“Marica somos todos.”

An interesting statement, that roughly translates as “we are all queer”.  Yet read it again: apart from the literal meaning of Marica, deriving from Maricón, (meaning homosexual), the slogan of this one-man play hopes to dig a little deeper than that.

Marica is an epilogue to director Pepe Cibrian Campoy’s struggle for rights; an artistic outlet, through explaining and pondering on the death of a famous poet, writer, theatre director and role model: Federico Garcia Lorca.

But more than just a play, Marica is part of the real-life journey of creator and sole protagonist Pepe, whose campaigns for gay rights took him to the Senate prior to the passing of same sex marriage laws in Argentina in 2010.

“This homage to Federico is at the same time dedicated to all of those who, throughout the history of humanity, were sacrificed one way or another; for thinking and being different,” Pepe states in the programme.

Much controversy continues to surround Lorca’s death. It is widely believed that the Spanish poet was killed by a Marxist group on the brink of the Spanish Civil War in 1936 due to his outspoken liberal views. Some historians allege that his sexual orientation were a major reason behind his murder.

In his theatre work, Pepe attributes the death of Lorca to his political views and sexual orientation. Even still, the intricate text tampers and plays with this, questioning life, death, unrequited love and other people’s feelings toward Lorca (and Pepe himself) throughout the monologue.

The play is performed in one act, with Pepe playing all five characters: Federico Garcia Lorca, his father, mother, his murderer, and friend Salvador Dali. The script itself is very moving and can be unsettling in parts, for example, when the role of Lorca questions his death before it occurs (“Will they cry for me on the day that I die?”).

Each line in the play is detailed and poetic. In another moment, Lorca’s personal insecurities and feelings toward his killer are revealed: “Maybe he might have applauded or rejected one of my works or, what’s more probable is that he wouldn’t have even known who I was… I would want him to cry more for me, more than anybody, because of him I have cried more than ever in my life.”

Another particularly gripping scene surrounds Lorca’s killer and the poet having a full conversation before he is murdered.

Pepe Cibrian Campoy {Photo: Alejandro Palacios}

The master acting by Pepe is what makes the show. He is able to draw passion, anxiety, sadness and emotion to the characters the whole way through the play and cleverly distinguish between them. Dressed simply in a white shirt and white trousers, with but one prop – a wooden chair – above the literal extremity and dramatic content of the story itself, Pepe manages to communicate across with intensity, the complexities of discrimination against people because they are different.

It is clear that this play embodies Pepe – who is as humble and down to earth off the stage as on it – and his personal views are displayed in a very sensitive fashion. Inside the small and intimate Teatro del Cubo – a beautiful and perfect venue for this play hidden the cobbled backstreets of the Abasto neighbourhood – were pictures of Lorca, collections from different periods of his life. The sense of adoration for the Spanish playwright and poet was clear.

The content hits close to home for all of the Argentines who waited so long for the homosexual marriage law to be approved in Argentina. Pepe is seen as a pioneer not just in the theatre world – he is one of Argentina’s biggest and most famous theatre directors and writers– but due to his efforts on spreading the message about gay rights.

With audience members including the likes of Maria Rachid, the former vice-president of the National Institute against Discrimination, Xenophobia and Racism, and now legislator for the City government, it is clear to see that Pepe has influenced above and beyond the four walls of the theatre.

Having experienced the more musical side of Pepe Cibrian Campoy’s work as a writer and director in the world of Argentine theatre (including Dracula and Excalibur), it is refreshing to see a whole new side to his skills as an actor.

This play managed to delve deeper into the issues of homosexuality, society, feeling, overall being different and being discriminated against. Even if your Spanish is not fully up to scratch, it’s definitely worth a look into, especially if you’re a fan of Lorca.

My hat goes off to Pepe. This is a thought-provoking, wonderful production.

Maxine Swann (Photo: Marisela La Grave)

“It’s been a long week,” explains Maxine Swann, sitting down with a glass of white wine. And coming from a woman who’s launching her third book in only a few days, that’s not hard to believe.

