Wanderlino
Arruda
It’s
necessary to always discover the
pleasant and noble side of every
moment of our lives. Chasing happiness
is an obligation and the search
in itself should be enough reason
to make us happy. That’s
what happens to me every time
that I walk into the entrance
hall at the national Theater in
Brasilia, D.F., when I walk down
the luxurious velvet ramp and
see the majestic auditorium, that
monumental collection, that only
the legendario Oscar Niemeyer
could have imagined and realized.
To go to the National Theater
offers me a gratifying pleasure,
a good reason for happiness. That
was the sensation that I felt
when Dagmar, Anderson and I met
our work team from the Brasil
Bank, before, during and after
the presentation of Bibi Ferreira
in her piece Piaf, truly, a dream
of a presentation. It was when
we sat down, right in front of
the stage, in a good-sized group
composed of Iasbeck, Riza, Carlos
Hetch and Carmen seeing on the
other side, good work collegues,
having as the main thing in half
the auditorium, the sophisticated
charm and beauty of Angela Momm.
It’s
funny that in the whole auditorium,
the predominating color was red,
a really strong, living and flaming
crimson. Among us, and very happy,
with a red dress, shoes and bag,
was Ivone, a strikingly lovely
collegue of ours. Iria, even happier,
with a shocking-pink dress, that
in the evening light, no one could
tell that it wasn’t red
also. Valquiria, Daniel, Eduardo,
Roberto, Cardenas, all in red
shirts. Carlos, I don’t
quite remember, also in various
details in red. When the stage
lights come on, The background,
an intense, volcanic red, of course,
as brilliant as fireworks above
a battlefield, forming a conjunto
of reddish spotlights that illuminated
Bibi during the entire presentation.
In contrast, as in a French romance,
the black of the formal clothing
and the poor, which at first,
horrified the conscience and sight
of the audience. To compor, at
our side, the blackness of the
shirt of the very well behaved
Moacir. From this point on, our
only colors were black and red.
The
voice of Bibi Ferreira, her magnetic
presence and gestures, a pessimism,
the hard side of life that she
made us feel with her tiny and
delicate motions, exploding all
the time. Her frail wispy body,
without any touch of beauty, everything
marking the soul of Edith Piaf.
It was Piaf, pure Piaf, with a
modern vision, was really like
being in the presence of Edith
herself. Alias, more that this:
both of them resemble each other
and seem to be almost the same
person. Both very famous, visibly
marked by age, with the physical
desgaste that artistic life endows
and instigates with. Her voice,
in the beginning, tiny, as if
asking for permission to exist,
suddenly grows, climbing and fills
the entire auditorium and keeps
building up, gaining weight, involving,
clean, to an admirable crescendo,
like she represented the whole
force and sonority of eternal
France. It’s like you were
transported to the boisterous
cabarets of Paris, no Olympia,
the top of glory of all art, much
more than the Carnegie hall, or
any other theater in the world,
including the National Theater
of Brasilia in which we find ourselves.
Listening
to Bibi is like watching Piaf
and I am spiritually transported
in a sweet remembrance to Parisian
streets, squares, monuments, museums
and boulevards, ( at that moment
I wasn’t in Brasil, I was
in Paris.) I felt, in the accordion,
and the background music, in that
culture, a taste of sensibility
that the French do with such love.
I see myself at the top of the
Eiffel Tower, at the Arc of Triumph,
at the Place de la Concorde, at
the Pigale, at the Notre dame,
the French theaters, the Louvre,
or drifting along in a bateau
mouche in the Sena, or in my modest
hotel for travelers, lonely and
happy. I see myself running in
the cold enchanted with the colorido
of the lights, of the news stands,
fruit stands full of red fruits,
and the brilho of the restaurants
and cafés…ah, the
cafés…I see myself
also in the happiness of the children
and the thin elegance of the women.
A marvelous world of types and
varieties with clothes that all,
Frenchmen and foreigners alike,
stroll through the streets and
gardens. I imagine and it all
unfolds in my mind!
After all this that I see and
dream, I emotionally thank the
art of Bibi and the opportunity
to be there, in Brasilia. There
is nothing better than, being
in a beautiful new capital city
and living moments in the glorious
old Paris.
