Back to the Party: Affects, Relationships, and Encounters

Chapter 11 Back to the Party: Affects, Relationships, and Encounters Denilson Lopes How can we live together? How can we share experiences and cross borders? This is a broad issue, and I do not intend to map possible answers here. But to address it, I will stick to a plane of affect that I have studied as a form of staging, based on my reading of Deleuze and Guattari (1992), which helped me to think of the scene, the image based on the atmosphere (mood) and not just on the narrative, spaces, and objects, not only as background, gestures, poses, and movements beyond the dialogues. But in this chapter, I would like to start with Nicolas Bourriaud’s (2002) suggestion that art should be a state of encounter. Without considering the debate between Bourriaud and Jacques Rancière, I would like to consider this suggestion and try to read films, especially Bailão [Ball] (2009), directed by Marcelo Caetano, from the perspective of affects, relationships, and encounters, passing from aesthetics to ethics that stage ways of life. It may sound naïve, anachronistic, and extemporary to talk about parties at a moment marked by disillusionment, skepticism, and cynicism. But this is my interest here. After having watched several films before going to sleep, I thought I was dreaming. What comes after Flaming Creatures (1963), directed by Jack Smith, and Orgia ou O homem que deu cria [Orgy or The Man Who Gave Birth] (1970), directed by João Silvério Trevisan? What can one do after Tulio Carella’s (2011) hunting for bodies in downtown Recife or the “ass polka” at the cabaret Chão de Estrelas in the film Tattoo (2013), by Hilton Lacerda, were interrupted by the military dictatorship, leading the latter to even be banned from the Internet? What remained was the disillusion of Salò (Saló, or the 120 Days of Sodom) (1975), by Pasolini, who was bored with the guys from the suburbs that Manuel Puig insisted on chasing through the streets of Rio de Janeiro, while Néstor Perlongher mourned the death of the faggot [la loca] while he was getting fucked by a hustler in São Paulo? If the world could no longer be changed, would the only solution be to leave places with dignity? Like the hostess from the sex club in Shortbus (2006), by John Cameron Mitchell, in a New York City increasingly dominated by its sanitization and transformation into a safe playground for international tourism, just like several other cities around the world? After failures and utopias, narcissism and melancholy, would there be room for anything else? Somewhere in time, Tina Turner’s voice singing “Let’s stay together” still echoes. Sônia Braga dances to the song of the disco group Frenéticas in Dancing Days, a soap opera aired on Globo TV, and the choreographies of Lia Rodrigues, without solos or duos, can still bring us a sense of belonging to the crowd, the orgy of bodies, the party of sensations. Oh, Jack Smith and Hélio Oiticica, pray for us, now and forever. I prayed and continued to search sleeplessly. By re-watching movies like Paris is Burning (1990), by Jennie Livingstone, Before Stonewall (1984), by Greta Schiller, or The Cockettes (2002), by Bill Weber & David Weissman, I see that there is a history of LGBTTIQA+ experience: togetherness, sharing, and establishing other networks, kinships, and families, as well as other heritages and futures. And where are we now? Where are we going? Some years ago, I watched the complete series Queer as Folk (2000/2005), in which, for the first time on TV, it was possible for me to see the existence of an ‘us,’ of a collective queer experience that takes place in the city. There is something similar occurring at the Blue Danube bar in Madame Satã (2002), by Karim Aïnouz, in Lapa, a bohemian neighborhood in the central region of Rio de Janeiro, during the 1930s, and even further back. I think of Bailão [Ball] (2009) and By Your Side (2011), by Marcelo Caetano, of Tattoo (2013), by Hilton Lacerda, and Futuro Beach (2014), by Karim Aïnouz. These films take us from the lonely anonymity of the big cities and soap operas, make us feel less like bastards, and create other ways of living that are not measured by production or work. We go out at night in search of a party, in search of someone, anyone. Everything, they are all possibilities. The crowd itself is the first party. The buildings are another one. Sex is trivial and dispensable, but the body is not. Bodies rub, touch, hit, and press against one another. Hopefully, the party will not just take place in the other apartment. What remains after the banalization of sex and even the fatigue that Jean Baudrillard (1990) called post-orgiastic? This absence is still a search for today’s ethics of “comradeship,” according to Walt Whitman’s term (Herrero-Brasas, 2011), for friendship as a way of life, as proposed by Michel Foucault (1981), for the wager on the power of encounters in the contemporary world in Strange Encounters, by Sarah Ahmed (2000), for thinking of art as a state of encounter, beyond the works of art that are closer to the installations and performances that Nicolas Bourriaud (2002) had suggested, in an openness