As a writing coach, contributor of The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal and The Huffington Post, and an award-winning author of the novels ‘Serious Girls’ and ‘Flower Children’, her writing has received literary recognition in the form of a Ploughshares’ Cohen Award, an O. Henry Award, a Pushcart Prize, and was also selected to appear in the 1998 and 2006 collections of ‘Best American Short Stories’.

Originally from the rural state of Pennsylvania, Maxine lived in New York, Paris and Pakistan before arriving in Buenos Aires, but something about migration to faraway places obviously agrees with her. For this edition of BA Lives, The Indy caught up with her to talk about her not-so-recent relocation and the theme of migration in her new book ‘The Foreigners’.

You’ve lived in Buenos Aires for almost ten years now, how did you come to settle here?

Well, I arrived in Buenos Aires in 2001 with the intention of staying for a few months, and, now that I say this, I realise there’s a pattern here. I arrived in Paris in 1991 to study for a semester and stayed for seven years. I arrived in Pakistan in 1998 with the idea of staying for a month and stayed for over a year. But I’ve never stayed anywhere as long as I’ve stayed in Buenos Aires. I feel like it suits me. I’m happy here – relaxed and playful, and inventive in a new way. Who knows why it happens, but I do feel like certain tendencies I have towards solitude, or being overly reserved, are corrected here.

Can you tell me a little about your latest book ‘The Foreigners’?

Yes, of course. I started writing ‘The Foreigners’ without knowing what the book would be about. I just knew I wanted to capture Buenos Aires, so I began with descriptions of the streets of Chacarita, that kind of thing. I wanted to capture certain feelings the place had given me- of freedom, happiness, loneliness. Of course, I’m also a foreigner here, so my Buenos Aires is a foreigner’s Buenos Aires; which is the other thing I wanted to write about – what it means and how it feels to be a foreigner. So I chose my characters based on that. They each have a different experience of “foreignness”, that I’ve either experienced myself or observed in others.

What interests you about the theme?

I think the interaction between a living creature and its environment  is really fascinating - the intensity of that relationship. There’s a metaphor running throughout the book comparing foreigners to invasive plant species. Some plant species, when placed in a foreign environment, simply wither straight away. There’s too much moisture in the air, or too little, or not enough minerals in the soil, or too much iron, who knows. I’ve spent a lot of time living abroad and, in my experience, the same thing happens with foreigners. Some are immediately diminished by their new surroundings, while others flourish in entirely unexpected ways – sometimes beautifully and sometimes frighteningly – growing rampantly, choking other species, blocking their light, that kind of thing. I think sometimes foreigners feel free to act with a kind of impunity, where the codes are all unfamiliar and their own identities in the new place are suddenly hazy. There’s a chain of events in my book that also has to do with that.

The book cover of 'The Foreigners' by Maxine Swann (Photo courtesy of Maxine Swann)

Your previous books ‘Serious Girls’ and ‘Flower Children’ have both been based on your own upbringing and adolescence. Did writing about adult characters in this book feel like a natural progression?

Yes, I think so. I did suddenly find myself fascinated by adulthood. That said, this book is much less autobiographical than my other books. Part of the evolution also had to do with that, feeling freer to invent, and create rather than reflect the world, even if the reflection was always substantially deformed. I often think that when we write fiction we write our dream version of the world, everything switched around, several people conflated into one – your uncle becomes the dog on the corner  - that kind of thing. Here I think I stepped even further away, which is maybe why writing this book was so enjoyable.

As a foreigner yourself, there’s perhaps an assumption this book is at least tangentially autobiographical. To what extent are the characters in the book based on yourself or your own experiences as a foreigner in Buenos Aires?

There are definitely some parallels in the book with my own experiences – the loneliness that the Austrian woman feels, and the moments of delirious freedom that the American woman does.

All three of your novels, ‘Serious Girls’ in 2003, ‘Flower Children’ in 2005 and now ‘The Foreigners’ in 2011, have been completed since moving to Argentina. How do you find the creative climate in Buenos Aires compared to other places you’ve lived?

