Hace veinte años Ancelotti le dobló las manos a Buyo con un cañonazo desde treinta metros y dormimos una noche negra, la de San Siro. Los esbirros de Berlusconi nos endosaron cinco chicharros en la frente como cinco soles. Era el Milan de los holandeses, ese que no nos dejaba pasar de medio campo ni a base del oficio de los atronadores huevos de Hugo Sánchez. Ahora, con la vuelta de nuestro amado presidente Floren, suena para ocupar el banquillo madridista el ínclito ex jugador italiano, que es como un hijo de otro tiempo. Se me antoja que el spaghetti no duraría dos semanas en las fauces de las fieras que habitan el Bernabéu. El martes pasado sufrimos otra de esas noches para recordar con amargura, la de Anfield y el jodío “niño” Torres. Los atléticos se reían en sus cubiles y nos martirizaban con sarcásticos sms, ese decadente medio de comunicación en los tiempos duros que corren. Sólo un día les duró la alegría, abandonados a su suerte y a las ideas de un entrenador salido también de la era del cromagnon futbolístico. Abel Resino, a pesar de esa cara de chaval durete, en su etapa como pelotero de segunda clase, se pasó casi una década llorando penas y echándole la culpa de las desgracias colchoneras al empedrado de oro de su mal vecino del norte. Qué tiempos aquellos cuando los dos equipos habitaban en mi barrio. Unos en Chamartín, los otros en El Metropolitano. Sólo había que bajar una de las cuestas de esta montaña que habito, hacia un lado o hacia el otro, para convertirse en fanático de cualquiera de los dos colores; la ladera interminable que conduce a la Castellana o el caminito de minivalles y minimontañas que serpentea hacia las orillas de la Ciudad Universitaria. En las curvas con aforo ilimitado de los fondos del Metropolitano chillaban muchos madridistas ocultos, mientras que en el gallinero recién construído de Chamartín vociferaban muchos truhanes vocingleros (los bocazas de la época) con el pijama a rayas rojiblancas bien tapado debajo de la ropa, lo que por otra parte venía muy bien a estos últimos para atenuar el cortante viento del este que barría en invierno esos vetustos graderíos. Era una afición única que se dispersó cuando Vicente Calderón trasladó a sus sufridas huestes a la cruel servidumbre de la zona sur de Madrid, a la tierra que cruza el putrefacto río Manzanares.

Las imágenes que nos quedan del estadio Metropolitano, que ni yo mismo llegué a conocer más que a través de relatos sobre antiguas leyendas, dibujan grises tardes de inexistente gloria perdidas en el infecto tiempo. Lo mismo ocurre con “La Pouppée”, antro donde tantos puteros se han encontrado y reencontrado, donde nuestro glorioso Julian conoció a Maite Zaldívar. El top-less de la “muñeca” me sorprendió la semana pasada con el cartel de “Se Alquila” colgado sobre su cierre. Ya comentábamos hace tiempo que este sui géneris bar de copas tenía unos horarios de apertura la mar de raros. El portero con bombín, al estilo del Ritz, que guardaba su puerta, cada vez hacía menos acto de aparición. Al pasar los viernes por sus cercanías siempre imaginábamos al gran caudillo Muñoz admirando los pechos de su Maitechu querida, durante aquellos primeros tiempos en los que ambos se ganaban el pan como buenamente podían. A buen seguro que ahora, entre las bambalinas vacías del local, se producirán fenómenos extraños: poltergeist que vacían las botellas de Whisky DYK Reserva 7 Años abandonadas, psicofonías con carcajadas de algún cliente borracho o de alguna barrista americanista subida de revoluciones, apariciones espectrales de señores con bigote y carnet de Falange o de ectoplasmas con las tetas al aire.

No sería de extrañar que algunos decadentes clientes habituales hayan llorado a sus puertas la pérdida de este club social de postín. Es posible que el ex ministro Bermejo, que vivía hasta hace pocos días a escasas dos cuadras de distancia del bareto (en un piso reformado a golpe de talonario por el estado), hiciera alguna escapadita a pillar cacho al local. Tendría mucho éxito entre la muchachada de gachises gracias a su impactante sonrisa etrusca Profidén de chimpancé afortunado. Ni tampoco se descarta que Alan Kennedy, el mítico pelotero que le metió el gol al Madrid en la final de París del 81, hiciese una excursión por el antro puteril de Plaza de España durante la última visita de su Liverpool a Madrid. Cómo nos amargó la noche el señor Kennedy. Recuerdo aquel partido hipnotizado delante de la tele. Esperábamos ansiosos, los jóvenes y los viejos del barrio, que aquel Real Madrid de los García, de Camaho, del joven Agustín, de Del Bosque, de Stielike, de Juanito, Santillana y Cunningham, saltase al campo a redimir más de dos décadas de pobreza e ignominia. Un mal presagio se ciñó sobre nuestras gargantas y nuestros culos blancos desde el comienzo: una grúa tiró por accidente un tendido de cables y no llegó sonido directo del partido hasta bien entrada la segunda parte. El choque transcurrió gris, entre un aséptico silencio ambiental sólo aderezado por los sosos graznidos del comentarista que  toreaba el desaguisado  desde Prado del Rey. De repente, Alan Kennedy se encontró un balón y fusiló al eternamente apollardado Agustín, que tuvo que convivir, ya para siempre, con esa herida irrestañable. El cancerbero gallego se arrastró durante años por los banquillos, envejecido prematuramente, hasta casi su fin. Sólo era titular de tarde en tarde y en partidos amistosos. En uno de esos bolos, contra el Spartak de Moscú, nos colocamos en el fondo norte, despoblado de público, con el deseo de desquiciarle, por pura diversión. No paramos en los cuarenta y cinco minutos de aquella segunda mitad de decirle que estaba acabado, que era un anciano, y de preguntarle si tenía el lumbago inflamado. Nos regaló algunas miradas asesinas para el recuerdo, y debieron hacerle mella nuestras palabras, pues, inexplicablemente, montó en cólera a pocos minutos del final, comenzó a correr como un pollo sin cabeza a protestar hasta el centro del campo y el pobre árbitro no tuvo más remedio que expulsarlo.

