"Não me dá muita vontade de trabalhar em Portugal"
Entrevista de Siza Vieira no Brasil. 30.05.2008, Nuno Amaral, Porto Alegre
A primeira obra de Siza no Brasilé um salto na internacionalização. A obra-prima, inesperada e jovem,é um museu em Porto Alegre Aos 75 anos, Álvaro Siza Vieira, o mais conhecido arquitecto português, olha com desencanto para um país que "destrói e trucida" algumas das obras que o celebrizaram. No Brasil encontrou o que precisava e hoje inaugura, em Porto Alegre, a Fundação Iberê Camargo, projecto distinguido com o troféu Leão de Ouro na Bienal de Arquitectura de Veneza de 2002, um facto inédito na América Latina.
O que encontrou no Brasil? A junção de esforços e estímulos para que a obra "ficasse bem feita". Qual a obra que sente que ainda lhe falta fazer em Portugal? Quase que não queria fazer mais nenhuma. Porquê? Porque das que tenho feito, algumas estão abandonadas, a arruinarem-se. Outras já são motivo de insultos, mesmo antes de aparecerem no espaço.De insultos?Olhe, por exemplo, a Avenida dos Aliados, no Porto. Há pessoas que não gostam, é um direito. Mas houve escritos insultuosos nos jornais, sobretudo o empolamento da posição de um número de pessoas, a tal "grande manifestação na praça" dos Aliados, que teve televisões e tudo, páginas de jornais... e estavam lá 29 pessoas a manifestar-se, segundo li. Mas recebe também muitos elogios. Sim, a crítica boa ou má é fundamental. Em Portugal, à partida, costuma destruir-se completamente e essa é uma reacção que não se vê quando aparece uma obra desgraçada. Mas isso já não se lê no jornal. Quando se está a destruir as margens do rio Douro, por exemplo, não vejo críticas nos jornais. Mas tem ainda projectos em execução? Estou ainda a fazer obras em Portugal, como a Fundação Júlio Pomar e os parques lúdicos termais de Vidago e de Pedras Salgadas, por exemplo, mas muitas vezes pergunto-me se vale a pena. O Pavilhão de Portugal está abandonado, custou não sei quantos milhões de contos, não faz sentido, não se entende por que se inutiliza esse investimento. O Bairro da Malagueira, em Évora, está trucidado... trucidado. Realmente, tendo alternativas, não me dá muita vontade de trabalhar em Portugal. Enfim, continuo a trabalhar e gosto, mas tenho como ponto de partida a noção de que não vai servir para grande coisa.Em contrapartida, aqui [Porto Alegre], surgiu uma oportunidade de trabalho muito boa. O local é belíssimo, a cidade estava interessada em ter um museu bonito, surgiu uma equipa muito bem organizada, foram criadas condições de diálogo; enfim, condições difíceis de encontrar. Esta é uma obra especial, além de ser a primeira que assina no Brasil? Sim, completamente. Quem promoveu a construção deste edifício queria uma obra bela e criou as condições para o arquitecto fazer o melhor que pôde. Isso é raro. Normalmente o dono da obra não está muito interessado na qualidade.Se estamos a trabalhar em Portugal, por norma, o que conta é que o projecto seja feito em muito pouco tempo e não se pode estar com grandes exigências. Às vezes debatemo-nos com um problema, as coisas não estão a sair bem e não temos apoio para que possam sair melhor. Teve, então, um cheque em branco da Fundação Iberê Camargo? Não se trata de um cheque em branco. A qualidade da arquitectura não tem que ver com dinheiro, posso fazer uma obra de baixo custo e de grande qualidade. Foi estímulo, teria de ser um edifício emergente e houve muito apoio para que ficasse bem feito. Houve uma congregação de esforços e vontades entre a fundação, a administração, a própria viúva, todos queriam atingir bons resultados. É reconhecido por respeitar sempre o espírito do lugar - o resultado foi um edifício de linguagem Siza com sotaque brasileiro? Os sotaques não vêm só do autor, surgem das próprias condições e circunstâncias em que um edifício é produzido. Por exemplo, na Holanda, onde trabalhei há anos, em habitação, tudo quanto se faz é prefabricado, necessariamente... É relevante que a sua estreia no Brasil seja esta fundação? Esta obra foi uma sorte incrível, gostei muito do programa, o local é lindíssimo, apesar de muito difícil, tem aquela largueza de espaço em frente, tão característico do Brasil. Tenciona fazer mais algum projecto no Brasil? Há experiências muito boas, não só no Brasil, mas na Coreia e no Japão, para onde tive agora um convite para fazer um hotel. Nestes sítios há realmente uma vontade, não de se ter só uma imagem, é de ter um projecto sólido. Na Europa, não sei...
a pior coisa do mundo é ser "mé", ou seja, ovelha que segue o rebanho balindo o que quer que seja, sem o grande - e perigosíssimo - risco de pensar por si mesmo(tirado dum sítio qualquer)
One, two, three o'clock, four o'clock, rock, Five, six, seven o'clock, eight o'clock, rock, Nine, ten, eleven o'clock, twelve o'clock, rock, We're gonna rock around the clock tonight.
