Buenos Aires is growing uncontrollably and imperfectly.
An overpopulated city in a deserted country.
A city in which thousands of buildings rise into the sky.
Arbitrarily.
Next to a tall one, a small one.
Next to a rational one, an irrational one.
Next to a French one, one with no style at all.
These irregularities probably reflect us perfectly.
A esthetic and ethical irregularities.
These buildings, which adhere to no logic,
represent bad planning.
Just like our lives:
We have no idea how we want them to be.
We live as if Buenos Aires were a stopover.
We've created a "culture of tenants".
The buildings are becoming smaller to make space for even smaller ones.
Apartments are measured by their number of rooms
and range from five rooms with balconies,
playrooms, servants' quarters and storerooms
to one-room apartments also known as "shoeboxes".
Just like almost all man-made objects,
buildings are made to differentiate between us.
There's a front and a back side. High and low apartments.
Privileged people have the letter A or sometimes B.
The farther back in the alphabet, the worse the apartment.
The promised view and brightness rarely coincide with reality.
What can be expected of a city that turns its back on its river?
I'm convinced that separations, divorces
domestic violence, the excess of cable TV stations,
the lack of communication, listlessness,
apathy, depression, suicide,
neuroses, panic attacks,
obesity, tenseness,
insecurity, hypochondria,
stress and a sedentary lifestyle
are attributable to architects and builders.
I suffer from all of these illnesses except suicide.
This is my one-room apartment. 400 square feet
and one miserable window for one breathless lung.
Santa Fé, 1105.
Fourth floor. H.
I sat down at my computer ten years ago
and feel like I've never got up again.
I don't know if the Internet is the future, but it was mine:
I design websites and this is my cyberspace.
I don't know if I'm good or just got into it early,
but I'm very busy.
I began with my psychiatrist's website for phobics:
His speciality and the reason why I visit him twice a week.
This game is a hit.
It's for insomniacs fighting pill addiction.
My psychiatrist calls me a phobic on my way to recovery.
Due to repeated, violent panic attacks, I locked myself in my apartment
for years.
I won 17 championships at expert level.
Four times undefeated, nine times top scorer.
I beat Federer four times at Wimbledon.
I became Godfather of the Corleone family.
I was totally isolated. Scared.
My psychiatrist developed a strategy to help me overcome
my fear of the city: Photography.
A way to rediscover the city and people.
A search for beauty where it's not apparent.
Observing is being and not being.
Or being in another way.
I distracted myself.
I don't take the bus or taxis. Much less the subway,
and I'd never take a plane. I only go by foot
and always have my survival backpack.
Contents: A Leica D-Lux 3 with 10 megapixels.
Rivotril drops, 2.5 mg. Amoxicillin 500.
Ibuprofen. Sunglasses. A plastic rain coat.
A Victorinox with 21 tools.
Flashlight with batteries. Condoms, three units.
400 pesos cash in small bills. An iPod with 60 GB
and more than 8,000 songs.
Three Tati films. A notebook. And a plastic card
about how to proceed in case of an accident
or panic attack.
The backpack weighs 5.8 kg. 7% of my body weight.
I've been an architect for two years, but still haven't built anything.
Neither a building, nor a house, nor a bathroom. Nothing.
Only models that are uninhabitable, and not only because of their scale...
I didn't fare well with other constructions either:
My four-year relationship collapsed
despite my efforts to shore it up.
If my life were a game of life,
I'd have to move back five spaces.
That's why I'm here:
With my disorderly life in 27 boxes,
I sit on twelve metres of bubble wrap, popping bubbles
so that I myself don't pop.
This is my new old shoebox
that these ridiculous five steps make into a "duplex".
And this is the freakish thing, half window, half balcony,
that the sun shuns all year long.
Avenida Santa Fe, 1183. Eighth floor. G
as in gastritis.
This is my favourite building in Buenos Aires.
It's the best location and the most fun.
It's built with my favourite materials:
Concrete, steel and glass.
One of the world's few buildings
with an equilateral triangular base,
it was inspired by Saturn and its rings.
Even if most people see a flying saucer.
I enter it expecting to take off and leave this world.
But in reality, the planetarium puts me in my place,
reminding me that the world doesn't revolve around me.
I'm a very small part of a planet
that's part of a system that's part of a galaxy
that, like hundreds of thousands of galaxies, forms part of the universe.
It reminds me that I'm part of an infinite and eternal whole.
A SHORT AUTUMN
The dog committed suicide.
