VW

14 01 2010

VILENA WRITING
Orlando Luis Pardo Lazo

Lie down in front of the mirror with a camera or a cell phone. Raise your buttocks to the ceiling (dressed as a bride, or a soldier, with underwear or without: it’s all the same). Aim with the toy lens and shoot: false firing of the flash, flash, flash …!

That’s all.

The rest will be hung on a website. And fast, please. Our country may be the first power to import to the continent this jpg phenomenon. It’s a Russian fashion, of course, so to imitate this imperial friend leaves us free of any western-democratic suspicion.

It now has a name and everything is such a cool wave: it’s called Vilena Style (not to be confused with Villena) and it is a very good term. Style, of sterility: in the final instance, of writing. A virtual Vilena-Writing. Imagine the headlines in the magazine Women: “Cuba: first Vilena territory of America.”

I remember when Wendy Guerra appeared anonymously nude in a European magazine: apple in hand, in place of a camera or cell phone. A rude (but evil) silence was maintained in Cuba, but a far worse cackle exploded in exile. In many Cuban Internet forums the chauvinistic fashion to assault our Vilena avant la lettre prevailed.

Then that said it all: a frustrated fury of everyone who, as a prudish promiscuous people, we limit ourselves to spitting in the face as soon as we are given a vein of dialogue. Always with the facile prison tongue that so distinguishes us in the sexual sphere. Identity idiots who, here or there, took half a century or half a millennium to joke under the chador of a full uniform.

I remember the stories of Cuban television editors, amused by all the nudes they must snip even in the most inane early-Saturday-morning movies. Nor is it strange that the dramatic directors of TV Cuba recommend cutting to a brief snippet any nude flesh they must put in a scene, perhaps for a “questionable expressive need of the script.”

The official Cuban cinema saves enough of this blur of new flesh, but not much more than a head: penises, in fact, still cost too many projects without embarrassment on the large screen. Maybe that’s the source of the furious phallicphilia of our independent films made by young directors. And also that tropephilia of not a few recently rolled short films in two Cuban schools of cinema and television (the climactic contact of this seminal revolution could be incarnated in the actor, professor and director Jorge Molina).

One would have to think about a national Vilena-Cinema. A minor sub-genre where there’s no lack of some reason to show the buttocks or genitals of a human being (the theater director Carlos Diaz has given tremendous magisterial lectures in this sense, even though his public still reads him ridiculously from the fornicaticio: a lack of sex-shops, theater).

One would have to de-smut the imagination of a literature that went from the lyric muse to the mass epic porn orgy, but always branded as this primitive freedom of the body, that is the antithesis of the corporate.

There would even be little cameras or cell phones in the Ration Book, coupon VW: a Vilena-Writing subsidized where for once duty does not diminish pleasure.

Little Mother Russia, like deep China, also has its unorthodox mysteries: ephemeral elements that don’t fit in the periodic table of Dmitri Mendeléiev (or Medvedev). Much less within the chastity belt of a Cubavision Roundtable program.

Of this futile capacity for flight (to bit or not to bit, that is the question.cu) of this absurdity of digital mimicry while the planet seems it has already perished (Kafka in the Kremlin), of this languid hedonism (post-Soviet re-mix of MAKE LOVE NOT WAR), of this horizontal resistance half comic and half civic, of this delightful idleness and also, of course, of this terminal tedium of time lost called Modernity, Cuba should take note now, between day and day of voluntary work and of workers guard (Proust in the Plaza).

That was all.

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