I think there’s more space here to be experimental than in the United States. There, literature seems to be increasingly at the mercy of the marketplace – meaning everyone’s main concern is how many books you sell. Not only editors, but writers too – because the amount of books you sell determines the value of your next book contract. So, needless to say, it’s not an environment that encourages audacity. Here, probably because there’s nearly no money involved, the criteria are different. I feel for writers here from a financial perspective, but on the other hand, I find it very refreshing.

You also run two writing workshops each year. Tell me a little about the workshops and what motivates you to teach?

I’ve been directing writing workshops for a while, in different settings. I think teaching is a perfect antidote to writing. I enjoy helping people figure out how to express what they’re trying to express. Having spent so much time struggling with that myself, I also think it makes sense to pass along whatever knowledge I’ve come up with. Also, writing is so solitary. I like trying to find ways to make it more social. I still hope to find a way to write a collaborative novel – it’s one of my cherished future projects!

And finally, with three books already under your belt, what’s next?

At the moment I’m writing a new novel that takes place in Pakistan. It’s a book that’s been germinating in my mind for years so it’s great to finally have it on the table.

Copies of Maxine Swann’s ‘The Foreigners’ will be on sale at the public launch party where Maxine will be joined by special guests discussing the book. Readers of The Argentina Independent are invited to attend at 7.30pm, Costa Rica 5824, Palermo Hollywood, Buenos Aires.

Benjamin Kunkel (Photo: Alexei Hay)

For the latest edition of BA lives, The Argentina Independent spoke with Benjamin Kunkel. Originally from Colorado, the 37-year-old Harvard and Columbia graduate previously lived and worked in New York. It was there that he wrote for a number of publications, including ‘Dissent’ and ‘The New Yorker’, and published his successful first novel ‘Indecision’ in 2006. In addition to co-founding the magazine ‘N+1′ in 2004, Benjamin has written a play, and is now in the process of writing his second novel.

How did you come to live Buenos Aires?

I happened to be asked a number of years ago to write a travel article about the city, and it was right when this novel I wrote was published, which meant that I was finally in a position to leave New York which was something I had been wanting to do for years. And so the first place I saw, in a sense, after I had become free, was Buenos Aires. There are lots of other foreign cities that I liked but I thought this one seemed more interesting and more dynamic than a place like Paris or Barcelona which I think have become museums in a sense, museums of themselves.

And how do you find being in Argentina?

I think it’s an interesting country if you’re an American because in some respects they’re very similar countries, in the sense of being societies of immigrants, these kind of promised lands, quite big and isolated. And yet, of course, they’re totally different.

One of the things I noticed is that there are extremely similar statues of Columbus in Columbus Circle in New York and outside the Casa Rosada here. Our Columbus in New York looks west, its as though he’s just arrived in this ‘New World’ and he’s looking forward. But Columbus here looks east, it’s as though he’s arrived in the Americas and is immediately looking back to where he’s come from.

And can you tell me about your magazine, N+1?

Anyone who reads the Argentina Independent should subscribe to N+1. It’s a great publication.

How did it come about?

There was a group of us who’d gone to school together and we didn’t know each other particularly well as graduates. We found that it was relatively easy to publish book reviews, but we wanted to write essays; we wanted to write crazy polemics; stories that were unpublishable because they were too essay-ish; we wanted to do all these things and there was no way to do these things without getting our own publication where we could publish what we ourselves wanted to write. We didn’t want to be merely political, or merely literary, or merely critical. [In N+1] there’s a mixture of politics, and more theoretical writing, fiction, a mixture of all that stuff that I think is relatively unique. Although to say it’s relatively unique is probably a contradiction in terms.

Previous editions of N+1 magazine (Photo: Helen Morgan)

Who are the contributors to the magazine?

People we invite, people who solicit us, and the editors themselves. A pretty good mix. To a great extent we’ve been poached: we find great writers and people like The New Yorker poach them. Which is fine. Like the farm teams in major league baseball, we have located and developed a lot of the talent.  We just don’t have the money to pay anybody, so we find these great writers, and then we publish them and then the people who can pay steal them. Which is okay because it means that everybody is happy in a way, they don’t write for us any more so we have to find new young writers. Meanwhile these people are being paid a decent amount.

Could you tell me a bit about your play?