Apparently it was a 40-year-old prostitute's only companion
and was locked out on the balcony so it wouldn't bother her customers.
The dog went mad when they touched her.
No wonder it jumped.
Alone, on such a small balcony.
STRANGE ACCIDENT IN BUENOS AIRES:
A DEAD DOG AND TWO INJURED PEOPLE
Signature.
Thanks.
DISCARTHROSIS
You look terrible, but you're perfectly healthy.
The only strange things are the fifth and sixth vertebrae, which you've had since birth.
Otherwise, you'd be screaming in pain, so it's not that.
Are you dizzy? No.
Just do some fitness training and lighten up your backpack.
There's nothing serious, nothing at all.
You see...
Those reports are written by kids
in laboratories or hospitals who write
down everything to protect themselves.
They're not perfect. What can you do?
If you want to worry, go ahead, but not about that.
You're the same.
Until I can work as an architect, I'm designing shop windows.
It distracts me from other thoughts.
I think of the windows as lost places.
They're neither inside nor outside.
An abstract and magic space.
They reflect a part of me.
At the same time, the anonymity calms me.
Maybe it's stupid, but I think:
If someone stops to look,
they're somehow interested in me.
I've had this book since I was 14.
And forgive me, great writers,
but it's a key book in my life.
It's the origin of my fear of crowds,
which has become existential.
It dramatically represents
the fear of knowing I'm one lost person among millions.
Years have passed and I still can't solve one of the puzzles:
"Wally in the City".
I found him shopping, at the airport and the beach,
but not in the city.
Perhaps my nerves have blinded me.
So I'm wondering:
If I can't find a person when I know who I'm looking for,
how can I find a person when I don't know who I'm looking for?
"Hi, I'm Susú, part stuffed animal and part dog."
Seven years ago, my girlfriend visited her parents
in New Jersey, USA. She wanted to stay for a few weeks.
As painful as it was for her, she called me collect to say
she wasn't coming back.
It was her new home and she'd realised she was very American.
Ingenious! She felt very American when Argentina was devalued.
The truth is, there wasn't much to keep her here: Me and her dog.
She left her with the best of intentions too.
She claimed the change in language
would be too difficult for her.
You know planes make me nervous.
Please take the rock I travel with.
- You've only travelled once. - Well, it worked.
It's my kabbalah. Do it for me.
Alright.
All at once, I lost the woman I loved
and my ability to fly.
Hello, this is Mariana. Leave a message after the beep.
Hello, hello. Are you there?
Alright. I just wanted to tell you that tonight
a great film will be on TV
with Bill Murray and the groundhog.
And because you took the TV, I thought we could watch it together.
Pick up. I know you're there.
Are you with a guy? You screwed me!
How can you be close to someone so different?
That's the stupid conclusion after a four-year relationship.
Four years are 48 months.
1460 days.
35,040 hours with the wrong person.
I watched him one night and realised everything:
For the first time, he was distant,
as if he were completely unfamiliar.
I suddenly feared being alone with a stranger.
And here I am:
In the same apartment that I abandoned to live with him.
In front of the same mirror. Four years later.
A LONG WINTER
Thanks.
The Internet brings me closer to the world, but further from life.
I do banking and read magazines on the Internet,
download music and listen to the radio on the Internet,
order food on the Internet, watch films on the Internet,
chat on the Internet, study on the Internet,
play on the Internet, have sex on the Internet and search for...
DOG SITTER
Come here, Susú.
Come.
- This is Susú. - Alright.
She's not used to being with other animals.
- Then you'd better come with us. - Alright, I'll take her.
- Can you get me a fag from my pocket? - Here?
- Got a light? - No.
- Get it from my pocket. - Here?
- How long? - Are you gay?
- Because of the dog. - Oh, right.
It's not mine. It belongs to a friend who went to the USA.
She asked me to take care of it.
She had a problem and couldn't come back,
so I kept it.
And since she left, it's... it's more depressed,
it doesn't bark, it's insecure
and doesn't want to leave the house. So I thought it'd be good
for it to meet other dogs and people.
I think she's adapting. What do you think?
I thought you were gay.
I can't concentrate.
Maybe another time.
Alright.
- Alright, bye. - And what do we do? Should I call you?
- I'll be back tomorrow. - Alright. Everything okay?
More or less. Bye.
Want to eat dinner? Or should I wait until spring?
- Now? - Do you have time?
I wanted to start swimming. I'm tense.
- It's not time to start swimming. - No, it's never time to swim.
