Our contribution to the Festival of the Smallest is a minifesto that speaks to the idea of letting small be small. The text was written by hand in microscript (an homage to Robert Walser, the consummate microscript scribe).
We are sharing a downloadable PDF (scroll down to access). We’d like to see the minifesto distributed while still adhering to its principles. Here are some ideas:
Print the minifesto on very thin paper. Fold it in as many parts as possible that still allow it to remain wafer thin.
Slip the minifesto into a book that you borrowed from the public library or from a friend before returning it.
Read the minifesto in a whisper to a friend on the phone. If videoconferencing, ask your friend to close her eyes.
Be stealth and let us know what you come up with.
The 2020 minifesto team members are: Haydée Marino, Matt Stone, Kate Thomas, and Georgina Valverde.
La realidad, sí, la realidad, ese relámpago de lo invisible que revela en nosotros la soledad de Dios.
Es este cielo que huye. Es este territorio engalanado por las burbujas de la muerte. Es esta larga mesa a la deriva donde los comensales persisten ataviados por el prestigio de no estar. A cada cual su copa para medir el vino que se acaba donde empieza la sed. A cada cual su plato para encerrar el hambre que se extingue sin saciarse jamás. Y cada dos la división del pan: el milagro al revés, la comunión tan sólo en lo imposible. Y en medio del amor, entre uno y otro cuerpo la caída, algo que se asemeja al latido sombrío de unas alas que vuelven desde la eternidad, al pulso del adiós debajo de la tierra.
La realidad, sí, la realidad: un sello de clausura sobre todas las puertas del deseo.
Olga Orozco (1920-1999) fue una poeta argentina que formó parte de la generación Tercera Vanguardia y cuya obra estuvo fuertemente influenciada por el surrealismo. Solía decir que estaba acostumbrada a escribir con una piedra en cada mano: una traída de donde nació su padre, otra de la tierra de su madre y una tercera que le había obsequiado un amigo de la infancia cuando se mudó de Toay (su lugar de nacimiento) a Bahía Blanca.
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Reality and Desire By Olga Orozco Trad. Georgina Valverde
To Luis Cernuda
Reality, yes, reality, that lightning flash of the invisible revealing in us the loneliness of God.
It is this heaven as it flees. It is this territory embellished by the bubbles of death. It is this long table adrift where the dinner guests linger on attired by the prestige of not being there.
To each their cup to allot the wine that ends where thirst commences. To each their plate to ensnare the hunger that perishes without ever being sated. And for every two, the division of bread: the miracle overturned, communion only in the impossible. And in the midst of love, between one body and the other, the fall, something resembling the grim flapping of wings returning from eternity to the pulse of a farewell buried underground.
Reality, yes, reality: a final seal of closure on all the doors of desire.
Olga Orozco (1920-1999) was an Argentinian poet who was a member of the Third Vanguard generation and whose writing was strongly influenced by surrealism. She liked to say that she wrote with a stone in each hand: one brought from where her father was born, another from her mother’s land, and a third that had been given to her by a childhood friend when she moved from Toay (her birthplace) to Bahía Blanca.
Paul Henry, Nebuleuse de la Lyre. Albumen silver print from glass negative. Metropolitan Museum of Art Creative Commons
Scroll down for English
Por Floreka Valverde
8:13 a.m.
Respiro en un planeta llamado Tierra. Poco entiendo , poco sé, pero hay frutas dulces , un sol que da calor y rocío que parece indicar que la vida aquí vale la pena y se abre a posibilidades infinitas de crecimiento en ramas como un árbol hacia todas direcciones.
Seres pequeños hacen contacto conmigo pidiendo atención, agua y protección. Unos me tienen miedo y otros atacan. Otros son totalmente indiferentes. Todos pareciera que no se dan cuenta que sólo estoy de paso, sólo un poco aquí .