Put your glad rags on and join me, hon, We'll have some fun when the clock strikes one, We're gonna rock around the clock tonight, We're gonna rock, rock, rock, 'til broad daylight. We're gonna rock, gonna rock, around the clock tonight.
When the clock strikes two, three and four, If the band slows down we'll yell for more, We're gonna rock around the clock tonight, We're gonna rock, rock, rock, 'til broad daylight. We're gonna rock, gonna rock, around the clock tonight.
When the chimes ring five, six and seven, We'll be right in seventh heaven. We're gonna rock around the clock tonight, We're gonna rock, rock, rock, 'til broad daylight. We're gonna rock, gonna rock, around the clock tonight.
When it's eight, nine, ten, eleven too, I'll be goin' strong and so will you. We're gonna rock around the clock tonight, We're gonna rock, rock, rock, 'til broad daylight. We're gonna rock, gonna rock, around the clock tonight.
When the clock strikes twelve, we'll cool off then, Start a rockin' round the clock again. We're gonna rock around the clock tonight, We're gonna rock, rock, rock, 'til broad daylight. We're gonna rock, gonna rock, around the clock tonight.
Um sujeito entra na estação do metro, vestindo jeans, T-shirt e boné, encosta-se próximo à entrada, tira o violino da caixa e começa a tocar com entusiasmo para a multidão que passa por ali, na hora de ponta matinal. Durante os 45 minutos em que tocou, foi praticamente ignorado pelos passantes. Ninguém sabia, mas o músico era Joshua Bell, um dos maiores violinistas do mundo, executando peças musicais consagradas, num instrumento raríssimo, um Stradivarius de 1713, estimado em mais de 3 milhões de dólares.
Alguns dias antes Bell tinha tocado no Symphony Hall de Boston, onde os melhores lugares custam a módica quantia de 1000 dólares. A experiência, gravada em vídeo, mostra homens e mulheres de andar ligeiro, copo de café na mão, telemovel no ouvido, indiferentes ao som do violino. A iniciativa realizada pelo jornal The Washington Post era a de lançar um debate sobre 'Valor, Contexto e Arte'. A conclusão: estamos acostumados a dar valor às coisas quando estão num contexto. (Bell era uma obra de arte sem moldura. Um artefato de luxo, sem etiqueta de marca.)
"We the people, in order to form a more perfect union."
Two hundred and twenty one years ago, in a hall that still stands across the street, a group of men gathered and, with these simple words, launched America's improbable experiment in democracy. Farmers and scholars; statesmen and patriots who had traveled across an ocean to escape tyranny and persecution finally made real their declaration of independence at a Philadelphia convention that lasted through the spring of 1787.
The document they produced was eventually signed but ultimately unfinished. It was stained by this nation's original sin of slavery, a question that divided the colonies and brought the convention to a stalemate until the founders chose to allow the slave trade to continue for at least twenty more years, and to leave any final resolution to future generations.
Of course, the answer to the slavery question was already embedded within our Constitution - a Constitution that had at is very core the ideal of equal citizenship under the law; a Constitution that promised its people liberty, and justice, and a union that could be and should be perfected over time.
And yet words on a parchment would not be enough to deliver slaves from bondage, or provide men and women of every color and creed their full rights and obligations as citizens of the United States. What would be needed were Americans in successive generations who were willing to do their part - through protests and struggle, on the streets and in the courts, through a civil war and civil disobedience and always at great risk - to narrow that gap between the promise of our ideals and the reality of their time.
This was one of the tasks we set forth at the beginning of this campaign - to continue the long march of those who came before us, a march for a more just, more equal, more free, more caring and more prosperous America. I chose to run for the presidency at this moment in history because I believe deeply that we cannot solve the challenges of our time unless we solve them together - unless we perfect our union by understanding that we may have different stories, but we hold common hopes; that we may not look the same and we may not have come from the same place, but we all want to move in the same direction - towards a better future for of children and our grandchildren.
This belief comes from my unyielding faith in the decency and generosity of the American people. But it also comes from my own American story.