Then let's eat.
Here it is.
Have you been here?
I've seen the building but didn't know it has a restaurant.
I thought they were offices.
I thought it might be interesting for an architect.
Shall we go up?
I'll take the stairs.
It's on the 20th floor.
Well...
You'll probably think I'm crazy, but...
I have a phobia of them. I don't use lifts.
Especially when they're hermetically sealed.
I get claustrophobia.
Do you live on the ground floor?
- On the eighth. - Seriously?
I think twice before leaving the flat.
I go up at least three times a day.
Want to try it with me?
What?
No, I mean take the lift.
I know a good ground floor restaurant.
I'm curious to see the city from so high up.
I'll walk.
- I'll join you. - That's not necessary. Really.
You wouldn't make it anyway.
- Of course I will. - But...
Now that you've finally said "yes".
When did you last use a lift?
- Two or three years ago. - Did something bad happen?
Don't speak. You'll be out of breath.
Administer it.
- Have you tried closing your eyes? - If that would only work.
The last time I climbed so many steps was at Teotihuacan's Pyramid
of the Sun. 40 degrees
and not one miserable cloud in the middle of the desert.
And 260 awkward steps.
They say the top of the pyramid is a point
of cosmic energy that fulfils your wishes.
My wish was not to fall on my way back down.
Some people go back down on their arses so they don't fall.
That's typical of religions: They promise the improbable
so you don't regret the sacrifices they demand.
I hope I won't regret climbing these stairs.
Everything alright?
Don't you want to take the lift?
- Yes. That'd be better. - See you at the top.
Smoking is killing me.
- Should I order a water for you? - Go ahead.
- Sparkling or still? - Still!
My relationship with Pablo corresponded with the digital age.
At the beginning,
I bought a camera that documented those four years.
380 photographs the first year.
176 in the second. 97 in the third.
And four in the last year.
In a simple, irreversible act,
I'm doing away with 38.9 megabytes of history.
If only my head worked as well as my Mac
and I could forget everything with a click.
Is there anything more discouraging in the 21st century as an empty inbox?
Luckily, a friend wrote to me from Oman.
He happens to be visiting Yemen
and needs my help with drawing 9.5 million dollars
from a local bank. He hasn't written for a while.
It's an imprudent, one-sided friendship.
Please give us some space.
Before I had my lift phobia,
I gave tours in the Kavanagh building.
I had no problem taking the 15 lifts
through 31 floors of the city's most beautiful skyscraper:
The world's largest concrete construction at the end of the 1930s.
A building as striking as the history that it conceals.
Corina Kavanagh was a beautiful woman
from a wealthy, but plebeian family
who fell in love with a young man of nobility.
The Anchorenas opposed the relationship and broke it up.
Their most important possession
was the Basilica Santísimo Sacramento,
a temple they built which later became the family tomb.
The Anchorenas' palace was on the other side of the park
and they wanted a new one next to the basilica.
Corina Kavanagh sold three farms
and had a skyscraper built for one reason:
To hide the basilica's facade
and prevent the Anchorenas from seeing it.
It's only visible from "Corina Kavanagh" alley.
When I have a daughter, I'll name her Corina.
HOW WAS YOUR DAY?
Great, thanks. Here!
WHERE ARE YOU?
I'M AT THE CINEMA
- Can I put some music on? - Of course.
WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME. WHAT MOVIE?
You have thousands. How am I supposed to choose?
- I don't like them. - Let me choose one.
I WANT TO SEE YOU. WILL MEET YOU AT THE EXIT.
IT'S TERRIBLY LONG. I'M TURNING MY MOBILE OFF.
SENDING TO MARIELA
- You hardly ate anything. - I don't eat much in the evening.
Did I tell you I'm writing a play?
You've hardly said anything all night.
Really? I'm in a weird mood, I don't know why.
I didn't know you write.
Me neither.
Until now.
I've studied theatre for a while.
Should I tell you about it?
It's called "Cruel Woman".
There's a swing on stage,
the protagonist and seven Dalmatians.
So the audience listens to a monologue with headphones,
and what they hear are herthoughts.
She's planning
to kill the dogs' owners so she can keep them for herself.
You like it?
It sounds good. I'd have to read it.
I act in it.
You're the one who walks the drugs?
- "Walks the drugs"? - Did I say "drugs"?
Good one!
11 MESSAGES
I'M GOING HOME.
Don't get any false hopes. It was just sex.
