Nada se cria, tudo se copia OU Ideias iguais em cabeças diferentes

A máxima de Lavoisier modificada tornou-se uma espécie de mantra do mundo atual. No que se refere a criatividade, inovação e afins, é bom tomar bastante cuidado antes de assumir uma ideia como sua. Talvez tenha sido sempre assim, e certamente temos casos famosos de ideias sendo desenvolvidas ao mesmo tempo em continentes diferentes, ou ideias praticamente iguais às de Leonardo da Vinci que, não as tendo publicado, perdeu as patentes. A diferença é que agora temos muitos mil anos de ideias no nosso grande banco de dados e, para o bem e para o mal, muito mais acesso a elas.

O estúdio de design holandês DUS Architects propaga ao mundo seu quiosque feito com guarda-chuvas. Apesar de não estar explícito, tudo sugere que eles tomaram a ideia como original. O que, dependendo das "referências" que andaram olhando, pode até ser verdade. Para eles, não para mim.

Vi essa mesma ideia aplicada em um quiosque da Rede Asta, em novembro passado, na Feira da Providência. Foram os holandeses criativos? Provavelmente sim. Originais? Creio que não. No dicionário, original quer dizer algo novo, que não foi copiado nem reproduzido.

Boas ideias devem, sim, ser propagadas e repetidas. Mas também é bom saber que o nosso grau de originalidade tem mais ou menos o mesmo tamanho da nossa ignorância.

Trabalho Felicidade Música

Os prazeres e desprazeres do trabalho. Nesse livro, o suíço Alain de Botton fala do prazer que pode haver nos ofícios mais simples e cotidianos. Como disse um amigo que leu o mesmo livro (e muitos outros desse autor), de Botton consegue fazer a vida parecer menos cruel ao mostrar como a felicidade pode estar presente nos trabalhos aparentemente mais triviais. Apesar de concordar com o suíço, confesso que muitas vezes é difícil identificar sinais de felicidade em garis que não sejam o Sorriso (famoso e agora coleguinha de palco da Madonna) ou em contadores que não sejam bem pagos. Mas isso, claro, não quer dizer que ela não esteja ali.

Certo é que a felicidade nem sempre se expressa por sorrisos (na verdade, sorrisos quase nunca são felicidade). A Música tem exemplos maravilhosos daquela felicidade sincera, visceral, uma felicidade completamente associada ao ofício, tão verdadeira que contagia. Compartilho alguns exemplos com vocês:

Paul McCartney em Oh, Darling! (famoso grito u-huuu aos 2:22)

Ray Charles em Joy Ride (vários momentos de 'pure joy')

Burt Bacharach nesta performance de Say a little prayer, com Dionne Warwick (aos 4:00, Bacharach flutua)

Vida de músico é dura e só vale a pena se você conseguir, vez em quando que seja, sentir aquela conexão com a alma chamada de felicidade. De certa forma, isso vale pra qualquer profissão.

"Nem sempre"

Hey, folks!
I made a video of me singing one of my songs.
Sorry about the quality. I only had my sister's digital @ the moment.
Cheers!

The Capsule

The traffic in my highway was intense, so I created this machine.
A fantastic experience of travelling without leaving your place.
They liked it.
A home version of their favourite Disney toy.
It was expensive to produce, but they swallowed my argumentation with child’s eyes.
Being inside a capsule had never been so pleasant.
The machine was an ode to the new world. Pure poetry.
Once inside it, they could feel the breeze as it comes through an open window.
They could also feel the vibration in their feet, even stronger when the chosen option was “By train”. The 3D images made the rest and the capsule was ready to be announced in a TV spot.

They started buying it.

I equipped my car with food and music before parking on the edge of my highway.
I stayed there for a long time, as the radio brought the news.
The huge success of the capsule was longing to have an effect on my road.
Only when my beard was asking for a shave, the traffic started to cease.
Excited, I watched the cars vanish slowly from my view.
What a movie! I ate all the popcorn.
After a deep sleep, my vehicle was awake again.
From the bushes, back on the road.
The sun was evil, the wind was salvation.

I became rich.
And that fragment of nothing was now only mine.

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The line

The cars passed in a rush, very close to the path.
Curious faces behind fast windows.
They were certainly asking the same question about that lonely man.
In the night. On the path. Very close to the cars.
Among pieces of metal, plastic and lives, someone standing still and looking down.
It was me, useless, trying to understand death.

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Favela: Rocinha

For the first time since my return to Brazil I write anything about it.
There’s a reason for that: my journey into Rocinha, the biggest favela in Brazil, where alleged 200.000 people live. I always wanted to walk inside a favela, but never had the chance. There are three main reasons for which middle class brazilian people go there: you are a journalist OR you are doing a volunteer work OR you are going to a baile funk (funk parties). In my case, it was a mix of them all. In fact, I was invited by an American girl who had an American friend living with her American boyfriend in Rocinha, where they research and volunteer in a primary school for the extremely poor kids of the place.

It was Sunday and they were giving sort of a lunch party, so they invited quite a few people. Their place was on the top of the mountain, which meant we had to hike all the way up. We start walking. After 5 minutes, our guide tell us that we should keep our heads down because just ahead where the drug dealers with their guns, like you see in movies and TV programs such as Ross Kemp’s. Tension gets high and we make up some conversation not to look too worried or even suspicious (never know the dealers’ mood when it rains). Yes, it was raining. And this made the hiking all the worse and the smell of dirty even stronger. I was definitely outside my bubble. The hiking is through narrow ways, to the point you have to stop if someone is coming down and vice-versa. Just a few locals actually say something to us, either as a joke or a flirt, the majority of them looking like they’re used to the foreigners’ presence in their mountain. As we pass, two teens whistle from their window to the very ginger Irish guy in the group, and a man walk passing risks a “Hi” (in English) to one of the girls. After thirty awkward minutes, we get to the house. There, a few people waited for us as they prepared the lunch. Introductions. Greetings. Smiles. Questions. A few seconds later I realized that, even though there were three more Brazilians among the fifteen gringos, I was the only one who didn’t live in that favela.

I went to the terrace to stay alone and appreciate the view, and couldn’t help but find pleasantly strange to be in a party with foreigners who spoke Portuguese and did something for that community. No doubt about it: there, the foreigner was me.
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