I am the son of a black man from Kenya and a white woman from Kansas. I was raised with the help of a white grandfather who survived a Depression to serve in Patton's Army during World War II and a white grandmother who worked on a bomber assembly line at Fort Leavenworth while he was overseas. I've gone to some of the best schools in America and lived in one of the world's poorest nations. I am married to a black American who carries within her the blood of slaves and slaveowners - an inheritance we pass on to our two precious daughters. I have brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews, uncles and cousins, of every race and every hue, scattered across three continents, and for as long as I live, I will never forget that in no other country on Earth is my story even possible.
It's a story that hasn't made me the most conventional candidate. But it is a story that has seared into my genetic makeup the idea that this nation is more than the sum of its parts - that out of many, we are truly one.
Throughout the first year of this campaign, against all predictions to the contrary, we saw how hungry the American people were for this message of unity. Despite the temptation to view my candidacy through a purely racial lens, we won commanding victories in states with some of the whitest populations in the country. In South Carolina, where the Confederate Flag still flies, we built a powerful coalition of African Americans and white Americans.
This is not to say that race has not been an issue in the campaign. At various stages in the campaign, some commentators have deemed me either "too black" or "not black enough." We saw racial tensions bubble to the surface during the week before the South Carolina primary. The press has scoured every exit poll for the latest evidence of racial polarization, not just in terms of white and black, but black and brown as well.
And yet, it has only been in the last couple of weeks that the discussion of race in this campaign has taken a particularly divisive turn.
On one end of the spectrum, we've heard the implication that my candidacy is somehow an exercise in affirmative action; that it's based solely on the desire of wide-eyed liberals to purchase racial reconciliation on the cheap. On the other end, we've heard my former pastor, Reverend Jeremiah Wright, use incendiary language to express views that have the potential not only to widen the racial divide, but views that denigrate both the greatness and the goodness of our nation; that rightly offend white and black alike.
I have already condemned, in unequivocal terms, the statements of Reverend Wright that have caused such controversy. For some, nagging questions remain. Did I know him to be an occasionally fierce critic of American domestic and foreign policy? Of course. Did I ever hear him make remarks that could be considered controversial while I sat in church? Yes. Did I strongly disagree with many of his political views? Absolutely - just as I'm sure many of you have heard remarks from your pastors, priests, or rabbis with which you strongly disagreed.
But the remarks that have caused this recent firestorm weren't simply controversial. They weren't simply a religious leader's effort to speak out against perceived injustice. Instead, they expressed a profoundly distorted view of this country - a view that sees white racism as endemic, and that elevates what is wrong with America above all that we know is right with America; a view that sees the conflicts in the Middle East as rooted primarily in the actions of stalwart allies like Israel, instead of emanating from the perverse and hateful ideologies of radical Islam.
As such, Reverend Wright's comments were not only wrong but divisive, divisive at a time when we need unity; racially charged at a time when we need to come together to solve a set of monumental problems - two wars, a terrorist threat, a falling economy, a chronic health care crisis and potentially devastating climate change; problems that are neither black or white or Latino or Asian, but rather problems that confront us all.
Given my background, my politics, and my professed values and ideals, there will no doubt be those for whom my statements of condemnation are not enough. Why associate myself with Reverend Wright in the first place, they may ask? Why not join another church? And I confess that if all that I knew of Reverend Wright were the snippets of those sermons that have run in an endless loop on the television and You Tube, or if Trinity United Church of Christ conformed to the caricatures being peddled by some commentators, there is no doubt that I would react in much the same way
But the truth is, that isn't all that I know of the man. The man I met more than twenty years ago is a man who helped introduce me to my Christian faith, a man who spoke to me about our obligations to love one another; to care for the sick and lift up the poor. He is a man who served his country as a U.S. Marine; who has studied and lectured at some of the finest universities and seminaries in the country, and who for over thirty years led a church that serves the community by doing God's work here on Earth - by housing the homeless, ministering to the needy, providing day care services and scholarships and prison ministries, and reaching out to those suffering from HIV/AIDS.
In my first book, Dreams From My Father, I described the experience of my first service at Trinity:
"People began to shout, to rise from their seats and clap and cry out, a forceful wind carrying the reverend's voice up into the rafters....And in that single note - hope! - I heard something else; at the foot of that cross, inside the thousands of churches across the city, I imagined the stories of ordinary black people merging with the stories of David and Goliath, Moses and Pharaoh, the Christians in the lion's den, Ezekiel's field of dry bones. Those stories - of survival, and freedom, and hope - became our story, my story; the blood that had spilled was our blood, the tears our tears; until this black church, on this bright day, seemed once more a vessel carrying the story of a people into future generations and into a larger world. Our trials and triumphs became at once unique and universal, black and more than black; in chronicling our journey, the stories and songs gave us a means to reclaim memories that we didn't need to feel shame about...memories that all people might study and cherish - and with which we could start to rebuild."
