Caricaturas Portuguesas (e outras) nos Anos do Turismo

drawing, words

In the 1970s, cartoonist, illustrator and artist, João Abel Manta, drew a series of cartoons called Caricaturas Portuguesas dos Anos do Salazar (Portuguese Caricatures from the Salazar Years). They were and are visceral, hilarious and scathing, about situations and society from 1926 until 1974, in the very defined style of Manta.

I’ve been struggling with what is happening to Portugal, mostly Lisbon and Porto, while tourism runs amok, but as much as I write about it, I just feel that cartoons express my feelings better. Tourism, marvellous, tourists, not all lovely, excesses excessive. etc.

So I’m drawing some cartoons, in slightly a Manta-esque manner, that mostly only Portuguese people over a certain age will recognise. But hey.

Meanwhile, in Avenidas Novas, life continues as usual
The Modern Pilgrimage

To be continued…

where did the bata go?

drawing, words

If, in the very olden days, you ever read my blog, even just once, you’d know I was fixated on the bata, the sleeveless housecoat that is made of the purest polyester and printed with flowery patterns or a tight teal, moss or poopy coloured check. I found it fascinating and weirdly sexy. I own three*. Two of which were given to me for a laugh, because of my fixation, and one I bought myself because I liked it.

Along with so many things, the bata seems to be slowly disappearing. I hardly ever see anyone wearing one any more where we live now, apart from some of the older stall holders in the market, and very old ladies who watch the world go by out of their windows.

When I first came to Portugal, it seemed to me that every woman over about 35, owned one, at least where I lived. That was in a big, sprawling, semi suburban village, and the only people I would see during the day were stay at home mothers and grandmothers who spent their days ironing and cleaning and cooking for their families, having a quick gossip at the café or the mercearia and then cooking and cleaning and ironing some more while the tv kept them company and their husbands spent the evening in the café or bar, and their children and grandchildren went their own way to do their own thing.

These women spent all the hours of the day standing up, and so whatever shape they were, pear, apple or stick, they generally had the most perfectly tuned calf muscles. They never stopped. In comparison, I was the layabout Englishwoman in the village (I was the only one back then, and therefore rilly fucking weird and I was object of suspicious looks for many years). I didn’t spend much of my time cooking, hardly any cleaning and I have ironed about 10 times in the last 20 years. As I didn’t need to protect my clothes from grease and bleach, I didn’t wear a bata. But those women were up to their ears in grease and bleach every day. They needed their batas; cheap, quick to wash and dry, could even be worn just over underwear in the horrible summer heat. And I still think that they were truly heroic, dedicating their whole lives to caring for their families. In those days, it was grandmothers who took up the slack and kept the whole country going.

I hope that the passing of the bata is a sign that not so many women are having to dedicate their entire lives to looking after other people, locked away in their houses, making sure everyone is fed, and clean and has their clothes ironed, with just the tv for company while their husbands spend the evening in the bar, because they were, are, heroic, and I wish they didn’t have to be.

*I never wear my batas, because I remain a slovenly creature, don’t mind if I get a bit grimy, and ironing should be banned for good.

Twitter, twitter, twitter…

drawing, words

Once upon a time, twitter was a teensy widget where bloggers had jolly, silly conversations on the sidebar of our jolly, silly blogs. It was fun. 

That was in the first year of twitter. I hadn’t even started this account yet, as I was still an anonymous blogger and used one of my blog aliases.

Then some famous people got onto it, which meant that non-bloggers got wind of it and jumped in so they could shout at the famous people (or do that fandom thing) and 16 years later, here we are. To this day, as much as I love the man, I blame Stephen Fry for breaking twitter. 

Inevitably, twitter and facebook caused the demise of the blog culture, and that’s fine, because I was exhausted, and writing 140, then 280 characters required less effort.

Then twitter and facebook became vast cesspools, and that’s fine because…. well it’s not fine, but they will end one day, because everything ends. Can you imagine how depressing it would be to see someone using twitter in that Bladerunner sequel (I can’t tell you if there was someone in that film using twitter, though, because I fell asleep half an hour in). 

Humans haven’t evolved to have arguments in 280 characters. That’s why I’ve come back to my blog, to write slightly more coherent arguments about the world I see around me and get shouted at for my actual arguments and not for what some idiot perceives as my argument having read 280 characters. Really, I haven’t been shouted at on twitter for a few years, which is nice. I took a break of a couple of years a while back, and when I returned, I had been left behind. 

