Manual of Painting and Calligraphy by Jose Saramago

Author:Jose Saramago [Saramago, Jose]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Mariner Books
Published: 2012-05-01T06:00:00+00:00

Third exercise in autobiography in the form of the chapter of a book. Title: Buying Postcards.

They are timid, nervous people, already overwhelmed by the naves of cathedrals evoking skies laden with shadows, or by vast rooms where mysterious objects are on display. They have just arrived and are about to be subjected to the solemn test, the interrogation of the sphinx, to the challenge of the labyrinth, and because they come from an ordered world with traffic signs forbidding access or indicating speed limits everywhere, they feel lost in this new kingdom where there is a freedom to be won: that freedom commonly described as a work of art.

And then they make a beeline for the stands where there are dozens of postcards on display, keeping the tourists occupied before they invade the galleries. The picture postcard, in the hands of the bewildered traveler, is a surface he can cover easily, something he can take in at a glance, which reduces everything to the tiny dimensions of an inert hand. Because the real work of art awaiting him inside, even when not much bigger, is protected from untrained eyes by an invisible net which the living hands of the painter or sculptor outlined as they laboriously invented the gestures which brought it into being.

Fearful of appearing cowardly, the traveler has no choice but to venture forth into the petrified forest of statues and wooden panels, amid noisy multitudes if the gallery is famous and a mecca for tourists, or in a silence which allows one to hear the muffled creaking of old floorboards (another use to which wood is put) if he happens to be in some small provincial museum where the security guards eye visitors with surprise and gratitude. Very much later, when the traveler is back home, the picture postcard will be of value as a means of confirmation. He really did make that journey. He was not simply dreaming.

Yet I fail to recognize this view of the Castello Estense in Ferrara which I am holding in my hand. I circled its great walls like some tiny insect, while the postcard has been photographed from the air, from the wings of a bird in flight. This image was missing from my dream, but I rapidly weave it into an aerial view of Venice, minute in the center of the lagoon, surrounded by water lilies almost floating on the surface of the water, and with slow currents which, seen from on high, become laurel leaves in a state of perpetual transformation.

(I HAVE RECEIVED A LETTER FROM ADELINA. SHE HAS DECIDED TO END OUR AFFAIR.)

Ferrara is a tranquil place with long streets which even in the city center have a quiet, suburban air, with high walls overlooking gardens which at the slightest breeze send up invisible clouds perfumed with spikenard, an overpowering aroma which stops me in my tracks. In one of these streets, the Corso Ercole I d’Este, stands the Palazzo dei Diamanti, which is nothing other than that Casa dos Bicos the citizens of Lisbon would love to have in the Campo das Cebolas.

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