That has been my experience at Trinity. Like other predominantly black churches across the country, Trinity embodies the black community in its entirety - the doctor and the welfare mom, the model student and the former gang-banger. Like other black churches, Trinity's services are full of raucous laughter and sometimes bawdy humor. They are full of dancing, clapping, screaming and shouting that may seem jarring to the untrained ear. The church contains in full the kindness and cruelty, the fierce intelligence and the shocking ignorance, the struggles and successes, the love and yes, the bitterness and bias that make up the black experience in America.
And this helps explain, perhaps, my relationship with Reverend Wright. As imperfect as he may be, he has been like family to me. He strengthened my faith, officiated my wedding, and baptized my children. Not once in my conversations with him have I heard him talk about any ethnic group in derogatory terms, or treat whites with whom he interacted with anything but courtesy and respect. He contains within him the contradictions - the good and the bad - of the community that he has served diligently for so many years.
I can no more disown him than I can disown the black community. I can no more disown him than I can my white grandmother - a woman who helped raise me, a woman who sacrificed again and again for me, a woman who loves me as much as she loves anything in this world, but a woman who once confessed her fear of black men who passed by her on the street, and who on more than one occasion has uttered racial or ethnic stereotypes that made me cringe.
These people are a part of me. And they are a part of America, this country that I love.
Some will see this as an attempt to justify or excuse comments that are simply inexcusable. I can assure you it is not. I suppose the politically safe thing would be to move on from this episode and just hope that it fades into the woodwork. We can dismiss Reverend Wright as a crank or a demagogue, just as some have dismissed Geraldine Ferraro, in the aftermath of her recent statements, as harboring some deep-seated racial bias.
But race is an issue that I believe this nation cannot afford to ignore right now. We would be making the same mistake that Reverend Wright made in his offending sermons about America - to simplify and stereotype and amplify the negative to the point that it distorts reality.
The fact is that the comments that have been made and the issues that have surfaced over the last few weeks reflect the complexities of race in this country that we've never really worked through - a part of our union that we have yet to perfect. And if we walk away now, if we simply retreat into our respective corners, we will never be able to come together and solve challenges like health care, or education, or the need to find good jobs for every American.
Understanding this reality requires a reminder of how we arrived at this point. As William Faulkner once wrote, "The past isn't dead and buried. In fact, it isn't even past." We do not need to recite here the history of racial injustice in this country. But we do need to remind ourselves that so many of the disparities that exist in the African-American community today can be directly traced to inequalities passed on from an earlier generation that suffered under the brutal legacy of slavery and Jim Crow.
Segregated schools were, and are, inferior schools; we still haven't fixed them, fifty years after Brown v. Board of Education, and the inferior education they provided, then and now, helps explain the pervasive achievement gap between today's black and white students.
Legalized discrimination - where blacks were prevented, often through violence, from owning property, or loans were not granted to African-American business owners, or black homeowners could not access FHA mortgages, or blacks were excluded from unions, or the police force, or fire departments - meant that black families could not amass any meaningful wealth to bequeath to future generations. That history helps explain the wealth and income gap between black and white, and the concentrated pockets of poverty that persists in so many of today's urban and rural communities.
A lack of economic opportunity among black men, and the shame and frustration that came from not being able to provide for one's family, contributed to the erosion of black families - a problem that welfare policies for many years may have worsened. And the lack of basic services in so many urban black neighborhoods - parks for kids to play in, police walking the beat, regular garbage pick-up and building code enforcement - all helped create a cycle of violence, blight and neglect that continue to haunt us.
This is the reality in which Reverend Wright and other African-Americans of his generation grew up. They came of age in the late fifties and early sixties, a time when segregation was still the law of the land and opportunity was systematically constricted. What's remarkable is not how many failed in the face of discrimination, but rather how many men and women overcame the odds; how many were able to make a way out of no way for those like me who would come after them.
But for all those who scratched and clawed their way to get a piece of the American Dream, there were many who didn't make it - those who were ultimately defeated, in one way or another, by discrimination. That legacy of defeat was passed on to future generations - those young men and increasingly young women who we see standing on street corners or languishing in our prisons, without hope or prospects for the future. Even for those blacks who did make it, questions of race, and racism, continue to define their worldview in fundamental ways. For the men and women of Reverend Wright's generation, the memories of humiliation and doubt and fear have not gone away; nor has the anger and the bitterness of those years. That anger may not get expressed in public, in front of white co-workers or white friends. But it does find voice in the barbershop or around the kitchen table. At times, that anger is exploited by politicians, to gin up votes along racial lines, or to make up for a politician's own failings.