Seres de cuatro patas caminan por las calles cabizbajos. Si uno decide darle algo a alguno , este te seguirá fielmente hasta tu destino final pidiendo un rincón donde dormir , alimento y un poco de cariños a cambio de algo de protección. Las noches son activas. Más seres de cuatro patas de muchos tamaños desde diminutos hasta medianos salen de sus guaridas a vivir, cazar y merodear pues el día pertenece, parece, a los seres de dos patas. Los bípedos son agresivos con ellos y entre ellos. Les gusta la carne y atrapar a los seres mas débiles que ellos, o distintos, o más bellos.
Si yo no hubiera adoptado la forma humana para visitar la tierra, los bípedos seguro me habrían encerrado, picoteado con jeringas, arrancado muestras de mi cuerpo para, según ellos, analizarlas y sacar conclusiones rápidas de mí , sobre mi origen, sobre quien soy…Imagínense, podrán sacar teorías sobre la materia que me conforma, ¿pero sobre mí? Todo sería en vano, ya que yo me descubro constantemente y me sorprendo a mí misma cada día. Soy vaporosa y multiforme, cuando crees que soy morada , me vuelvo transparente. No es que no sepa quien soy, pero no me dejo descubrir tan fácilmente.
A los bípedos les gusta lo concreto. Ponen poca atención a los vapores, a las nubes, a lo gaseoso de la identidad, del pensamiento, de existir… Aún así, tiene sus ventajas ser bípedo en la tierra. Se puede agarrar, asir, jalar, apretar, y morder la materia, lo cual está entre las delicias más exuberantes de este planeta. Por ejemplo, hacen una alimento con un masa blanca que es deliciosa al tacto. Luego de calentarlo, lo comen con algo de grasa amarilla y fruta aplastada con dulce. Cuando se gustan, se tocan las bocas como si estuvieran comiéndose entre ellos, pero no se comen. Yo los veo, sin que sepan , pero aún no lo he probado yo misma.
Continuará…
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By Floreka Valverde
8:13 a.m.
I breathe on a planet called Earth, I understand little, know little, but there are sweet fruits, a sun that gives heat and dew that seems to indicate that life here is worthwhile and opens up to infinite possibilities of growth, like branches on a tree in all directions.
Small beings make contact with me asking for attention, water, and protection. Some are afraid of me and others attack. Others are totally indifferent. All of them seem not to realize that I am only passing through—I’m here just for a little while.
Four-legged beings walk through the streets with their heads down. If I choose to give something to one of them, they will faithfully follow me to my final destination asking for a corner where to sleep, food and a little love in exchange for some protection. The nights are active. Four-legged beings of many sizes from tiny to medium come out of their dens to roam, hunt and prowl because, it seems, days belong to two-legged beings. These bipeds are aggressive to the former ones and with each other. They like meat. They hunt down beings weaker than themselves, or different, or more beautiful.
If I had not adopted the human form to visit Earth, they would surely have locked me up, pierced me with syringes, ripped samples from my body in order to—supposedly—analyze them and draw quick conclusions about me, my origin, and who I may be. Just imagine: they can make up theories about what matter I am made up, but about me? Everything would be in vain since I am constantly discovering and surprising myself every day. I am vaporous and multiform, when you think I am purple, I become transparent. It’s not that I don’t know myself, I just don’t allow myself to be discovered so easily.
Bipeds like concreteness. They pay little attention to the vapors, to the clouds, to the gaseousness of identity, of thought, of existing … Still, it has its advantages to be a biped on earth. You can grab, hold, pull, squeeze, and chew on matter, which is one of the most exuberant delights on this planet. For example, bipeds make foodstuff with a white dough that is delicious to the touch. After heating it, they eat it with some yellow fat and sweetened crushed fruit. When they like each other, bipeds touch their mouths as if they were eating one another, but they don’t. I observe them, without them noticing me, but I have not tried it myself, yet.