They sprout out of the cement, growing where they shouldn't.
Rising up patiently with exemplary will and dignity.
Without lineage, wild, unclassifiable by botanists.
A strange, rampant, absurd beauty.
They adorn the greyest of corners,
don't own anything and nothing can stop them.
A metaphor for uncontrollable life
that paradoxically forces me to face my weakness.
I'm Marcella, a psychologist, and my job is my passion.
Calm down, I won't analyse you.
As a rule, I don't analyse friends.
To be honest, I'm very selective regarding friendships.
I write a lot and love self-help books.
Gender: Female. Age: 31.
Marital status: Single. Children: None. Religion: Buddhist.
Not a drinker. Occasional smoker. University degree.
Languages: French, English, German, Italian,
Portuguese, Greek, Spanish, of course,
and a bit of Russian.
Hobbies: Alternative music, jazz, blues, Latin American,
disco, 80's, electronic,
pop, rhythm and blues, rock, classical,
theatre, ballet, travelling, yoga, meditation,
movies, shoes, cars, motorcycles, working out,
writing, cooking, Internet, water sports,
nature, politics, charity, wine tasting,
mountaineering, shopping, tarot, art,
martial arts, tai chi chuan, I Ching,
feng shui, astrology, New Age.
No, I'll listen, but I don't speak it. I understand everything, but...
I don't speak it.
No, seriously, I speak it poorly. I don't like hearing myself.
I have no control.
I say what I can instead of what I want to.
Well, you speak it.
Your French sounds French.
These dates are like McDonalds combos.
They look larger and more delicious in the photographs.
Every time I go on a date,
I suffer from the same deception as with a Big Mac.
No, nothing at all.
No more, thank you.
What were you doing alone in Paris?
Oh no, that's a long story.
But I can tell you how it ends.
We separated at De Gaulle.
Yes, a 13-hourflight is too much for a couple in crisis.
Luckily, we both had our own luggage.
We divided up our goods in the airport.
He kept the shampoo, I kept the conditioner...
We split up the few things we had in common.
He went to Berlin, I stayed in Paris.
I cried for 24 hours and that was it.
Everything alright?
Should I buy you a water?
Nervousness.
I'm nervous.
I need movement.
Want to dance?
I have a great need to communicate.
For example, if we'd met here by chance
and you only spoke Italian...
But let's say I didn't understand it.
I would have lost the opportunity to meet a very beautiful person.
What did you say?
Look it up.
Bloody bastard!
How can you be so stupid?
Bye, Susú. Come here, I'm late. Bye.
This is the 15th time I've signed up for swimming
and the 15th time I won't go.
I love swimming, but I hate everything before and after it.
I hate showering before and after.
I hate getting undressed and dressed,
drying my hair in the winter,
a wet towel in my bag,
a wet swimsuit, wet flip-flops...
I hate the smell of chlorine.
I hate the membership card and the medical examination:
Having to show someone what's between my toes.
I hate that people piss in the water.
I hate caps and the amazed expression goggles give you.
And what I hate most is the fact that it's the most complete sport there is.
Tired?
Are you tired?
You have to kick less.
Legs consume more oxygen than arms.
Kicking is more for stabilisation than for propulsion.
Stretch out and relax your legs.
When your hand goes into the water,
stretch it out, feel the impulse and the other arm follows.
Your hands under your body.
And lower your head. The water should be up to your forehead.
You're doing 32 strokes. Try what I'm saying.
You'll do fewer strokes and tire less.
You'll swim in a more relaxed way.
And try breathing every third stroke. Go ahead, I'll count.
- May I? - Yes.
- And? - You were right, I'm not as tired.
30 strokes. Two fewer per lap and you can get even lower.
- Are you a teacher? - I'm a compulsive swimmer.
I can't sleep if I don't swim an hour a day.
Really? Exhaustion from swimming is unrivalled.
Yes, nothing else tires me out.
- What's your name? - Rafa. And you?
Mariana.
What's it, asshole?
- Let me past! - Go ahead!
- You're a clown! - What the hell are you doing?
Idiot!
Always the same! Screw you!
Don't touch me! Don't touch me!
I still have 30 laps! I'm a member and I paid my fee!
- This is supposed to relax you. - Living healthily is stressful.
Being conscious of everything only to live a bit longer
is the worst thing we can do.
None of us come here for fun. We come to count laps.
- Why can't you sleep? - I thought you'd know already.
There's no switch to turn off my head.
- Have you seen a psychologist? - Yes, I am a psychologist.