And occasionally it finds voice in the church on Sunday morning, in the pulpit and in the pews. The fact that so many people are surprised to hear that anger in some of Reverend Wright's sermons simply reminds us of the old truism that the most segregated hour in American life occurs on Sunday morning. That anger is not always productive; indeed, all too often it distracts attention from solving real problems; it keeps us from squarely facing our own complicity in our condition, and prevents the African-American community from forging the alliances it needs to bring about real change. But the anger is real; it is powerful; and to simply wish it away, to condemn it without understanding its roots, only serves to widen the chasm of misunderstanding that exists between the races.
In fact, a similar anger exists within segments of the white community. Most working- and middle-class white Americans don't feel that they have been particularly privileged by their race. Their experience is the immigrant experience - as far as they're concerned, no one's handed them anything, they've built it from scratch. They've worked hard all their lives, many times only to see their jobs shipped overseas or their pension dumped after a lifetime of labor. They are anxious about their futures, and feel their dreams slipping away; in an era of stagnant wages and global competition, opportunity comes to be seen as a zero sum game, in which your dreams come at my expense. So when they are told to bus their children to a school across town; when they hear that an African American is getting an advantage in landing a good job or a spot in a good college because of an injustice that they themselves never committed; when they're told that their fears about crime in urban neighborhoods are somehow prejudiced, resentment builds over time.
Like the anger within the black community, these resentments aren't always expressed in polite company. But they have helped shape the political landscape for at least a generation. Anger over welfare and affirmative action helped forge the Reagan Coalition. Politicians routinely exploited fears of crime for their own electoral ends. Talk show hosts and conservative commentators built entire careers unmasking bogus claims of racism while dismissing legitimate discussions of racial injustice and inequality as mere political correctness or reverse racism.
Just as black anger often proved counterproductive, so have these white resentments distracted attention from the real culprits of the middle class squeeze - a corporate culture rife with inside dealing, questionable accounting practices, and short-term greed; a Washington dominated by lobbyists and special interests; economic policies that favor the few over the many. And yet, to wish away the resentments of white Americans, to label them as misguided or even racist, without recognizing they are grounded in legitimate concerns - this too widens the racial divide, and blocks the path to understanding.
This is where we are right now. It's a racial stalemate we've been stuck in for years. Contrary to the claims of some of my critics, black and white, I have never been so naïve as to believe that we can get beyond our racial divisions in a single election cycle, or with a single candidacy - particularly a candidacy as imperfect as my own.
But I have asserted a firm conviction - a conviction rooted in my faith in God and my faith in the American people - that working together we can move beyond some of our old racial wounds, and that in fact we have no choice is we are to continue on the path of a more perfect union.
For the African-American community, that path means embracing the burdens of our past without becoming victims of our past. It means continuing to insist on a full measure of justice in every aspect of American life. But it also means binding our particular grievances - for better health care, and better schools, and better jobs - to the larger aspirations of all Americans -- the white woman struggling to break the glass ceiling, the white man whose been laid off, the immigrant trying to feed his family. And it means taking full responsibility for own lives - by demanding more from our fathers, and spending more time with our children, and reading to them, and teaching them that while they may face challenges and discrimination in their own lives, they must never succumb to despair or cynicism; they must always believe that they can write their own destiny.
Ironically, this quintessentially American - and yes, conservative - notion of self-help found frequent expression in Reverend Wright's sermons. But what my former pastor too often failed to understand is that embarking on a program of self-help also requires a belief that society can change.
The profound mistake of Reverend Wright's sermons is not that he spoke about racism in our society. It's that he spoke as if our society was static; as if no progress has been made; as if this country - a country that has made it possible for one of his own members to run for the highest office in the land and build a coalition of white and black; Latino and Asian, rich and poor, young and old -- is still irrevocably bound to a tragic past. But what we know -- what we have seen - is that America can change. That is true genius of this nation. What we have already achieved gives us hope - the audacity to hope - for what we can and must achieve tomorrow.
In the white community, the path to a more perfect union means acknowledging that what ails the African-American community does not just exist in the minds of black people; that the legacy of discrimination - and current incidents of discrimination, while less overt than in the past - are real and must be addressed. Not just with words, but with deeds - by investing in our schools and our communities; by enforcing our civil rights laws and ensuring fairness in our criminal justice system; by providing this generation with ladders of opportunity that were unavailable for previous generations. It requires all Americans to realize that your dreams do not have to come at the expense of my dreams; that investing in the health, welfare, and education of black and brown and white children will ultimately help all of America prosper.
In the end, then, what is called for is nothing more, and nothing less, than what all the world's great religions demand - that we do unto others as we would have them do unto us. Let us be our brother's keeper, Scripture tells us. Let us be our sister's keeper. Let us find that common stake we all have in one another, and let our politics reflect that spirit as well.
