen sie damit immer noch für eine Generation?
Die Hauptfiguren sind typisch für eine bestimmte Entwicklung, sie kommen aus einer einst eng verbundenen, vormals industriell geprägten Community, die mit den Folgen des Wandels hin zu einer sehr individuellen Kultur heftig zu kämpfen hat. Alle befinden sich in einer existentiellen Krise, nicht nur in materieller Hinsicht.
Aus einer modernen Perspektive leben Mark Renton, Franco Begbie, Spud and Sickboy auf einem alten Planeten: Sie wirken homophob, haben noch nie was von Feminismus gehört und reden sehr vulgär daher.
Ja, aber das gilt nur für Situationen, in denen sie unter sich sind, und da ist es mehr wie ein eigener Code, da haben solche Sprüche ihre eigene Bedeutung. Das heißt nicht, dass sie mit anderen auch so reden. Wenn ein paar Kerle in den Pub gehen, dauert es ja meist nicht lange und sie fallen in ihren eigenen Slang. Das kennt jeder, wir reden privat anders als in Businesskreisen. Wir passen unsere Sprache unserer Umgebung an.
Ricardo León
Grave tristeza universal de las almas y de las cosas es el legado que estampa en sus obras Ricardo León escritor prolífico, algo rubiales, trabajaba en un banco, castizo y profundamente español. Malagueño originario de las Asturias de Santillana. A este lugar dedica su libro más señero Recorre las alturas del Monsacro. Se imagina la Oviedo levítica de los tiempos en que Fernando Valdés el Inquisidor General funda la universidad... austeros sillones frailunos, alcatifas, un armario donde guardaban ediciones viejas del quijote. Bandas morunas de tiraz. Estofas y blondas y un cuerpo poco trabajado pero escritor puro sumido en el afán de la perpetua redacción, el tormento de las Danaidas. Dice: "aquel que no ha tenido juventud se resigna con facilidad a la vejez"... Oh divino éter que alígeras auroras... pálido sol de enero amigo de la nieve... yo nací andaluz pero soy un hombre del norte. Hunde su pluma en el dintorno de heladas entelequias. Nostalgia y abandono de literato que rema contra corriente. Leyendo sus textos me embutí de su enjundiosa verborrea. Le acompañé por las tabernas de Málaga. Visité el Perchel, la calle Larios y me asomé al balcón del Naranco, perdiéndome luego entre las rúas amurilladas de Santillana del Mar. Soy también hombre que supo del embrujo de Andalucía. No tuvo gran fortuna. Sus libros de adorno yacían empolvados en las bibliotecas familiares de los años cuarenta las páginas sin cortar. Nunca fueron abiertos aunque su "Cristo en los infiernos" es un must para conocer las barbaridades cometidas en Madrid por la horda marxista. Así se cataloga a sí mismo: "tuve fama de hombre docto poseo puntas y ribetes de bibliómano y conviví por desgracia gente rústica y bozal". El pescado espetado y los famosos boquerones de Málaga fueron el gran disfrute de su vida. Así como las puestas de sol con el astro rey brillando en las tajeas de los huertos. Es otro gran escritor descatalogado.
sábado, 7 de marzo de 2020
un poeta de huddersfield
Marsden is the last village in the Colne Valley as it climbs westward from the former textile town of Huddersfield into the West Yorkshire Pennines. My parents lived in a terrace house on the south-facing side (an end terrace, in fact, which we could claim as “semi-detached” in more aspirant moments), up a steep, narrow road that was rumoured to be Roman in origin and still carries the contours of stone steps in the middle of the carriageway, beneath several layers of asphalt. My bedroom, made from a partitioned section of my parents’ bedroom, looked straight down into the bowl of the village, the house occupying an enviable grandstand location for such a modest property.
The only other terrace or “block” with the same aspect consisted of 20 houses and was known colloquially as Titanic Row, either because of its impressive length, or because it was built in 1912, or because it was sinking slowly into the clay foundations. I watched a lot of TV as a kid and didn’t read much other than comics, so I associate my first poetic experiences with the view from that bedroom window, especially the view at night, dreaming with my eyes wide open when I should have been asleep. I’d watch the streetlamps blink into action, the shutters and blinds go down in the shops at the top of Fall Lane, and headlamps illuminate distant lanes and gable ends. I’d watch people whose shapes and outlines I recognised going into the New Inn or coming out of the Old New Inn, and curtains being drawn in the houses of neighbours and family friends.
I’d see strangers, on foot or in unfamiliar vehicles, and I’d imagine incidents taking place behind closed doors, though none of this was ever written down at the time. It became a kind of compulsion, or at least a routine, thinking about the invisible goings-on, all the standoffs and stalemates, the affairs and fisticuffs, the shenanigans and shady deals. Thinking also about the mundane and the commonplace, of people performing in the scenes and sketches of their regular lives, reinforcing my understanding of how the world worked and indulging a fascination with everyday domestic detail.
Coming back to the village after three years at Portsmouth Polytechnic, with no job and in no hurry to get one, I started looking out of that window again, and out of the large picture window in the living room with its wide-angle view of Marsden – and I was ready to write. By that time I was a geography graduate with a head full of theories about people and places. So the village became the drawing board or board game on which I could practise my poetics and play out my perspectives. The frame of the window might have operated as a limiting device, restricting my perception of the wider world, but it was an invaluable template for bringing focus to the poems and legitimising the use of local subjects and vernacular in a poetic context.