for encounters, in the search for a dramaturgy of the party or simply a party. That party could be as Joshua Chambers-Letson suggests at his recent book After the Party: A Manifesto for Queer of Color Life: an organic entity, a living, breathing being, a gathering together of the multiple in one, an obscure order, a whole which is not one, a many that is singular, a kind of provisional ‘we’ at difference with itself from the inside out. (2018: xi) What is affect? It is nothing that we possess. Everything that happens and that runs into us, makes us up, and knocks us down. There are many references about affect. However, I do not want to talk about references now. I just want to merge into the world of sensations; venture into the possibilities of affects as generators of relationships and encounters. There is always the question about what brings us together, what makes us share that has generated a great deal of stimulating discussion about communities or multitudes, to use the expression by Toni Negri and Michael Hardt (2004), or the undercommons, following Fred Motten and Stefano Harney (2013), among other possibilities that challenges the reinvention of politics and aesthetics as ways of sharing what is sensitive. Beyond the concepts and singular places that each one of these terms has generated, I prefer more modest words: relationships and encounters. Encounters that we barely know how to name, whether they are happy or sad, or happy and sad; encounters that shape relationships without understanding either their past or future, without clear heritages, and with ancestries under construction. These relationships do not institutionalize, they stabilize. In their fragile and precarious situation, they can change every day. Above all, it is in this sense that I have been interested in some films. I am not interested so much in how they are made or received, or in the creative process or in their public or market but rather in this modest and indescribable task of inventing ways of life. I am interested in the act of seeing, in the daily routine that is shaped without great answers into something that is more than mere repetition, inertia, or submission to rites and empty rhythms of sociability, of work. It is not really about evaluating, saying that a film is good or bad, although this is not unimportant; above all, it is about choosing with what and with whom to associate. I search for films that keep me company while I watch them, when I write about them. I write to accompany them, imagining that I am actually a companion for those images and for whom I share these encounters. Above all, what remains is the question: what can a relationship do? What is a relationship? What happens after the encounter? Can a life be made only of encounters, without relationships? Would relationships consist of daily routines and regularity, whether they include living together day in and day out or other forms of common rites, such as weekly encounters? And if art is a state of encounter (Bourriaud, 2002), more than an encounter, is it a possibility, an invitation that we can accept or refuse? Beyond the relational aesthetics (using Bourriaud’s expression) that privileges process-based works of art, interventions, and performances to the detriment of complete objects, would it be possible to think of film as a creator of encounters and relationships and not about what film generates, in its creation or reception, in a room, in a film club, or on the Internet when opinions about it are shared? What would we be talking about? If art creates sensations, according to Deleuze and Guattari (1992), could it produce singular encounters and relationships? We are not talking about an ordinary work of art but about those that have in essence a desire for community, collectivity, or a sense of belonging. Therefore, it is not so much the director’s construction of a network of dialogue about the film, but that he or she situates him or herself in a network of affects, without occupying a central and privileged position, especially for those who love images and feel that their lives would be poorer and lonelier without them. The world of the image is not only a compensatory escape, nor a representation of reality; it is the possibility of other sensations and affects. However, would any work of art depend on the person who watches it? The challenge is how this vocabulary would allow us to choose a critical locus of enunciation, which is also a position in life. When I found these films by directors, most of whom are fifteen or twenty years younger than I am, I was seduced in part by the films and in part by the displacements that they produced. As a more than fifty-year-old man, I felt the films invited me to another way of life, unlike that of the burden of work. How can life not be this way in an extremely expensive city, such as Rio de Janeiro, where I live even though I have found a marginal niche at the university, where my colleagues and friends of the same age seem to be overwhelmed by survival needs or by the needs of their families, children, parents? In an old and rare crônica [anecdote] that the poet Carlito Azevedo wrote for the