M. Beretta: Journal

Milk-milkshake

photonomy — Fri, 5 Jul 2013 05:12:00 GMT

MILK-MILKSHAKE

M. Beretta

Una advertencia debería estar inscrita (aunque fuera en letras minúsculas sin el adorno de las negritas o la incisiva curva de las cursivas) en la parte inferior de este menú: “las malteadas de este lugar, a las que nos referimos como –espesas–, son REALMENTE ESPESAS, tome sus precauciones, si usted es diabético o en su familia existe algún cuadro de locura por el azúcar, absténgase”. Y es que nunca antes había luchado contra una malteada, me la ponen aún más complicada si tan sólo me dan de fusil un pitillo debilucho, tan pálido verticalmente que se muestra como un iceberg de escarcha despegando endeblemente del vaso.

Me enseñaron de pequeño que la comida se come y las bebidas… se beben, y perdón por el pleonasmo pero hay ciertas verdades en la vida que deberían ser irrefutables, el aire es transparente, ¿qué no? Y las bebidas abusan de su consistencia fluida, ¿qué no? Pues esta malteada, la cual me tentó desde que la leí el menú, como si se tratara de escoger a la más sucia de las prostitutas urbanas, hincó su diente en mi curiosidad por su precio. Así de materialista como esto pueda sonar, me ganó por lo que me costaría y en estado de desempleado el ego siempre puede más: “puedo comprarme esto aunque no tenga un baro en realidad”. Xxxxactamente 51 pesos, “como la Five dollar milkshake de Pulp Fiction, en donde Uma Thurman sólo la vuelve más deseable”. Me dije, “tengo la pinche oportunidad de probar una malteada de 5 dollars mexicanos, vamos a ver qué pedo, a qué sabe una malteada de 51 pesos”. ¿Ven a lo que me refiero cuando hablo del ego de un desempleado? En el sentido más autoconfesional que se me permita.

Regresando a lo de la comida que se come… una malteada, sea de fresa, chocolate, papaya o nopal, se bebe, se engulle, se toma, se traga suavemente con la ayuda incipiente de la garganta. Pero ese argumento racional dejó de existir cuando al primer “sorbo” no pude alcanzar a deglutir ese cremoso líquido rosa. La estrategia tuvo que cambiar… llegué a la conclusión de que esta malteada no se iba rendir tan fácilmente y para encontrar la salida del laberinto tenía que COMERLA.

Batí el popote (fuera del albur mexicano) de arriba hacia abajo, repetidamente, hundiéndome, hundiéndome, excavando (extrañamente parecido a mis relaciones amorosas pasadas) y me dije: “así puedo conseguirlo, ésta se rendirá ante mí, un poco más de insistencia, insistencia, vamos, vamos, ¡derrítete puta!”. ¡Y funcionó! sí… delicioooosaaaa, como ninguna otra malteada que hubiera “comido” antes –ja–, terriblemente dulce y amablemente cremosa; pero ésa fue sólo una ínfima capa de la totalidad rosa que estaba por descubrirse. Debajo, las arenas movedizas de los trozos de fresa y los vestigios de bolas de helado me impedían llegar hasta el fondo. Una vez más, decolorado el entusiasmo, se volvía “insorbible”.

Noté con tristeza que de nada serviría que mi voluntad hiciera el trabajo sucio aquí y que bastaría con dejar que perdiera su fría cualidad para que, derretida completamente, se rindiera ante mis labios y me dejara probarla en su estado natural: la liquidez infame que sólo una malteada de fresa de 51 pesos puede tener en un viernes de lluvia como el de hoy. Terminaría por derretirse, yo lo sabía, lo aseguré, y ahí entraría yo como protagonista, sería por fin mía. Yo la pagué. ¡¿Cómo chingados no?!

Dejé de batir la mezcla rosadamente asfaltosa y se me ocurrió que… quizá había dejado de referirme a la malteada desde el primer sorbo y había comenzado a hablar de mi ex mujer. Por eso, creo, sigo soltero.

