BRAZILIAN HEART
NOVEMBER 2009
SINCE 1998
For me Halloween is a mix of Brazilian Carnaval and São Cosme e São Damião Day. Everybody knows what Carnaval is all about, but few people knows what São Cosme e São Damião is. September 27 in Brasil is considered the Day of Saint Cosme and Saint Damião, the twin brothers who protects children (pharmacists and doctors as well.) On that day people distribute candy to the kids and food to the poor. In Bahia, they are called “orixás Ibeji.” The legend says they were born in Arabia of Christian parents on the V Century. They were healers who ended up persecuted and killed accused of witchcraft.
SHOWS:
Tuesday, November 10
With Oscar Castro-Neves
@ AT&T Performing Arts Center (Dallas, TX)
Saturday, November 28 at 8pm
With Viver Brasil
@ Japan America Theatre
Also featuring Shakti Dance Cia and Halau Keali’I O Nalani
Presented by World Festival of Sacred Music
THE QUEEN OF BRAZILIAN THEATER
The Brazilian actress Fernanda Montenegro turned 80 years old this last October. On her birthday, the editor in chief of one of the biggest newspapers in Brasil ( O Globo ) asked her to choose and edit all the articles of the Section B (Arts) of the paper. It was a present to her and to Brasil.
If you don’t know her work, here’s a link to her interview with David Letterman when she as nominated for Best Actress for “Central Station” (1998 movie directed by Walter Salles.)
BRAZILIAN POETRY
In 1987 Fernanda Montenegro brought to the stage “Dona Doida” (Miss Crazy,) a stage play with texts by Brazilian poet Adelia Prado.
Here’s a poem called Lesson from “Bagagem” (Baggage) translated by Ellen Watson. I still have this book that a sweet poet friend gave me in Rio. Enjoy.
“It was a shadowy yard, walled high with stones.
The trees held early apples, dark
Wine-colored skin, the perfected flavor of things
Ripe before their time.
Clay jugs sat alongside the wall.
I ate apples and sipped the purest water,
Knowing the outside world had stopped dead from heat:
Then my father appeared and tweaked my nose,
And he wasn’t sick and hadn’t died either;
That’s why he was laughing, blood
Stirring in his face again,
He was hunting for ways to spend this happiness:
Where’s my chisel, my fishing pole,
What happened to my snuffbox, my coffee cup?
I always dream something’s taking shape,
Nothing is ever dead.
What seems to have died fertilizes.
What seems motionless waits.”
Peace,
Katia : )
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