The Miriam and Ira D. Wallach Division of Art, Prints and Photographs: Art & Architecture Collection, The New York Public Library. “Plate. Parts of skeleton, nude man pulling sock over leg.” The New York Public Library Digital Collections.
not a haiku for margaret by Nick Eliopulos
they lied on the label when they wrote these socks are one size fits all
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no es haiku para margaret por Nick Eliopulos
mintieron en la etiqueta cuando escribieron estos calcetines son talla única
Paul Gauguin, Still Life with Teapot and Fruit, 1896 The Metropolitan Museum of Art
Por Viviana Moreno
Amigos,
Las escuelas públicas de Chicago (CPS) siguen dando paquetes de desayuno y lunch para los niños. Todo es muy seguro y bien organizado. Fui con Gregorio, después de colocarle un cubrebocas, para salir un ratito porque el pobre ya estaba fastidiado.
La persona que nos atendió sólo nos preguntó para cuántos niños necesitábamos comida. Traía guantes y cubrebocas y nos entregó todo en bolsa. Ni siquiera entramos al edificio y no tuvimos que esperar.
Nos dieron seis cartoncitos de leche, dos manzanitas, dos naranjitas, una bolsita con brócoli, una con zanahorias, queso en tiritas, un vasito con yogurt, dos barritas rellenas de fruta, una bolsita del goldfish, dos sobrecitos de cranberries, un sándwich regular y uno de mantequilla de cacahuate con mermelada y una tacita de cereal. Todo venía con sus respectivos utensilios.
Corran la voz sobre este recurso y recuerden que la comida que no se recoge se tira a la basura y son tiempos difíciles. En caso de que no les hagan falta, tal vez conozcan a alguien que sí los necesite. No importa que tengan niños que no vayan a la escuela, a ellos también les dan.
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By Viviana Moreno
Friends,
Chicago Public Schools (CPS) continue to provide breakfast and lunch bags for children. Everything is very safe and well organized. I went with Gregorio, after putting a mask on him, to get out of the house for a while because the poor little guy was so fed up.
The person who waited on us only asked us how many children were having lunch. She handed us everything in a bag while wearing gloves and a mask. We didn’t even enter the building, nor did we have to wait.
They gave us six small cartons of milk, two apples, two oranges, a small bag with broccoli, another one with carrots, string cheese, a small cup of yogurt, two fruit bars, a a bag of Goldfish crackers, two pouches of cranberries, a regular sandwich and one with peanut butter and jelly, and a cup of cereal. Everything included plastic ware.
Please spread the word about this resource and remember that uncollected food is thrown away and these are difficult times. You may not need this food, but perhaps you know someone who does. It doesn’t matter if your children are not enrolled at the schools, they will still get lunch.
Jean Louis Théodore Géricault, TheRaft of the Medusa (1818-19)
On this day, April 1st in 1905, the German government adopted the letters SOS as a maritime distress signal in Morse code. SOS doesn’t mean anything, but in popular use the letters have become associated with the phrases “Save Our Soul” or “Save Our Ship.”
The curious fact that SOS is also the acronym for the Society of Smallness and that we decided to ponder this on April 1st, 2020 is an instance of synchronicity, in the Jungian sense of “meaningful coincidence.” Add to this that humanity is grappling with a situation of chaotic and global proportions and it is beginning to feel less than a coincidence and more like a calling.
Perhaps the idea of a society of smallness can grow in our imagination, pointing towards new ways of living with one another and the environment. Perhaps it’s time to undersize.
Lyza Danger, “The New Fred Meyer on Interstate on Lombard.” CC BY-SA 2.0
By Viviana Moreno
Suddenly, I’ve gone from being an undervalued employee to one who everybody turns to.
When they decided to increase the minimum wage, many did not agree. They did not believe that our work was important. But believe me, working in a supermarket is not easy, especially now.
Supermarket workers spend many hours on their feet, which results in painful physical problems in the long run. We must learn where each product is and whether it is available. We work weekends and holidays. We work rotating shifts. We learn to deal with every type of customer. Some customers call us whores (yes, whores), immigrants, idiots, etc. Some shove the money at us when paying. Some snatch the receipts impatiently from our hands. Some even throw food at us.
Since the Covid-19 outbreak, we are one of the few workers that remain on the job. We are at risk of contracting the virus and becoming a source of infection to our families. And we are overworked. I have watched colleagues pick up extra shifts, work all night stocking merchandise, and continue working another shift the next day for a total of 16 to 18 hours straight. In spite of this, we receive complaints and insults from customers who get angry because we ran out of products.