Photos: My Scholarship entry - A 'place' I have visited

photonomy — Thu, 4 Jul 2013 09:12:00 GMT

For the past 7 months I got used to work daily in a challenge and its conquest, that’s because I’m a runner, 6 km is my current mark. The first day, I couldn’t even catch my breath after one lap and now I want to continue running even further; my choice involves effort, will and an upbeat stubbornness. I run because I need my legs to be strong ‘cause I want to become the fastest version of myself concerning photography, the toughest and the least fearful. I want to build myself as a photojournalist by winning and losing, but mainly by goals. I used to think that I needed some climbing lessons to get the best shot; honestly I was scared of crashing myself against the pavement while attempting a high angle photo. I used to envy those tall photographers gigantic enough they could snap a dinosaur just by stretching their necks. I hadn’t realized that success depended on me until I learned about confrontation. Now I know better: photography is all about facing life, fears, and oneself. That truly inspires me to keep on learning. I’m 1.57 meters tall and I’ve learned that limits are irrational and self induced. I’m sure that third time’s the charm… I’m counting on it. M. Beretta

Photos: Beretta (a glimpse of me)

photonomy — Wed, 17 Apr 2013 11:41:00 GMT

Catching a Moment - Broken heart elixir

photonomy — Wed, 17 Apr 2013 11:34:32 GMT

Chicken slaughterhouses crown the exit of San Juan market. Brooms are smashed against the pavement to release it from the poultry dirty punishment. The noxious odor transpires; it’s a jumble of warm flesh, cheap soap, chick fat and bloody chicken crests. Heat is not an aid. Sun at 2 pm in Mexico City is criminal. Lunch time: everyone rushes down the street famished.
—Do you know where the pulquería is?— the rumor spreads among the street eaters —all derecho across Calle Aranda number 28, behave yourself güerita!— they bang me with a final advice. “Pulque” is an ancient alcoholic brew made from maguey plant, somewhat like the plant of tequila. Once known as “God’s nectar” by the Aztec it has been rescued from the oblivion caused by beer popularity.
The warm smell of ripe chicken chases me up to Aranda 28. A wooden sign, the name of the tavern: “Las Duelistas”, which means the fighters, also the moaners.
Construction workers are cowboys here. They bump into a pair of western timber gates. Distracted, one of them is slapped in the face by a quick flap. Still outside, murmurs are a hint of a few broken hearts singing; a bolero, a popular Cuban lovesong originally sung Alberto Beltran. The version of our charro Pedro Infante sounds from the jukebox; I prefer the gloomy Beltran. —Sing because she left you compadre!— a man stomps his leaking jar against the tabletop. The song ends in a quiet gasp; youngsters’ rock music replaces it: generational abyss.
“Nacho” beats the fluid robustly, tasters price its viscosity: “the stickier the pulque, the finest!”. —The best cure for corazones rotos! broken hearts— Don Gaby rubs his wrinkled nose —I’ve served this broken heart elixir for 50 years and I know better that the treatment for a heartache is a curado de betabel, hearts need blood to pump again after all that love misery—, explains to a blue man pointing at a red sugar beet pulque. Curado ironically means “healed”.
I stare at its bloodiness… His eyes shoot my curiosity. —Listen—, Don Gaby walks in an aged smooth manner towards the jukebox. The air thickens by a sour taste, everyone becomes aware of it. Golden trumpets, Cuban percussions, downhearted keyboards agitate the sound… a longing recall that frightens less than it numbs: “Though my life perils I’m still searching your love, I’m asking everyone where could I ever find you”. A few smashed hearts hum Beltran’s words. With tiny sips throats seem to choke; is the pain of an ex-lover farewell.

Broken heart elixir

photonomy — Wed, 17 Apr 2013 11:25:00 GMT

—Do you know where the pulquería is?— the rumor spreads among the street eaters —all derecho across Calle Aranda number 28, behave yourself güerita!— they bang me with a final advice. “Pulque” is an ancient alcoholic brew made from maguey plant, somewhat like the plant of tequila. Once known as “God’s nectar” by the Aztec it has been rescued from the oblivion caused by beer popularity.

The warm smell of ripe chicken chases me up to Aranda 28. A wooden sign, the name of the tavern: “Las Duelistas”, which means the fighters, also the moaners.