It’s a play with a somewhat heavy, existentialist sounding premise which is namely that these people live in an apartment infested by flies. It takes place on the day after the exterminator has come. It’s got all this hopefully light physical comedy to it because they are swatting at flies all the time. It’s like a tragical farse: it ought to be really funny and really dreadful if it succeeds.

How was the transition from fiction to theatre?

The transition didn’t feel too hard, and in some senses was quite nice. One of the things you can’t do in theatre is to give access to the minds of the characters, they can only act and say things. And for me one of the difficulties of writing fiction is that it’s hard to stop talking about what’s going on in people’s heads. I think there’s just a lot more pressure on a play to be absolutely efficient, and not have any part of it be dead space. Most great novels have longeurs: they’ve got problems, passages that are not so great, and the theatre is less tolerant of that.

What were the themes you were hoping to incorporate?

Certainly among other things it’s a play about global warming, a play about feeling like you’re in the midst of a declining, perhaps falling, civilisation. As I say, it’s not meant to be very heavy, it’s meant to be heavy and light at the same time: the unbearable lightness of civilisational collapse.

As a writer, how do you see the literary world in Argentina?

To tell you the truth I don’t have the clearest notion of the literary world in Argentina…I think it’s a country that I think has distinguished itself in literary terms more than any of the other arts. If you think of really imposing, excellent Argentine writers, that’s a pretty long list.

If you look at the history of Argentine writing a lot of great writers after the Second World War ended up dying abroad, expatriating themselves for long periods. I think that’s not happening nearly so much now because the political condition of the country has improved so much, writers don’t need to be abroad in the same way. Some of the great writers, even Borges, who spent most of his life here, even he went abroad to die, partly for political reasons I think. Someone like César Aira, who I admire enormously, he’s sticking around, and I think there’s no reason not to.

One of the things that’s interesting that’s happened to Argentina since the crisis is that it has become a more inward looking country, which with a lot of countries might not be a good thing but for this country I think probably has been a pretty good thing. I think once upon a time Argentines who had a certain level of education looked abroad culturally too much, and wanted to live abroad. I think the problems with the exchange rate have meant that Argentines have had to come to know their own country better.

Photo by Piers Calvert

 

Although 27-year-old Swiss author Dorotea Schepens didn’t plan out her latest book, she certainly planned the epic journey that allowed her to finish it. Selling up her flat in Geneva, she boarded a cargo slip in Belgium at the beginning of December 2007 and spent the best part of the next five weeks in complete silence, just writing. The silence wasn’t, as you would expect, necessary to help her concentrate (although she agrees it helped) but rather to understand better her two main characters who finish the book travelling in silence aboard a cargo ship.

You have a masters degree in philosophy and history of religion from the University of Geneva, you are a dancer and also a classically-trained pianist. When and why did you decide to become an author?

I had written essays on poetry and philosophy, as well as writing a previous novel, although it is yet to be published, so I have always been interested in writing. It’s as if the music and the dancing combine to improve my writing. They are all closely connected. I also worked as a waitress, which taught me a lot about people and was an invaluable experience for me as a writer. It isn’t something you necessarily decide to do, but rather something you have to do.

What is the book about and how did the experience help you better understand your characters?

The book is a tragedy about a young man who works in a library and an older man who works as a bank director and who regularly pops in to indulge his love of literature. One day the two exchange glances across a bar and become locked in a psychological battle played out in silence and with life-affecting consequences for each of them. The book ends with their journey on a ship. What was fascinating for me was that despite the silence, you are still accepted as part of the community on board. You are still a person, but a simple person that doesn’t speak. It was interesting as well as helpful to watch the other people on board and notice how relationships develop over the course of the trip.

Describe an average day for you aboard the ship.

It was approximately 200-metres long and full of cargo. There was a crew and eight passenger cabins. I used to wake up about 6.30am, take a walk around the ship and then spend the next ten hours writing, of course allowing time for meals. There were other people on board but I kept myself to myself, usually with a book or music when in company. Obviously there were times when you had to speak, but in those situations I would just say one or two words and do my best to keep myself to myself. I was living like a monk and became incredibly relaxed. In order to really get to the bottom of things, to understand things better and really feel the world you have to strip away at all the layers, and that is what I was able to do by having so much thinking time, so much time alone. For me, the journey to, rather than the arrival at, is what is most important. Life, after all, is a journey.