Jornal do Brasil newspaper, he asked himself, if I remember correctly, where to find those who are no longer young and not yet old, those who are not part of the youth or the elderly groups. I ask myself if there would be spaces beyond the family in which another time, or another rhythm, would be reinvented. Where are the intergenerational spaces beyond the institutionalized places of universities? Would art be able to generate this? Where are these spaces, these groups? Could work be reinvented as a space of encounters of affinities and not just of survival and completion of demands and tasks? Can doing or making be a space of encounters and affects? I repeat: what can an encounter do? In an interview, Marcelo Caetano (2011) said that he is interested in creating encounters. What does it mean to create encounters not only when making or watching films, but in a film? Encounters occur in the present and with memories and desires from other times. This film begins in the so-called ABC (Amigos Bailam Comigo) Bailão [Friends Dance with Me Ball], which gained a permanent venue in 1997 and now takes place in downtown São Paulo. It is a place of encounters among older and younger men, who are not hustlers. These encounters represent relationships different from those in the present and the past. Some clues about the nightlife of gays and their affective networks in the end of the 1970s may be uncovered in Fiestas, baños y exilios: Los gays porteños en la última dictadura [Parties, Restrooms, and Exile: Gays in Buenos Aires in the Last Dictatorship], by Flavio Rapisardi and Alejandro Modarelli, especially in the chapter called “La Buena Vida,” [The Good Life]. For these authors, “as in Leibniz’s monad, the party operates as an urban retreat independently of a soothing exterior” (2001: 112). In Bailão, Marcelo Caetano (2009) searches for the other through an almost ethnographic record of downtown São Paulo, starting from a place where these encounters take place and interviews with some of the people there. The narratives combine a past of marginality and exclusion with an old age that is present in an environment of greater freedom. The statements seem to be staged throughout the city; they extend their ties and encounters to bars and cinemas, transporting times. Everything culminates in a dance for two and in a space that is greater than that of individual solitude, greater than that of stable and institutionalized couples. The bathrooms, galleries, streets, and cinemas where the older men wander around are full of memories. Anonymous encounters retell another history, another temporality, as in the aforementioned Tattoo, by Hilton Lacerda, and in São Paulo in Hi-Fi (2013/2016), by Lufe Steffen, in which the collective and the individual are mixed. While in Lufe Steffen’s movie there is nostalgia for a world of parties, joy, eccentricity, and glamour that was destroyed by AIDS and the end of the hedonistic echoes of a counterculture in the disco era (such as in the image of Wilza Carla, former star and actress, going down Augusta Street mounted on an elephant to a disco entrance), Hilton Lacerda’s film fictionally redeems the group Vivencial Diversiones [Experiential Amusements], which is the lesser known cousin of Dzi Croquettes and San Francisco’s The Cockettes. They are all more than simply theater groups: they translate the power of art as the creator of ways of life, of sex and affects as ways of creating communities beyond the limits of family and work. It is something different from the presence of friendship that astonishes part of the new Brazilian cinema, as a way of isolation from the city and the world, and as a form of self-protection that is present in very different films such as Road to Ythaca (2010), from the Alumbramento collective, and in the gay hit called The Way He Looks (2014), by Daniel Ribeiro. In Tattoo, there is a search for another past that will create the future. It concerns the rupture of a “chrononormativity,” that is, of “the use of time to organize individual human bodies toward maximum productivity” (Freeman, 2010: 3), of a way of belonging to time that tells us about conquered pasts and ancestors so that we can have some future. It is not a restoration of time but of an encounter with time, an “erotohistoriography” that encounters the past in the present and uses the body as a tool to effect, figure, or stage for that encounter (Freeman, 2010: 96). This can also be seen in New Dubai (2014), by Gustavo Vinagre. It depicts a time that is neither domestic nor generational but can glimpse unimagined homes and futures. We do not have space to fully discuss it here, but I am referring to a problematic mapping of the debate on queer temporality stimulated by Mariela Solana’s doctoral dissertation entitled “Historia y temporalidad en estudios queer: Implicaciones ontológicas y políticas” [“History and Temporality in Queer Studies: Ontological and Political Implications”] (2015). Returning to the work of Marcelo Caetano, he is especially sensitive to a shared homoaffective experience but not to the romantic story of encounters separated from space and history. According to the director, the