For we have a choice in this country. We can accept a politics that breeds division, and conflict, and cynicism. We can tackle race only as spectacle - as we did in the OJ trial - or in the wake of tragedy, as we did in the aftermath of Katrina - or as fodder for the nightly news. We can play Reverend Wright's sermons on every channel, every day and talk about them from now until the election, and make the only question in this campaign whether or not the American people think that I somehow believe or sympathize with his most offensive words. We can pounce on some gaffe by a Hillary supporter as evidence that she's playing the race card, or we can speculate on whether white men will all flock to John McCain in the general election regardless of his policies.
We can do that.
But if we do, I can tell you that in the next election, we'll be talking about some other distraction. And then another one. And then another one. And nothing will change.
That is one option. Or, at this moment, in this election, we can come together and say, "Not this time." This time we want to talk about the crumbling schools that are stealing the future of black children and white children and Asian children and Hispanic children and Native American children. This time we want to reject the cynicism that tells us that these kids can't learn; that those kids who don't look like us are somebody else's problem. The children of America are not those kids, they are our kids, and we will not let them fall behind in a 21st century economy. Not this time.
This time we want to talk about how the lines in the Emergency Room are filled with whites and blacks and Hispanics who do not have health care; who don't have the power on their own to overcome the special interests in Washington, but who can take them on if we do it together.
This time we want to talk about the shuttered mills that once provided a decent life for men and women of every race, and the homes for sale that once belonged to Americans from every religion, every region, every walk of life. This time we want to talk about the fact that the real problem is not that someone who doesn't look like you might take your job; it's that the corporation you work for will ship it overseas for nothing more than a profit.
This time we want to talk about the men and women of every color and creed who serve together, and fight together, and bleed together under the same proud flag. We want to talk about how to bring them home from a war that never should've been authorized and never should've been waged, and we want to talk about how we'll show our patriotism by caring for them, and their families, and giving them the benefits they have earned.
I would not be running for President if I didn't believe with all my heart that this is what the vast majority of Americans want for this country. This union may never be perfect, but generation after generation has shown that it can always be perfected. And today, whenever I find myself feeling doubtful or cynical about this possibility, what gives me the most hope is the next generation - the young people whose attitudes and beliefs and openness to change have already made history in this election.
There is one story in particularly that I'd like to leave you with today - a story I told when I had the great honor of speaking on Dr. King's birthday at his home church, Ebenezer Baptist, in Atlanta.
There is a young, twenty-three year old white woman named Ashley Baia who organized for our campaign in Florence, South Carolina. She had been working to organize a mostly African-American community since the beginning of this campaign, and one day she was at a roundtable discussion where everyone went around telling their story and why they were there.
And Ashley said that when she was nine years old, her mother got cancer. And because she had to miss days of work, she was let go and lost her health care. They had to file for bankruptcy, and that's when Ashley decided that she had to do something to help her mom.
She knew that food was one of their most expensive costs, and so Ashley convinced her mother that what she really liked and really wanted to eat more than anything else was mustard and relish sandwiches. Because that was the cheapest way to eat.
She did this for a year until her mom got better, and she told everyone at the roundtable that the reason she joined our campaign was so that she could help the millions of other children in the country who want and need to help their parents too.
Now Ashley might have made a different choice. Perhaps somebody told her along the way that the source of her mother's problems were blacks who were on welfare and too lazy to work, or Hispanics who were coming into the country illegally. But she didn't. She sought out allies in her fight against injustice.
Anyway, Ashley finishes her story and then goes around the room and asks everyone else why they're supporting the campaign. They all have different stories and reasons. Many bring up a specific issue. And finally they come to this elderly black man who's been sitting there quietly the entire time. And Ashley asks him why he's there. And he does not bring up a specific issue. He does not say health care or the economy. He does not say education or the war. He does not say that he was there because of Barack Obama. He simply says to everyone in the room, "I am here because of Ashley."
"I'm here because of Ashley." By itself, that single moment of recognition between that young white girl and that old black man is not enough. It is not enough to give health care to the sick, or jobs to the jobless, or education to our children.
But it is where we start. It is where our union grows stronger. And as so many generations have come to realize over the course of the two-hundred and twenty one years since a band of patriots signed that document in Philadelphia, that is where the perfection begins.
Hoje há eleições para os orgãos nacionais da Ordem dos Arquitectos. No cumprimento do Acórdão proferido pelo Tribunal Administrativo do Círculo de Lisboa, serão repetidas as eleições para os orgãos nacionais da Ordem.
"Agora que se repetem as eleições para a Direcção Nacional da Ordem dos Arquitectos, é porventura importante perguntar onde tem parado os arquitectos portugueses nos tempos mais recentes.