So swimming is the only thing that works?
If I could, I'd swim to my bedside.
- 28! - Very good!
Tomorrow I can't swim.
I've got patients until 10 p.m., so I won't be able to sleep.
We could go and eat or drink something.
- Shall I put you to sleep? - On the contrary.
What a relief. Then yes.
Let's take off our caps and goggles so we'll recognise each other.
No, I'll come like this.
It doesn't matter, I don't care.
Everything's alright.
The brilliant morning light
let me see the reflection clearly.
Late, as always, I realised it was me in the window.
Like a mannequin.
Motionless, silent and cold.
SPRING AT LAST
Absolutely all of the buildings have a useless, purposeless side.
It's neither the front nor the back:
The "medianera" or "side wall".
Enormous surfaces that divide us, reminding us of passing time,
smog and filth.
"Medianeras" show our worst attributes.
They reflect inconstancy, cracks,
provisional solutions,
and the dirt we sweep under the carpet.
We only remember them in exceptional cases
when, during bad weather,
its ads filter through.
"Medianeras" have changed into another medium for ads
that are seldom beautiful.
Generally, they indicate how far we are
from supermarkets and fast food.
Lottery ads that promise a lot for little.
AVAILABLE
Recently, they've reminded us of the economic crisis that left us
unemployed.
There's one way out of the oppression that results from living in a shoebox.
An escape route:
Illegal, like all escape routes.
In clear violation of urban planning norms,
there are a few tiny, irregular, irresponsible windows
that let a few miraculous rays of light
into our darkness.
May I?
When will we be a wireless city?
What geniuses blocked the river with buildings and the sky with wires?
Are all those kilometres of wire there to unite us
or to divide us? Everyone in his own place.
Cellular telephony invaded the world promising to always keep us connected.
Text messaging:
A new ten-key system
that reduces one of the most beautiful languages
to a primitive, limited and guttural vocabulary.
The future is in fibre optics, say the visionaries.
They've announced that we'll be able to heat our homes from our workplaces.
Right! And no one will be waiting for us when we get home.
Welcome to the era of virtual relationships.
Is this your first time chatting?
Yes. Did you notice?
Very much so. You have to begin with M or W.
What's that?
Man or woman.
Woman. A broad term, isn't it?
- And you? - Man.
- Do I have to believe you? - It's easy to verify.
I write like a man, think like a man,
and act like a man.
And?
What?
Your turn. In the arse.
I don't know what to say.
It's strange talking to someone I don't know.
What do you want to know?
I don't even know where to begin.
I'm taking off. Bye.
Don't leave! Wait! Are you still there?
I'll give you a list of questions:
How old are you? What sign are you?
What music do you listen to? Do you believe in God?
What did you do today?
That's cheating.
It's a question.
Okay. I woke up at twelve because I went to bed at five.
I should start swimming. I ate breakfast at one.
I took an ibuprofen.
At two I started work. I do web design.
At five I ate lunch. At eight I went to therapy.
I took my second ibuprofen.
Then the telephone rang, which made me happy.
Wrong number. Now I'm eating dinner.
After chatting, I'll whack myself on the head so I can fall asleep
and start swimming tomorrow.
DID YOU TAKE OFF?
YES!
Good. What did you do today?
Adaptation. Getting used to being single again.
I'm an expert. I could write a book.
I'm a kind of depressed Paulo Coelho.
I didn't have a good day.
I'M SO SAD.
I have a method. Absolutely involuntary.
A kind of Buddhist gene that makes my happy days not so happy
and my sad days not so sad.
A spiritual thermostat.
And if it fails?
I down a Rivotril.
I didn't think I'd laugh today.
In return, do me a favour. When do you wake up?
Nine.
I'll give you my number. Call me at nine and motivate me to swim.
Why not now?
No, that won't do. It's a deal.
Give me your number.
Bloody bastard! Fucking hell!
Bloody bastard!
Why do I keep all this shit?
Wait Susú, I'll be right back.
- Do you have any candles? - Yes, wait a minute...
I'll be right with you.
Four pesos.
- Any candles left? - I think so. Let me look...
- I got a shock. - Yeah, me too.
- Probably the flashlight. - I don't know, but it was heavy.
Here they are, the last ones. Your lucky day!
Right, good to know.
- How much? - Four pesos.
- My luck's a bit expensive. - Yeah.
- How much for this? - Nine.
Thanks. Bye.
Something else?
What do you have for a peso so we can round it up?