So the post office got the treatment, as did the fire station, and the petrol station, and the snow-warning light on the main road. Even the house itself became a kind of “cathedral of the ordinary” in that era of few material goods where possessions were somehow part of a ritualistic fabric of life and household events had a near-sacramental pattern and process. My dad’s cars, incomprehensibly expensive at the time, acquired the status of close relatives or large exotic pets, not just means of transportation but characters with names, personalities, idiosyncrasies and smells. Even though I’m pretty sure I never took a bite out of it I can still “taste” the cracked red leather seats in the back of the Hillman Minx and picture the lettering on the registration plate: BAP 69P.
If all that goes some way towards explaining why I wrote so much about Marsden in my first collection, Zoom! (1989), and my second collection Kid(1992), while I was still living there, it doesn’t really explain why I’ve continued to address it – on and off – for another three decades. True, I only live a couple of valleys away, but in these parts that’s the equivalent of self-imposed exile. Yet distance seems to necessitate the occasional recalibration or rebalancing of the scales, as if I’m using the village as a standard of poetic measurement, or as a measurement of poetic standard. In 2015 I publishedThe Unaccompanied, a collection that had accumulated slowly since around 2008, the year of the financial crash. Until I started to work out an order for the manuscript, I hadn’t realised how much I’d been writing about Marsden again, this time charting the effects of the recession, and the austerity that followed, and a growing sense of marginalisation in what was supposed to be an age of increased communication and connectedness.
The village has changed. Many of the amenities and services I described in those early poems no longer exist. Two of the big mills are still standing, but are empty and decaying. New housing estates have replaced brownfield sites or encroached on to the moor. The moors themselves are greener and trees have sprung up even beyond the recognised “tree line” – a consequence of climate change and reductions in chimney smoke and soot. And the giant eyesore of a gasometer, rising and falling like some grotesque iron lung, is no more. On the other hand, the basic layout is still the same, as is the population size, as is a sizeable proportion of the population. The clock on the Mechanics’ Institute still pokes up above the rooftops on Peel Street, even if it rarely tells the right time. And Samuel Laycock, “the Marsden poet” (what the hell do I have to do?), still looks out from his plinth near the bandstand in the park. So there’s a surface continuity, at least, to draw on and return to, as well as a continuity of vocabulary and dialect. These days a “regional accent” is usually thought of as a marker of authenticity and identity, but growing up we were told to speak “properly” and sometimes threatened with elocution lessons, because with the unsophisticated noises that came out of our mouths we would never get anywhere.
Beyond the linguistics, I’ve come to feel that there is something genuinely unique about this transcendent and transgressive location: a border area where habitation meets the uninhabitable; where Yorkshire meets Lancashire (not just topographically, but culturally); where the land disappears into the sky on many days of the year; where the last lawn is separated from the moor by the dividing line of a privet hedge; where roads peter out into cart-tracks and bridleways. The residents who have resurrected pagan fire festivals in Marsden and celebrate the zeal and resistance of the local Luddites chapter are the same people waiting at the station in the morning, commuting to IT jobs in Manchester and Leeds.
The village was an extraordinary adventure playground for a child, with its system of switchbacks, towpaths and unadopted roads, and with its many reservoirs, like a sleeping pantheon of water deities above our heads, whose names became a recited litany of localness and belonging among those in the know. More recently they have lent their titles to beers in the village brewpub, though I’ve never found a pint of Butterley or Cupwith an especially refreshing thought, remembering some of the things we found in those bodies of water, and some of the things we did in them.
In attempting to describe border regions as good places to write – for the friction and exchange that takes place along the collision front – I once said in an interview that I grew up with one foot on the pavement and the other in the pigsty, something of an exaggerated claim (in fact, on Old Mount Road there were neither). But on Pule Hill, the landmark above Marsden with its distinctive silhouette, prehistoric burial sites and caves exist side by side with quarries and ventilation shafts from the railway tunnel beneath, more honest indicators of the kind of duality or interface I was trying to articulate.
My poem “Snow” is carved into the rocky escarpment on the exposed flank of Pule Hill, the first of six Stanza Stones that form a 50-mile trail from Marsden to the far side of Ilkley Moor. Thus far it’s the only one to be vandalised. Just bored kids throwing rocks, probably, but a useful caution against being a priest in your own parish.
A few years ago my parents reluctantly flitted from the house they had lived in for over half a century to a house in the village centre, a property near a bus stop, shops, the church, pubs, the doctors’ surgery, and somewhere that doesn’t require a gritting lorry and grappling irons to make it accessible when one of those old-fashioned winters rolls in. The reluctance was mine, too; having identified the house I grew up in as a kind of creative wellspring, it crossed my mind that without it I might dry up. If anything, though, not having a foothold in that property, and having emptied it of family possessions, I’ve felt able to investigate it more freely and without the obligations that superstition and nostalgia can sometimes impose. Free to be more honest, and free to mythologise.
• Magnetic Field: The Marsden Poems is published by Faber (RRP £14.99) on 19 March. To order a copy go to guardianbookshop.com. Free UK p&p over £15.
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