Quando há 10 minutos atrás se abateu o silêncio ensurdecedor sobre o facto do primeiro-ministro português assumir a autoria do que podem ser considerados crime estéticos e uma aberração cultural, pareceria lógico perguntar onde param os arquitectos portugueses.
Agora também urge perguntar onde eles param quando, numa espécie de projecção suicida das tendências vigentes entre a população portuguesa, é esperada uma participação de cerca de 15% nas eleições para a Ordem dos Arquitectos.
Falta de auto-estima da classe profissional? Falta de opções? Ou pura falta de interesse? Alguma coisa está certamente em falta.
Face a outras classes profissionais liberais que disputam árdua e publicamente aqueles que vão representar os seus destinos, os arquitectos portugueses espelham bem o estado corrente do país.
Não é de admirar que exista um absentismo absoluto. Com a explosão “democrática” dos cursos de arquitectura, os arquitectos deste país são hoje uma perfeita amostra demográfica do país que temos. E ainda bem.
Porém, o que é eventualmente mais grave é que, apesar da sua formação superior, os arquitectos podem, assim, estar a ecoar a cultura cívica – ou a crise social de que falava a Sedes – com que hoje contamos em Portugal.
Comecemos pela crise.
Não é de excluir a hipótese de que o absentismo eleitoral dos arquitectos se explica por razões bastante prosaicas. A maior parte dos arquitectos, nomeadamente os mais jovens e desfavorecidos da classe não votam porque... não pagaram as quotas!
E porque é que não pagaram as quotas? Porque estão desempregados ou porque são tão mal remunerados que tem naturalmente que remediar outras necessidades mais básicas. Interessante, não é?
Isto sugere imediatamente que, se estão verdadeiramente interessados na participação eleitoral, os candidatos aos órgãos nacionais da Ordem dos Arquitectos deviam acordar um pacto de regime súbito: uma amnistia – ou, ecoando a extraordinária flexibilidade legislativa portuguesa, uma alteração estatutária temporária – para permitir que todos votassem nestas eleições.
Adiante. Subsistem ainda algumas outras possibilidades para justificar o absentismo geral dos arquitectos.
Também é verdade que muitos dos 16.000 arquitectos a que me refiro estão no estrangeiro. Face a uma tendência autofágica da classe arquitectónica portuguesa – que também lembra outra coisa qualquer – muitos dos arquitectos recentemente formados decidiram, pura e simplesmente, emigrar.
Isto é, o investimento e a permissividade do Estado na formação superior desta classe traduz-se, como já acontecia com cientistas e outras especializações de ponta, em exportação de cérebros ou de mão de obra competente, enquanto por aqui nos vamos lamuriando de desordenamento do território. Interessante, não é?
Esta é, aliás, uma resposta à questão que dá título a este artigo que combina perfeitamente com o equívoco ético e estético que recentemente envolveu o engenheiro civil José Sócrates. De facto, para quê pagar o custo dos serviços, dos recursos humanos e da competência técnica nas quais o Estado investiu os impostos dos contribuintes, se ainda há por aí uns chico-espertos que dão conta do recado e da paisagem?
Os chico-espertos – que às vezes até são arquitectos pois, afinal, eles também “andem aí...” – saem mais barato, têm uns contactos na Câmara local que “facilitam a coisa” e até foram os primeiros a perceber que mais vale fazer o gosto ao dedo do cliente, que isto não está para modas.
Mas, perguntar-se-á então, a arquitectura não estava na moda?
Depois da celebração e da celebridade de Siza Vieira e de Eduardo Souto Moura, os arquitectos não deveriam andar por aí felizes da vida?
Não adquiriram prestígio social e profissional?
Não obtiveram reconhecimento no “estrangeiro”?
Não tiveram, nos últimos 15 anos, maior exposição mediática interna do que médicos, advogados e engenheiros? Tendo eu realizado um doutoramento sobre a visibilidade da arquitectura em meios generalistas como o jornal O Público, posso assegurar que todas estas hipóteses são sustentadas e confirmadas por dados objectivos.
À excepção, claro, da parte da felicidade.
Curiosamente, em Portugal, a celebridade, a projecção e o prestígio não fertilizaram o campo. Deve ser uma característica endógena. Ou o facto de, apesar das aparências, sermos um país estruturalmente pobre.
As circunstâncias mudam e as conjunturas também e, depois de uma prolongada ascensão demográfica e mediática, os arquitectos portugueses parecem, de novo, ter desaparecido para parte incerta.
Apesar das campanhas do “direito à arquitectura” – já agora, algum não arquitecto ouviu falar disto? – os portugueses ainda não parecem estar dispostos a pagar a mais-valia do serviço arquitectónico.
Isto também justifica a ausência dos arquitectos.
