Dois Corpos no mundo

Women loving women.
Women saying goodbye to women.
Women loving badly.
Bodies of the world.

https://vimeo.com/281341838

2020, video, 12:26 min.
Video available until April 16, 2022

… (I feel like) we lesbians can’t love all that well either, if that even exists but… yes, we exist. Lesbians. In a month the day of lesbian visibility and remembrance or “saudade” takes place. The first girlfriend I had. She was from Lanús, granddaughter of Hungarians, she looked like Pippi Longstocking, we met outside the context of a gay club. At FADU. The Faculty of Buenos Aires that brings together the careers of Design and Architecture (also Landscape Arcxhitecture). But after my stay in Rio de Janeiro. I came back. How distant are those days of such porteño love and Bauhaus aesthetics. My most Argentinean days by far. Argentine indie rock and pop welcoming that skinny me that quietly assimilated any Andean root I could have had. Back then (and I’m not talking about a long time ago) there weren’t so many cool lettering graphics imitating Elliot Tupac. We watched movies like Tarnation. Her white mother was homophobic and racist, mine was Andean and conciliatory. Once I asked her how could she loved me as I was, “How?” she asked. I explained my skin color. She thought it was ridiculous. I also thought it was ridiculous when she told me that she was not loved because she had epilepsy. What strange things people have in their heads. Don’t they learn, isn’t it enough to be lesbians? The most serious and longest bond, love is over. And a ex cis man lover still fluttering around. I went through my Catholic guilt cycles. All the aesthetics I forgot. A person without identity. Catholic lesbian. Incredible guilt. Gay or lesbian movies don’t help. They all talk about coming out of the closet. At that time, La vie d’Adèle was a big hit, but in that movie everything was wrong!

Many years later, many more years than it took me to get over my first love, I was talking about it with a Parisian girl I met through Tinder. I was trying to get into Film University without knowing what the future would bring for me. I thought it was a good idea to bring the orality of my mother’s Andean stories to the big screen. Even in short films. Of her sheep, of the things she saw in the sky, of her trip from Jujuy to Buenos Aires in those trains that Men*m^[1] privatized (that Argentinean president that we don’t have to name in order to avoid the mufa) stagnating thousands of towns all over Argentina. The thing is, I still didn’t get a scholarship. Cute was the Parisian speaking bad Spanish. In Argentina it’s so common to be shouted “negra de mierda” or not to be served because of your features that I really thought she was just looking for a person to hang out with . But when she started flirting with me I understood that it wasn’t like that. Slowly. On Tinder, the people who talked to me the most were first world foreigners. Fetish? Exoticization? Naaaaaaa. Earlier I had met an Italian woman with whom the conversation was like “I’m from Florence” ah to which I replied “Really? My name is Florencia” Nothing ever happened. Besides, everyone here is called Florencia. The Parisian was that adventure on which my first feature film is based. Written but not yet produced, because I’m still lower middle class bin spite of my studies. Love is so wrong and we learn it so badly… I ended up in Paris. At that time my Macri aunt was traveling to the Caribbean and Europe, Macri^[2] had already been governing for some time. I had no debts. I had been a backpacker, so those stories”Wild”-like stories–because for women (without Amalia Granata^[3]-like differences) it is not so easy to experience the “Into the Wild”–had taught me to travel. Only to do the Great Almodovar after that, he worked for Telefónica in a callcenter, me… in Tele….  I had no savings, but I had no debts. I took that trip to Europe. A place I never wanted to go.

Now I live in Jujuy and until a few days ago I had a girlfriend. I feel that lesbians sometimes can’t cross social classs. I have two brown girlfriends and in both cases my porteñitud played against me. They were two different cases. The westernness, the social class, being judged by other ways of life more of a capital city of such a Europeanized country.

Oh, my poor first feature film. I’m going to be judged.

Ah yes. The idealism of the short film that’s still missing some work. Excuse my lack of budget to adjust. After the French white bobó Parisian–bourgeois boheme on sabbatical year in Latin America–but long before my Andean couples… there was Rebeca–pseudonym–a girl from Rio. The French girl with all her Liberté, égalité, fraternité was embarrassed to be a lesbian. I was embarrassed with my girlfriend who was the granddaughter of Hungarians. And Rebeca was not. She was from a big city in Latin America. She understood racism, cinema and anthropology in which she specialized. A classmate of Marielle Franco, sometimes we racialized women can access a Catholic University of Rio or a FUC. Lots of turns.

I wore those signs of previous defeat. And I understood something but it was not enough. We did not see each other again.

Will those lovers that isolated me for being from different groups understand me when we become equal?

I feel that we lesbians also could not overcome social classes regardless of our skin color.

And the LGBT movies that keep talking about coming out of the closet. And the movies about the disappeared that still don’t talk about Ledesma. And so much mainstream in our diversity that does not help us understand each other.

Women loving women.

Women saying goodbye to women.

Women loving women badly.

Bodies of the world.

Rebeca liked Tarkovsky. The Parisian girl liked Xavier Dolan the most.

PD1: I am no longer a Catholic.

PS2: My aunt made those trips before Macri. After that she could not. I am not in favor of Macri or at least much very many times less than Frente Para Todos (with whom I am not in favor).^[4]