Lilly

Lilly

May 2002

Oil on canvas

50 x 40 cms

Curious about the differences between oil and the acrylics that I used to paint with, I redid the painting in acrylics. 

Lilly

July 2002

Acrylics on canvas

50 x 40 cms

Excerpt from the book "Retratos" ["Portraits"], final work from the BA Fine Arts course at FAAP: 

From Chebel's blog: 

And then, there's the superior woman. The one our boyfriends ditch us for. The superior woman doesn't drink nor smoke. She feeds like a little bird and drinks some exotic fruit juice at parties. She is zen. She doesn't spend the night with droopy eyes and smeared makeup, slurring her speech, tripping on herself, talking nonsense, making a fool of herself and forgetting it all the next day. She talks in low tones, laughs charmingly, she is discreet and chic. But above all that, she is the healthy skinny type. Which is the opposite of the junkie or bad girl. 

When I got into the advertising course at USP years ago, I felt a little lost. I suppose it's normal for a lot of people. It was a new place, with new people that I'd never seen before. In these conditions, and with all the reception of freshmen going on, everything was too fast for me to memorize anything: names, faces, places. But with a few hours of that, faces gradually became known, memorized. The names: I had always had a difficulty with names... My first memories of Lilly are from that time. 

She was tall, blonde, beautiful and elegant. The superior woman. She reminded me of that actress who, when still a child, played the little girl in Interview with the Vampire. And she would smile, boy would she smile! A beautiful smile from a fascinating mouth: like a little naive and shy girl. Or she'd stay still, introspective, nonchalant, seeming to pose for an artist while her ideas would roam. It didn't take long for her to be engaged in conversations with the boys. And I stood there, a mere mortal, awkward and stupid. With no ability to even start up a conversation. I ignored it all and went on with my life. 

I would find her every now and then, when I happened to come to USP earlier. She studied journalism in the mornings and I was in advertising in the evenings. Whenever I'd see her there, I'd follow her with my eyes and nothing more, conformed with the fact that someone like that would never interact with people like me. 

My first semester in the new college required a few adjustments, adaptations. But on the second semester, already in tune, I went to my first college games. The mess... I barely ate and slept even less. But it was all so absurdly fun! In my bags, I had brought my father's camera, lens and everything. And Lilly was there. 

It crossed my mind to steal her beauty. If I hadn't the courage to steal her a kiss, let it be a face in a picture then. She needn't even notice. Let it be but banale fetichism. A picture for the bedroom wall, amidst so many others. 

A subtle ballet like the choreography of espionage movies ensued. None of us demonstrated being aware of the other's presence. She sat at the stadiums with her friends, pretending to be entertained by the games; and elsewhere on that same stadium, I would put on my father's zoom lens and aim between those faces that bore no interest for me. She'd then lean discreetly back, hiding behind her friend and out of my sight. I'd switch positions and it was enough time for her to strike up a conversation with someone and turn her face. Or she'd find a place with plenty of shadow, that I didn't have enough light for a long range picture. 

Of course she wasn't even aware someone was taking her picture. She hadn't a clue of how she had avoided with majestic subtlety all of my attempts. Or did she? Yes, sometime along the games she realized it. The boys with her began to walk into the pictures as well. And she seemed obviously disturbed with the whole situation. How embarrassing... I had ruined it all. Abort mission.

What was I in her eyes? A threat. I felt reduced to the character of a maniac with a camera, hunting down a picture of her. 

And then we came to the last day, and she sat with her friend on one of the seats in our lodging right in front of me, and allowed herself to stay there, twirling her hair with that look lost in thought. Carelessness or concession, in truth I'll never know. I had my camera on my lap, fitting in lenses and making adjustments for another random picture, and turned the camera towards here, on my lap, and very gently squeezed the button: click. A sound lost amidst the chatter. 

How lucky! Other chances would come and very few would be crowned with success. But certainly no other picture would be taken like that, up close, with no zoom lenses and their flattening effects. 

Some time later, the portrait done, there was a student art show at ECA. Wanting to display the painting, I felt the need to explain to Lilly beforehand about what had happened. Hopes of correcting or at least diminishing my status as a maniac. And I came forth from all those people, and called her by her name after a long moment's pause. I felt dirty, downgraded, like a maniac. She welcomed me politely and calmly.

I usually have great ease in talking about the things I do. About these portraits. But with her, the words escaped me, mocked me, played tricks on me. And all the while I had that moronic smile on my face, blatant nervousness, altered conduct. 

She, on the other hand, dealt with the matter with all the calm in the world. She scolded me, always sweetly, for the way I had stalked her. And told me that, next time, I should try to explain it all first. Great: I went from feeling like a maniac to feeling like a child. 

I showed her the painting. And, once it had been explained and understood, she seemed flattered with it all. She easily accepted that I display the painting on the art show. Then flashed me that beautiful smile like someone who dismisses an unwelcome attempt at courtship. 

If I saw her three times after that, it would have been too many. She stayed in some random corner of my mind, like the other forgotten pictures that were the references for other paintings. They'd show up now and then when I was looking for some old reference in the middle of all that paper.  And she'd show up at college parties. Or just her name on the papers produced by journalism students. I didn't make much of an effort to look for her. I was aware of the discomfort I caused in her and that she was too polite to show. 

She showed up a month later, all of a sudden, right next to me, at the café. The usual cordiality and manners. For the first time, I caught a glimpse of hesitation in her before she asked me for that picture. I was trying to hold on to all my paperwork, the wallet and other random stuff, and again made a complete ass of myself. But I agreed to bring her the picture. 

I was proud that she wanted to have that. The picture wasn't in its best conditions, having a few dried up oil paint smears: it seemed like a relic, something very old. I thought she wanted it due to some sort of narcissistic pride. To be able to tell that story. And that filled me with even greater pride, because it gave me the impression that I had been able to cause her that sense of bewilderment, to touch her somehow. 

But a few days later, after that picture had left my fingers, I began to wonder if she didn't in fact want to destroy that picture. To eliminate something she felt was the fetich of a maniac. I believe that was the last time we exchanged a few words. And in fact I never got around to asking her why she wanted that picture. Does it matter? I refused to make that into a real fetich. That would make me into a real maniac.

And besides, I scanned the picture to have it in my computer...