What inspired you to write the book?

I really don’t know. From things I have seen, or experienced, I suppose. I don’t know from where a story arrives in your mind, nor do I particularly want to know. It is like a tune that enters my head, which I then develop.

Photo by Piers Calvert

 

What was your first impression of BA when you docked?

My first impression was that it was like a city with no horizon, and, having lived here for a little while now, you realise that you could spend your entire life here without seeing it and forgetting that there is life outside it. It was like an island in its own right.

What advice would you give to aspiring writers who just can’t seem to sit down and start writing?

Generally speaking, everyone is different and has their own way of doing things, but if I had to give advice, I would say: don’t force anything, just believe in yourself. Things can often start with just a phrase or a few words. Perhaps try writing something without demanding anything from yourself and without knowing exactly what it is that you are writing. Perhaps try describing something, whether it be an emotion or a person or a landscape and treat it like an exercise. More often than not, by doing this something will spring from one idea and lead to the next, and so on…

Paul Perry is a man of many talents. Writer, English teacher, actor, translator and tour guide, he left the comfort of his Philadelphia upbringing, and has been building his home and life here in Buenos Aires since the nineties. He has just launched his new book, ‘Buenos Aires Chronicles…Poetically Porteño’ – a collection of poems that depict life here in Buenos Aires from the perspective of an onlooker.

Photo by John Harris

When did you first come to Buenos Aires?

My parents bought me a ticket here as my graduation gift. Everyone else got a car. I thought I had been unlucky…but that trip changed my whole philosophy of life. It took me out of the bubble. Most of my other friends are still in Philly.

What brought you back?

I saw there was more to life. That brought me back. Then I met a girl. Gradually my vacation became my life.

What’s your favourite part of Buenos Aires to walk around?

Downtown…though I have a love hate relationship with it. The noise and the hustle can get to you, but at the same time it makes you feel really alive. I will always look at the city through the eyes of a tourist – it never ceases to intrigue. I feel I could be anywhere in the world.

What is your favourite Argentine cuisine?

Asado…no locro…actually fugazza. I really like fugazza (pizza dough with onion topping).

What Argentine foods do you dislike?

Mate…haha. I’m not really a big fan of food. It’s more like routine, and generally I’d rather be doing something else, so it’s hard to say really.

Best thing about Argentine people?

Their friendliness, and their admiration and respect for me. They have always treated me very well, welcomed me in.

Favourite Argentine phrase?

“No pasa nada.”

If you could go anywhere in the world where would you go?

Jamaica. Or Egypt. They feel like other worlds to me.

Are you a morning person or a night owl?

Night owl.

What time did you get up this morning?

I regained consciousness at 7:30am.

Do you head straight for the coffee pot or the shower?

Coffee pot, definitely. Then breakfast.

Favourite day of the week?

Monday.

Favourite restaurant?

MacDonald’s.

Favourite flower?

A rose.

Favourite colour?

Black.

Favourite ice cream?

Strawberry.

What did you want to be when you were little?

An astronaut.

What is your best childhood memory?

Playing in the street.

What do you treasure most in life?

Tomorrow.

Do you have a hero?

No.

If you could be anyone, who would you be?

Someone just like me.

Does anything scare you?

Nightmares.

Do you believe in the afterlife?

I lived with a ghost in Rio for six months…so, yes.

If the world ended tomorrow and you could take one thing with you what would you take?

A pen. I’d say paper too but that’s two things. I could write on myself.

If you could do one thing to change the world, what would you do?

Make myself president…haha. No, I’d write a great book.

Would you want to be a millionaire?

If I wanted to be one then I would be. I’d have worked for it. But I don’t want to work for it. I wouldn’t mind inheriting it…but I don’t want it enough to work for it.

Words of someone famous that inspire you?

“All the world’s a stage, and all its men and women merely players”. Shakespeare (‘As You Like It’).

Words from you that might inspire us?

Life is about surviving today and living tomorrow.