O verso e o reverso; o avesso ou o direito? De frente para a rima ou visto de baixo para cima? Vindo da Mente ou do Peito? Mente? É um defeito? Ou apenas é o real refeito? O ideal? . (Que um sujeito também sente!, homessa! E, se não pode viver a seu jeito, que reescreva a peça! Que minta!, or'essa! Ora, antes isso que roubar agora e julgar, depois, que o roubo fora legítimo por direito.) . Isto assim? Ou o inverso?
I could never forget that affair from years ago. Actually, I can't.
. The Ceramic Classes had place in huge rooms and took all the mornings long – four, five hours every day, five days a week of my teenage. Master Querubim, usually inside the atelier, used to welcome us and we start working in the projects in progress. Then, suddenly Master Querubim wasn't there anymore. He had that kind of skill; like by magic works he evaporates as ether from the class room.
In the atelier of Design/Project Classes I used to seat having the door room behind me, just a few steps away from my back.
A couple weeks before we started a new project: create and decorate a plate/dish. Taking pencils and papers and rubbers and tearing up lots of sketches we started working. I get satisfied with my design – the shape and proportions… my aesthetic choices… Being true, I was really proud about the results.
Then it was time for problems, doubts, don't knows what to do. It was supposed to glaze in it a decorative something!
That point made nothing to my nerves that week.
In a desperate act of rebellion, certain morning, quite near of the end of the class, insanely I painted in my paper, using saturated hues of gouache, a hot-green leaf of lettuce or cabbage and two enormous blood dark-red wheels of spicy pork sausage in a glossy sun-yellow fried egg.
I was ready to quit. My plate will be glazed in white, was I deciding when suddenly Master Querubim Lapa gets in the atelier quietly as a kitten.
Behind me I heard him say loudly: – THAT’S ART! That’s art!
I almost died… the scare and the anger… I could have killed him. I could swear he was making fun of me. I believed so for 30 years.
Last April, I told him about this affair. We never had talk about it before. With their eyes open wide and shining like a smile (not a smile, more like a laugh) he told: – You know, my young man, by the 80's I was making a few experiences involving food. I can swear I wasn’t joking that morning. I never did such a thing! You know, one day I found at the windows of a bakery a bread with such a shape… Magnificent! I bought it and took it to a friend for being made a plaster mould and finally could be made bread in terracotta. But my friend wasn't skilful enough… . About my plate…