My point? I have no point. I just wanted to draw the twitter bird.

I do, though, suggest everyone gets their own blog again, those amongst us who like to communicate, partly because Elon might unplug twitter one of these days, just for kicks. 

Optimism? Pah!

drawing, words

Moments of optimism in a pessimist’s life are just exceptions for us to prove the rule that pessimism is the only way to live. 

When the pandemic began, I, like others, had a momentary optimistic lapse with the hope that this was the moment that the (human) world would take a stern look at itself and stop being such a wanker. 

Of course, it didn’t and we’re back where we started, if not further back than we were before the lockdown times happened.

Among many other hopes for a post pandemic world (and I’m sure I’ll get to those soon), one was that the tourism in Lisbon would die down a bit, or come back in slow, decade long stages, give the city a chance to breathe a bit after the last few years of touristic onslaught, find itself again, find its soul.

My hopes were entirely unfounded, as I now find that not only has it picked up where it left off in March 2020, but it is already worse, fuller, more chaotic, and bit by bit the city is being picked apart by glossy slate and chalk and copper and oak eateries, and posh hotels and souvenir shops which are growing like mould. 

Worst of all are those goddam motherfucking shitmachines (sorry) E-scooters/trotinetes. 

(I swore I would resort less to swearing now I’m back to trying to write more, but there are some things…)

They are a plague on all cities and Lisbon is no exception and have been reproducing while we were in lockdown. They are a menace, they are lethal, they are littering the streets, they are causing unnecessary injuries for hospitals to patch up (including many head injuries) and although they are illegal to use on the road and on the pavement, those are the only places they are being used, mostly by teenagers without a driving licence and tourists who have no idea how dangerous Portuguese traffic/roads/drivers are, or gleefully ignorant that they are, in fact, not the only creatures in the world with a right to life, love, dignity and unbroken legs. 

Why is money so blinding that everything just gets waved through? Who is it even making money off the trotinetes? Why couldn’t the council have just said to whoever it was “trotinetes? in Lisbon? Are you fucking crazy? Have you SEEN our roads/pavements?” 

“Oh,” they say, “but trotinetes are such fun!”

Meet a drunk stag party on wheels coming in your direction when you’re already trying not to fall on your arse on the shiny calçada and tell me that’s fun. 

Optimism? It’s for the birds (there are no scooters in the sky).

Cataloguing ugly shoes

drawing, words

About a hundred years ago, I had a blog, which I kept up until the Special Operation on the Blogosphere by the United Federation of Facebook and the Twitter. Some people even remember it.

In my blog, I used to catalogue the people and things of Portugal (and take the piss, sorry, I was a bit miffed back then). I’ve always meant to get back to doing more of that cataloguing in a consistent way, but work and life often get in the way, that and my extraordinary ability to get sidetracked. Most of what I do these days is motion graphics (a. because I love it and b. because the illustration industry is a husk of what it was… maybe I’ll tell you about it one day) and if you know anything about motion graphics, you’ll know that it takes all your time and all your attention.

HOWEVER

However, sometimes, I get inspired to returning to draw all this (waves hand around head), especially since things have changed quite a bit since the early 2000s and my good old blog (it’s 19 years since I started blogging!), and because, last night, we went to the launch of the re-edition of João Abel Manta’s “Portuguese Caricatures from the Salazar Years” a full collection, in full colour, of his of cartoons from the 70s about those Salazar years. Good cartoonists always inspire me.

I took a while to appreciate Manta, but then one day, a good while ago, I got him. Look him up, if you are not Portuguese. The essence of his drawing style, as well as the caricatures themselves, encapsulates a certain Portuguese aesthetic. I love it.

The book launch was in Campo Grande and Campo Grande is where Lisbon University has its campus, and where, at certain times of the year, can be found gangs of these little sods (see above) hazing (praxe) first years. It’s a vile practice, even in the fact that you can choose to be praxed or not… having to choose to be the in or the out group and all that bullshit. Don’t imagine that this garb they wear is a university uniform or anything… it’s a self-imposed uniform that make the boys look like they’re trying out for the sixth form at Hogwarts, and the girls like they’re applying for the position of secretary to Doctor Evil.

They always give me the impression that they are lacking something in their lives… I don’t know what… a sense of self? taste in shoes?

(I have missed writing, too). Laters, hopefully.