E donde vem o problema? Será que os portugueses não valorizam ou não podem valorizar a sua qualidade de vida ao nível de outros países europeus? Será que não podem, pura e simplesmente, pagar os serviços de um arquitecto preferindo assim entregar-se assim às competências dos chico-espertos?
Será que têm de facto a sua própria cultura de gosto e preferem decidir por si? Ou será que a tabela de honorários dos arquitectos é desadequada à realidade do país? Ou serão as regras de mercado que estão a distorcer a oferta e a procura? Ou acontecerá, afinal, simplesmente, que os arquitectos deviam ser pagos por área a edificar e respectivo preço médio oficial de construção em vez de auferir em remunerações que flutuam com o preço final de obra – assim se acabando com muitos jogos de bastidores que prejudicam clientes e destinatários e assim se esvaziando também as distorções deontológicas que fazem com que seja um contrasenso económico para o arquitecto invistir tempo e recursos na redução de custos de obra do seu cliente?
Das mais gerais às mais prosaicas, estas, como muitas outras, são questões que justificam uma tomada de consciência e de posição dos arquitectos e dos seus legítimos representantes face à imagem que projectam de si próprios enquanto classe profissional.
Dado o contexto particular da nossa auto-proclamada “West Coast,” talvez os portugueses ainda não tenham percebido, de facto, qual o papel que a arquitectura pode desempenhar no seu dia-a-dia e na sua qualidade de vida colectiva.
Afinal, a maioria dos portugueses só sabem de longe da vã gloria dos centros culturais desenhados por arquitectos de “qualidade arquitectónica reconhecida” que, entretanto, tem as suas portas encerradas por faltas de verbas, programas e atractivos. E alguns mais iluminados só sabem que se tiverem dinheiro para investir em condomínios privados de luxo é bom que haja um “arquitecto de renome” envolvido.
Visto que assim já sabemos onde param os portugueses, onde param, entretanto, os arquitectos portugueses?
Onde param os candidatos a estas eleições da Ordem dos Arquitectos, esses que devíamos estar a ver e ouvir nos media de massa a exporem os seus programas, as suas opiniões públicas, as suas posições, as suas diferenças, as suas reflexões e proposições sobre o estado da prática da arquitectura em Portugal?
Onde param, neste preciso momento, as luminárias da arquitectura portuguesa, essas que prometeram mais intervenção crítica e social?
Onde param os críticos de arquitectura e os formadores de opinião, esses que, neste preciso momento, deviam estar a contrapor visões e perspectivas sobre o que precisa de mudar nos consensos excessivos em torno das vias únicas que actualmente caracterizam a arquitectura portuguesa?
E, para além dos emigrados, dos desenrascas e dos dignos representantes da geração rasca, onde param esses “ “jovens arquitectos” que constituem a maior parte dos arquitectos inscritos na Ordem e que agora se remetem, como é sua condição geracional mais vasta, a um silêncio comprometido com o status quo?
Por este andar, onde vão parar os arquitectos portugueses?"
Ontem saiu mais um artigo de opinião no DNm. A propósito das derrapagens das contas das empreitadas públicas. Sobre o assunto ainda cá voltarei. Entretanto pode ser lido e comentado aqui:
Hoje o Director da RTP-Madeira vai ao parlamento regional. O DNm aparece com a capa, uma reportagem e um artigo de opinião sobre o assunto. Isto é, não tanto sobre a ida ao parlamento de Leonel Freitas mas sobre o possível fracasso da oposição nas críticas que tem feito à qualidade do serviço público que RTPm tem prestado. Esse anunciado flop é fundamentado num estudo que a Entidade Reguladora para a Comunicação Social deverá tornar público em Março. Ao que parece o referido estudo apresenta estatísticas onde os partidos da oposição aparecem mais vezes do que o poder instituído, regional, autárquico ou partidário. A reportagem apresenta vários números, o título da capa conclui que a RTPm favorece a oposição e o artigo de opinião diz que a oposição se prepara para dar um tiro no pé. Mas será que alguém acredita que o caso deve ser tratado com contas de merceeiro? Saber se A tem mais tempo de antena que B não conclui obrigatoriamente que o A teve mais protagonismo. Há muitos truques para virar os resultados ao contrário. A propósito de truques, ainda há bem pouco tempo escrevi um post sobre o tempo dos “Comunicados Oficiais”. Nessa altura bem podia o telejornal ser todo preenchido com tempo de antena com críticas ao Governo se no final aparecesse um "Comunicado Oficial" a desmentir. Muitos truques existem, por isso não venham cá com estatísticas, por favor.
Esperemos que esse dossier que vai sair em Março não ligue só às estatísticas. Cá estaremos para ver.
Já agora, parabéns ao DNm pela oportunidade desta reportagem.