Construction workers are cowboys here. They bump into a pair of western timber gates. Distracted, one of them is slapped in the face by a quick flap. Still outside, murmurs are a hint of a few broken hearts singing; a bolero, a popular Cuban lovesong originally sung Alberto Beltran. The version of our charro Pedro Infante sounds from the jukebox; I prefer the gloomy Beltran. —Sing because she left you compadre!— a man stomps his leaking jar against the tabletop. The song ends in a quiet gasp; youngsters’ rock music replaces it: generational abyss.

“Nacho” beats the fluid robustly, tasters price its viscosity: “the stickier the pulque, the finest!”. —The best cure for corazones rotos! broken hearts— Don Gaby rubs his wrinkled nose —I’ve served this broken heart elixir for 50 years and I know better that the treatment for a heartache is a curado de betabel, hearts need blood to pump again after all that love misery—, explains to a blue man pointing at a red sugar beet pulque. Curado ironically means “healed”.

I stare at its bloodiness… His eyes shoot my curiosity. —Listen—, Don Gaby walks in an aged smooth manner towards the jukebox. The air thickens by a sour taste, everyone becomes aware of it. Golden trumpets, Cuban percussions, downhearted keyboards agitate the sound… a longing recall that frightens less than it numbs: “Though my life perils I’m still searching your love, I’m asking everyone where could I ever find you”. A few smashed hearts hum Beltran’s words. With tiny sips throats seem to choke; is the pain of an ex-lover farewell.

Photos: My Scholarship entry - A 'place' I have visited

photonomy — Sun, 13 Jan 2013 16:58:00 GMT

I noticed something itching inside me since I was four years old. At high school it kept me awake up until 4 AM. I felt like a burning owl; vigilant, but scratchy. It was the itching thing that kept me biting my nails during classes, tearing my hair off and asking to hear stories from street strangers, always wondering about the "outside". The hidden things and the adventure kept my feet moving forward but the itching anxiety didn't diminished, until that day...That person, who I now thank extremely, put it in between my hands and gave me the simplest instruction, as an ancient life secret: "Hold your breath, count and ¡shoot!". From that first framing I’ve never paused, always shooting and searching and selecting, not just pictures, but stories, secrets, "hide and seek" like moments. Those pictures are my best id card, my most human feature, my very best opportunity to keep on learning about myself through other eyes. I'm not the photographer but them. The itchiness remains, I guess (and it's my desire) it'll always be there, but now my camera itches too, we both now have the same scratches. M. Beretta (youngster journalist, ardent photographer, storyteller & badass pupil).

My Photo scholarship 2011 entry

photonomy — Mon, 7 Nov 2011 13:45:29 GMT

“By my nuts”, I answer when my mom asks why do I have to choose the toughest situations to make photo. I understand why she worries; living in Mexico is not the easiest thing: more than 50 thousand deaths because of Mexico’s drug war; first place in kidnapping -45 per day as daily journals show-; plus, being the most dangerous place for journalists (even more than Afghanistan). Mexico is a battlefield and also my home. Me: young journalist, photographer, change believer. Photography is an opportunity to push human to recognize itself and its environment. If change must start, is first needed self acknowledgment. I want someone else to know the reality I portrait. I photograph because of my desire to document my world, the charm and pain of it. South Africa: test myself, unlimited work. I couldn’t stop asking! I would be patient, brave, tough, there wouldn’t be any complaint, no babysitting. I feel motivated because of the idea of living a raw assignment. I’m not worried about sweat, hunger, and insects. When I was a kid I used to eat dirty worms. I want to learn how to scare away the fear when you’re noticed with the camera right over their faces. I’ve learned of photography to control my body while shooting, to be cautious, to face the error and shoot how many times needed. I’ve noticed I’ve become stronger and much more of a fighter to get the picture that I want. I just don’t want this to be “the best experience of my entire life”, but the beginning of my life’s mission: to show youngsters a better way of life through photography. I hope I get to be someone’s mentor someday. My bet: to change someone´s perception about human compassion and his will. So bet on me.