Años más tarde, cuando el espigado mancebo ya estaba retirado del balompié profesional, volví a encontrármelo. Entrenaba a un equipo de niños en un campo de tierra perdido del barrio de Peña Grande. Como resultado de un eterno bucle existencial temporal a merced de un retorcido déjà vu, un tipo que pasaba junto a la valla de alambre del recinto le espetó de repente: “Agustín, qué viejo estás”. Él le contestó con un ágil y chulesco grito: “sí, estoy viejo, pero forrado”. Agustín siguió con el mantra de voces dirigido hacia sus jóvenes pupilos, sin aparentemente atribuir ninguna importancia al incidente. La frecuencia, la cotidianeidad o el tiempo actúan como bálsamo protector, como Gelocatil atenuador de dolores eternos. En las noches mágicas del Bernabéu vikingo de finales de los ochenta siempre sonaba la misma canción mántrica, cuyo videoclip nos inyectaban a todo volumen para encaminar nuestras obtusas y borrachas mentes hacia aquellas remontadas imposibles de la “Quinta del buitre”. Era el “live y life” de los teutones Opus , horterada de estribillo regurgitable hasta la saciedad. Butraqueño parecía físicamente una bastarda copia engominada de Eddie Cochran cantando el “Summertime blues”. Ese sí que era un himno. No hay nada mejor en este mundo que ponerlo a todo trapo en la radio del coche, tronando junto al “Papa’s got a brand new bag” de Ottis Reding (su versión es infinitamente mejor que la de James Brown,  y mira que ésta es buena) y pisar el acelerador. Ni mantras budistas ni hostias.

gachas@excite.com

In the mid 1930’s Hans Bellmer created a progression of flexible sculptures that he documented in a series of photographs. This collection of images, which was entitled La Poupee, was said to have been the embodiment of his unrequited lust for a young girl. Positioned in a variety of ways La Poupee contains the essence of sensuality and vulnerability, but it also holds the very real nature of sexual violence. By praising such work, was society simply acknowledging the violence of the objectification of one’s desire, or were they supporting it? One must look at the works being created during such an era to truly understand why these subjects were important and accepted.

During the surrealist period many artists explored the darker side of their sexuality through imagery. Edward Munch was one such artist, even ejaculating on his painting of the Madonna.Salvador Dali, on the other hand, displayed his love for one single woman by placing her posterior and face in a number of his paintings. It was said that the eroticism of focusing on one woman was one of the common themes displayed in many works during this period. This in itself, while sounding romantic, can be an unhealthy act. After all, obsession is just another form of dehumanization through objectification and abuse. It is no secret that the majority of artists working at this time were men, and that the art that was produced seemed to be a part of their inner Freud.  Andre Breton, with his novel Nadja, even exploited a woman’s madness to answer the question that begins his novel Nadja with “Who am I?”

However, female artists such as Meret Oppenheim with her Object (Luncheon in Fur) were also exploring taboo ideas that were still being deemed subversive by many. One often has to go to extremes to discover the true nature of an idea; perhaps the sexuality of the surrealists was merely a response to the repression of the times?

In producing his series of photographs in an anonymous book, entitled La Poupee, Bellmer seemed to be aware of the brutality in his own work. It was later deemed degenerate by the Nazi Army, namely for its opposition of the Aryan ideal of perfection, forcing him to flee to Paris. In Paris his work was well praised under surrealists such as Breton because of its references to the Femme-Enfant also known as the ideal of dual realities between the feminine and the adolescent. This is only where the story becomes known; perhaps one has to look to the beginning to truly understand why Bellmer’s work seems so violent and alluring at the same time. 