But for the first time in my life, someone called me a hero (I thought it was a bit much). Yesterday, a customer thanked me for continuing to work. I am also receiving messages and good vibes from people who I had not heard from in years. Everyone tells me to take care of myself. And today, a CTA bus driver dropped me off at the entrance of the store.
I truly appreciate your expressions of support and concern. So far, thank goodness, all is well.
Por Viviana Moreno
De un día para otro dejé de ser una empleada poco valorada y ahora todos se vuelcan hacia mí.
Cuando decidieron aumentar el salario mínimo muchos no estaban de acuerdo, no creían que nuestro trabajo fuera importante. Créanme, trabajar en un supermercado no es fácil.
Los trabajadores de supermercado pasamos muchas horas de pie y eso a la larga genera problemas físicos muy dolorosos. Tenemos que aprender dónde está cada producto y si está disponible. Trabajamos fines de semanas y días festivos. Rolamos turnos. Lidiamos con todo tipo de clientes. Algunos nos han llamado putas (sí, putas), inmigrantes, estúpidos, etc. Algunos nos avientan el dinero al pagar o nos arrebatan el recibo. Hay quienes nos avientan la comida.
Desde que surgió la epidemia de Covid-19, somos de los pocos empleados que seguimos laborando. Somos muy propensos a contraer el virus y a ser un foco de infección para nuestras familias. He visto a compañeros trabajar turnos extra que se quedan toda la noche para abastecer mercancía y llegando la mañana tienen que seguir en ese turno, laborando hasta 16 o 18 horas seguidas. He recibido quejas e insultos por parte de los clientes que se enojan porque no hay producto.
Pero por primera vez en la vida me han llamado héroe (no pensé que fuera para tanto) y me han dado las gracias por seguir laborando. He recibido mensajes y buenas vibras de personas con quienes hacía años que no me comunicaba. Todos me dicen que me cuide. Hasta el chofer del bus me dejó en la mera puerta de entrada a la tienda.
De verdad gracias por sus muestras de apoyo y preocupación. Hasta ahora y gracias a Dios, todo bien.
An invisible cluster of DNA has given us a clearer view of life and what is to be valued in a good life.
For much of history, but especially since the beginning of the Industrial Revolution when mass production effectively alienated workers from their rightful products, societies have ignored and undervalued the work of everyday people. The daily labor of mothers, farmers, artisans, food and sanitation workers, early childhood teachers, factory employees, (and on and on), has not simply been unappreciated but systematically dismissed within a system where the implacable production of largely useless commodities is given preference over the wellbeing of people and their environment. Gender and class stereotypes have buttressed a great ideological wall that keeps the plight and daily struggles of common workers out of sight and out of consciousness.
Now a tiny cluster of DNA, a virus imperceptible to the naked eye, is laying bare much that was invisible: gross inequalities in pay, lack of the most basic benefits for the most vulnerable sectors of society, and contempt for or just plain ignorance about the work ordinary people perform. The invisible is now visible and the small is augmented.
The Society of Smallness is a playful space, but also a serious space to provoke dialogue and forge ideas. Who and what matters? How big is too big? What small gestures if practiced rigorously by many could bring about the transformation of our daily lives, our society, and our consciousness? Do you have any ideas, stories, artwork or poetry on the above questions? Let us know.
In the coming weeks we will bring to our small readership voices, perspectives, and ideas that illuminate the meaning of a society of smallness—one where no life form or matter is too small or insignificant to be considered, one where life unfolds at a pace in harmony with nature, one where we might become humble in the understanding that we humans are but tiny specks of star dust in a vast and mysterious universe.
An office of typing bureaucrats does not a quiet exhibition make.
In July, our bureaucracy reported to a not-unostentatious downtown address to be part of the annual Art Institute Block Party. Our work stations were positioned beneath the stairway in the hustling and bustling main hallway of the Art Institute of Chicago’s Modern Wing.
The Society of Smallness 