encounter always involves more than two people, it always extends through networks and ties. (Even when he wants to talk about marriage, like in Verona [2013], the celebration party is not shown. What matters is the movement suggested by the return of a former work colleague, probably an ex-lover). In any case, I hope that this modest analysis of Bailão is part of a “survival policy,” to use Gabriel Giorgi’s expression: more, perhaps, than that of the memory (not, much less, than that of heritage as reproduction): then to think of the legacy of many struggles against HIV-AIDS. A survival policy as a policy of the times for “one life” and for a collective as the tissue of interbodies whose heterogeneity and multiplicity is irreducible to a single narrative, a single story, a linear time that is continuous and legible as continuity. (Giorgi, 2017: 254) But beyond an archeology of struggle and melancholy, what I intend to do through my reading of this film is to contribute to an archeology of encounters and sensations, particularly of joy and parties. In Bailão, the stories are intertwined. Through there are some facts mentioned, what matters is the combination of stories of cinema and bar encounters, far from family and work, with the creation of Somos [We Are], a pioneering group of the Brazilian LGBT movement that arose in the late 1970s. For those who want to learn more about what we call a more factual history of the LGBT struggle in Brazil, I especially recommend Perverts in Paradise by João Silverio Trevisan (1986), Beyond Carnival, by James Green (2001), Sopa de letrinhas?, by Regina Facchini (2005), and A Construção da Igualdade by Edward Macrae (2018), just to mention the most classic texts on Brazilian activism. More recently, História do movimento LGBT no Brasil (Green et al., 2018) was published, and I would also like to mention the work of Cecilia Palmeiro in Desbunde y felicidad (2010) which compares the situation in Argentina and Brazil, as well as the book written by Flavio Rapisardi and Alejandro Modarelli (2001) that has already been mentioned. Sex and love are mixed. Beyond the differences that affected the Somos group, such as whether or not to become associated with a political party, the group’s most political gesture has likely been that of creating ways of being together, of surviving. When they walk in downtown São Paulo in the film, memories of other times are what is evoked, their voices are what lead us through the spaces in a city that is made not only of architecture, of common people, cars, and crowds, but of bodies; a city of desires, where in public spaces are the stage for anonymous encounters that today perhaps take place through apps. These spaces are places of an affective education that occurs outside of institutions, in precarious situations, but that is nonetheless important. Perhaps its importance is actually due to this precarious situation from which it would only be possible to glimpse something beyond helplessness and loneliness. It is an education occurring with the lights off and with hands on, in which there are no teachers and students. The memories seem to take place on one night, between the beginning and the end of the ABC Bailão [Friends Dance with Me Ball], and point to other possibilities of encounters. There is a ritual in the organization of the place and in the reception of those who arrive. Some of them seem to be lonely. Others seem to acknowledge themselves. There is joy in the dancing of these bodies that have aged and that do not belong to the LGBTTIQA+ hipster youth and elitist nights, bodies that tell other stories beyond what they say. The ABC Bailão is held in the República neighborhood, close to Vieira de Carvalho Street, which is still today a place for plural LGBTTIQA+ encounters in spite of the gentrification process that this area is undergoing, close to middle- and upper-class neighborhoods such as Higienópolis and Santa Cecília. The ABC Bailão is part of a network of places such as Bar dos Amigos [Friends Bar] with codes to take part in it. It is forbidden to take photographs and film, but those who are filmed seem to be comfortable, although we are not always able to match the voice to the face and body of those who make statements. To me, this seems to have less to do with preserving privacy than producing a chorus effect in which several voices and histories are mixed. It is also forbidden to take off one’s shirt at the ABC Bailão. Most people there adhere to an elegant dress code. Perhaps except for someone dancing alone, there is nothing too extravagant or eccentric, as in the exuberant parties that we are used to seeing in clubs like Studio 54 during the mid-1970s in New York, or in raves and theme parties in big cities. At Bar dos Amigos, it is possible to read a funny recommendation: Bathrooms are not darkrooms. Respect “girlfriends.” It is a story about bodies being observed and desired, about touches being received or interrupted. What can a pose reveal? A story of surviving the AIDS pandemic and daily violence. In a modest and delicate way, this film restores this archeology of touches, which was also staged by Rafael França, moments