A draftsman since 1926, Hans Bellmer first encountered the inspiration for La Poupee as he was entering his thirtieth year. She was a beautiful cousin of his who went by the name of Ursula Naguschewski, and she was said to have been fifteen or sixteen. Not only was she in close relation to him, she was also still considered a child causing her to be unattainable. Nabakov’s Lolita had not yet been written, but the feelings of guilt at the attraction and taboo of a young girl is a familiar story. During this time, Bellmer also attended a performance of Jacques Offenbach’s Tales of Hoffmann, in which the protagonist falls in love with an automaton named Olympia.

With the influence of Futurism and the sexuality of the machine, Bellmer also had the distinct influence of his childhood toys. Comparing the lust a grown man might feel to the love of a yielding object, such as a doll, brings to light the fact that while he may have desired his young cousin he did not understand her. As he would have us believe with his creations, she was merely an arrangement of firm limbs, large eyes, and innocence. It was also known that Bellmer was extremely reclusive, mainly working alone away from the interference of others. To deal with his lust he felt the need to explore the formula that held his infatuation, and in his words, “to construct an artificial girl with anatomical possibilities. . . capable of re-creating the heights of passion even to inventing new desires.” 

His first attempt at sculpture, La Poupee was definitely such a creation. With a face that held ephemeral beauty and vulnerability she possessed the child-like naiveté and womanly appearance that is often associated with youth. In one version her body is a slender torso accompanied by (but not attached to) two pairs of double-jointed legs that connect at the pelvis, adorned in white socks and mary-janes. In some versions she is completely armless as well. She is capable of being turned upside down, taken apart, open, and unable to defend herself. There is something tragically beautiful in her narrative as it exemplifies the male gaze. The look in her eyes says it all, large and melancholy, knowing in their acceptance of her position.

Was La Poupee truly an act of passion and yearning as Bellmer declared? Passion is fleeting after all, and can lead to contempt, especially if such passion is directed at something elusive. Bellmer further investigated his desire for what was considered inaccessible in his essay “Memories of the Doll Theme” (1934). In his concluding thoughts in this work he became bitter at the unavailability of the young girls he so often describes, and in turn imagines a doll made in their image that is incapable of escaping his grasp and gaze as he “probes with aggressive fingers”.  His work not only suggests dominance within the male gaze, but curiosity as well. There is a need in Bellmer’s work to unveil the world of the adolescent female he is objectifying because in her silence she is a mystery to him. The elusiveness that this silence suggests is a mistaken notion, as it evokes such scorn in Bellmer that it leaves him wanting to contain the very essence of purity that it suggests and even exploit it.

 In acknowledging his objectification of the nubile form Bellmer seems to have stumbled across something much deeper, the tragedy of being that nubile form. Young women, though beautiful, often seek validation in a variety of ways. Society pushes such an archetype to be complacent and accepting of any affection given to them, even forcing them to play the role of the victim.          

In her book, Dilemmas of Desire, Deborah L. Tolman explores the consequences of the way girls are portrayed as the object or the victim of someone else’s desire, but virtually never as someone with acceptable sexual feelings of their own. Tolman describes that girls, as they enter adolescence, “may lose an ability to speak about what they know, see, feel, and experience” as they are pushed to conform to cultural standards. Many experience a “crisis connection” , a feeling of alternate parallels between the self and the being they are objectified as. This is extremely similar to the notions described with the surrealist idea of the Femme-Enfant.

 In Tolman’s research she interviewed a number of young girls about their experiences with desire and the consequences it brought about. “While speaking of the power of their embodied feelings, the girls in this sample described the difficulties that their sexual feelings posed, being aware of both the potential for pleasure and the threat of danger that their desire holds for them.”  It seems that even more than the ones who would desire her, the archetype of the Femme-Enfant is most aware of the contempt that is often aimed at her for her inability to speak. As Tolman, in reference to an experience related to her by one of her subjects, states “She learned that her own desire may lead to male violence…” Which brings us back to Bellmer’s suggested brutality in response to the young girls he cannot obtain.

To obtain is to suggest a possession more violating to the inner being of a person than simple physical interaction. The very notion of obtainment shows the Femme-Enfant that she is no longer seen as human but as an object. Trapped in between the conscience of a child and the reality that the world forces upon her as her form becomes divided, silence seems to be the only option in preserving the part that is still sacred. By what appears to be pure accident, Bellmer’s La Poupee seems to bring to light the voice of young women in the middle of adolescent sexuality.

 For many years La Poupee was a series of work that caused intense hostility for me when I looked at her, but I kept finding myself attracted to her body and its display in Bellmer’s photographs. The touch of color in the black and white film, the sad helplessness of her situation; I realized then that I was angry because I could relate to her in a way that I feel many can, regardless of gender.

What started out as an act of lust and sensual fervor has become a social commentary on the being herself. In the end Bellmer was able to convey the human condition through this piece, which is the reason she draws us back to her again and again. Perhaps society was only beginning to see the truth behind the violence, causing this series to be so acknowledged during its time. It went beyond beauty and the feminine, it is truly about the confusion we all feel when we are coming of age in a world that encourages silence.

“The body resembles a sentence that seems to invite us to dismantle it into its component letters, so that its true meanings may be revealed anew through an endless stream of anagrams.”-Hans Bellmer