before dying of AIDS in Chicago. While in Bailão the bodies survived to dance, in França’s Prelúdio de uma Morte Anunciada [Prelude to an Announced Death] (1991), there are only hands that search for each other in a desire to embrace, to touch and be touched, to support and be supported, to the sound of La Traviata sung by Bidu Sayão, perhaps the best-known Brazilian opera soprano internationally, which heightens the sense of being inside and outside the country. Although the ABC Bailão website mentions that they do not restrict the entrance of women, there are no women in Caetano’s film. There are also no transgender people, but it would perhaps be an exaggeration to say that this is a space of misogyny or transphobia. However, there is definitely a lineage of male bodies that resist there. They dance alone, in pairs, or in groups. They dance in the present, while their bodies bring memories from other places, encounters, people, who are lost in the night or dead. However, even when the place is about to close, there is still room for one last dance. What remains is a danced gesture. According to José Gil, in Movimento total [Total Movement], what characterizes the gesture is the fact that it never ends. In the movement that unfolds it, it is retained, regresses upon itself, and is prolonged in the following gesture. In this sense, there is no outline, there is only an ‘a-round’—the gesture avoids its own limits, it escapes from itself. (Gil, 2001:108) In this sense, it opens itself to the other, to the world, through dance, even when there is no one there to be spectator or a participant. In the face of the exuberance of countercultural joy, what is called desbunde (Dunn, 2016: 36-71), there is a modest joy here for those who survive in their daily routine, who need to work, but who may not consider work to be the essence of their life and their time, for whom the night is not a space of glamour and eccentricity, but of encounters and little adventures. There is no epic, dramatic, or tragic grandiloquence. Nothing is so visceral or excessive, transgressive, or subversive: little resistances, such as two people that dance at the end of the night. This is a story of winning and losing, of those who disappear after a fleeting conversation or encounter, without our establishing a hierarchy between what is stable and enduring and what is ephemeral and transient. It is true that a life which is made only of sensations and casual encounters is more exposed to dramas of loneliness, but these can also be moments of freedom. There are no easy answers. There are no answers at all. There are only paths that at times we choose, and by which most of the time we are chosen. Now, what remains of leg-rubbing at the cinema before the guy with a flashlight could see it? Of the touching hands? Of the casual kisses? And the quick sex in bathrooms, or parks, when meeting was impossible at home? Far from mere portraits of social exclusion, these moments can have other meanings. There was a history written by the lips, as Oscar Wilde (1996) defended, as if told when kissing, a kind of lineage that derived from the bodies from which we came, not from the bodies of our parents, but those that have sheltered us for a moment, a few hours, a few days, those who shelter us not because we live in the same house, but because we make every encounter into a house, if not a home, perhaps a cup of coffee or tea, a glass of beer or cachaça that warms us so we can continue to the next station, for the next hour. Along the way, close friends become strangers, passions are lost in memories. The challenge of a queer historiography, which is the object of my research now, not only lies in the reinvention of stability, of families, but also in the mapping of affective networks in which the possibility of homoaffective unions was not so accepted or regulated. These networks can serve as experiences from a past made of silences and invisibilities considered to be violence and oppression, and they still touch us not only through what they may have generated, as if they were moments in a linear story. Each instant brings a way of life that tells us multiple possibilities of pasts and futures that perhaps may help us at this moment. Even helplessness, which is valued by Vladimir Safatle in O circuito dos afetos [The Circuit of Affections] (2016), may be a form of invention and not of renunciation. Helplessness is not an easy path, as we can drown in the succession of therapies and medications to survive day by day. And who would cast the first stone if they have not come close to this pit or had the feeling of hitting rock bottom? Helplessness may be what makes these men walk through the streets in their spare time, with only their legs and the desire for someone to be able to return their gaze on a corner or in the entrance to a gallery, and for this gaze not be considered an insult or to be met with violence or humiliation. Helplessness is a risk, a wager of desire in crossing the city, a lack of resignation, instead of staying at home watching TV, a wager similar to the one that we make today based on app profiles on virtual corners. Helplessness and trust make them talk and be filmed. If they were afraid of being found out at their jobs, now it is not about pride or shame. There is a certain audacity, which is even present in the shyest of these men, in those who have not been colonized by the hegemonic discourses of LGBT-phobia, who try to live up to their desires. There is the dancing and the memories. The nighttime encounters and the friends lost to AIDS. Night after night. Perhaps one night, one of them will stop showing up. Perhaps because they cannot make it. Disease. Boredom. Death. But suddenly there may appear, like Débora, the faggot that flies, Aguinaldo Silva’s character in the book Lábios que Beijei (1992), who, whenever cornered by the police, would always jump from a house to the street, fall, stand up, run away, and reappear—until she became someone else. She stopped being Débora. In casual encounters, names can be changed or forgotten more quickly when desired. Here, the names are only mentioned at the end of the film, though their stories survive. There may well be something after the night, the party, as explored by Marcelo Caetano in By Your Side (2013), or it might arouse, if not subvert, desire—if not in the world of work, certainly in the worker’s experience, such as in Body Electric (2017), Caetano’s first feature movie. Bodies that walk through the city creating dances in their lives other than those on expected nights? Bodies that dance in the present, knowing that there is a tomorrow? Bodies that when dancing become part of another history to be rewritten not by historians, archive rats that do not dance, but by others who write other histories when they dance? The party, this party, as much as it may seem to be a spatial and temporal suspension, is not isolated from the world, and the body is an archive that glimpses other pasts and is also a gesture that points to other futures under the sign of the party, not so much as a deregulation of the senses or an agonal celebration of the end of the world, but only a gesture among many others. These gestures register the kinetic effort of communication. Even when they are made in private, they are relational; they establish connections between different parts of our bodies; they cite other gestures; they extend the reach of the subject in the space among us; they make an “us” or “we” possible. (Rodríguez, 2014: 2) When I was finishing the first version of this text, I went for the first time to the Turma OK club, which had just inspired a film called O clube [The Club] (2014), by Allan Ribeiro. Turma OK is a group that has been around for more than 50 years as a “gay brotherhood” Confraria gay is the term that appears on the website <http://www.turmaok.com.br>. in downtown Rio de Janeiro. Before Somos, Stonewall, the Sexual Revolution, and the AIDS crisis, there was the Turma OK group, and it continued and continues to exist. I entered the long corridor, climbed the stairs of the old house that is the current headquarters (there had been several of them before), passed by photos hung on the walls, and went to the modest performance hall. A friend of mine, Felipe Ribeiro, told me while we were watching a performance: “This is our Paris Is Burning.” There are performances of various natures. Although there are mostly drag performances, there are award ceremonies, contests, something that goes beyond the stage and that surpasses the moment. In my delusion, that past, that space, those bodies needed something like Looking for Langston (1989), in which Isaac Julien reinvents, recreates the Harlem Renaissance in the shadow of the experience of Black gay men that met in clubs. There are so many images and stories that I have seen in the performances, or about which I have been told, such as older men celebrating their birthdays, eating cake at Cinelândia on Sunday afternoon, when hustlers were still walking around, or during the period of the dictatorship, when after the performances people would raise their hands but not clap or make any sound so that the neighbors wouldn’t hear them. It is also a history that is not over, as I could see by the presence of two young performers. In brief, what has made these men gather in a place far from their families and from those spaces of isolation and anonymity? There is also a history to be told and updated, without nostalgia or activist triumphalism. When I was also told that the night club La Cueva [The Cave], in Copacabana, which had been recently revived by the V de Viadão [F for Faggot] parties organized by youth who were not satisfied with the standards of conventional gay parties, was already operating in the early 1960s, I was surprised. These are stories of continuities, of heritages, of possibilities for other futures, other ways of being together. I thought the party was over, but it is just getting started. Translated by Marco Alexandre de Oliveira References Ahmed, Sarah. 2000. Strange encounters. Embodied Others in Post-Coloniality. New York: Routledge. Baudrillard, Jean. 1990. A transparência do mal. Papirus: Campinas. Bourriaud, Nicolas. 2002. Relational Aesthetics. Dijon: Les Presses du Réel. 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