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Angora Matta: Fatal Acts of North-South Translation, by
Marta Elena Savigliano. Middleton: Wesleyan University
Press, 2003. [xvii, 264 p. ISBN 0819565997 $24.95 (cloth)]
- As an interactive, open artwork, Marta Elena Saviglianos
tango-opera
Angora Matta resists definition. Written in the spirit of
Julio Cortázars Rayuela (as even the opening
Authors Note seems to suggest, xi-xvii), this book
disrupts and calls into question traditional narrative practices,
inviting readers to engage actively in constituting their own story
from the multiple layers of text, criticism, and commentary laid before
them. In the manner of many open compositions of the early 1960s,
including Boulezs Le marteau sans maître, Savigliano
destabilizes her audiences expectations of narrative progress
by situating her main text, the tango-opera libretto Angora Matta,
as Part II in the center of her book. It is preceded in Part I by
a bilingual, self-reflective commentary on that text in the form of
an imagined dialogue between Savigliano and one of her operatic characters,
XYa, a medium who represents the feminine principle and Power of Memory.
XYa has threatened to sue Savigliano for misrepresentation, but settles
out of court by demanding she undertake an apprenticeship
in esoteric knowledge and include in her book texts written by the
operatic characters themselves, as a means of recapturing their historical
reality. This clever scenario serves as a point of departure for Saviglianos
mediations on the authorial voice, representation, art, translation,
and the viscous nature of subjectivity. Savigliano honors her contract
with XYa by including in Part III, which follows the central libretto
and comments on it, several academic texts on ethnography and representation
of tango, written by three of the operatic characters XYa has accused
her of misrepresenting: Elvira Díaz, Manuela Malva, and Angora
Matta. Savigliano admits that she herself has written these texts,
yet her ventriloquist manner of modulating her voice to speak through
her fictional characters gives her academic project a defamiliarizing
irony. Her book ends with poetic thoughts expressed through the voice
of her operas main character (or is it Savigliano herself?),
Angora Matta. Although all three parts of the book are intertwined
in theme, they vary so widely in approach and content that I will
consider them first independently, before doing exactly what Savigliano
does not want me to do: draw a synthesized and coherent conclusion
from the open strands of her postmodern story.
Authors Note (On Tangophilia and Ethnographitis)
- In light of the open work to follow, the emphatically clear statement
of purpose that opens Saviglianos book as an Authors
Note can almost be read as a mockery of academic intent. Nevertheless,
it enables the reader to get a shockingly precise sense of Saviglianos
interests and objectives. Her libretto for Angora Matta, she
tells us, will be about the transmission of experiences of post-dictatorial
mourning [in Argentina] to foreign audiences who are prone to spectacularize
political violence in the so-called third world through mechanisms
of exoticism (xii). Savigliano accuses postcolonial theorists,
ethnographers, and the film industry of having glossed over the inequality
and political violence of contemporary Argentina by reducing their
representations of the country to attractive symbols that merge easily
into their overall project of universal culture. She urges them to
abandon their spectatorial position and to engage in the linguistic
and corporeal traffic of difference (coded as culture), overcoming
their otherness through translation and co-presence (xii).
Her book, she claims, will attend to the moments and processes
when one identity is inhabited by another, one language transforms
into the other, and one corporeality is provoked by the temporal and
spatial co-presence of the one it simultaneously alienates and intends
to understand. (xii). Such a thesis is thrilling, and caused
me to flip rapidly to Part I, eager to know how Savigliano was going
to solve the urgent existential problem of neocolonial representation
in the postmodern, globalized world.
Part I: An Uneasy Pact/ Parte I: Un Pacto Infeliz
-
In
Part I, Savigliano beautifully fulfills the high expectations raised
by the bold statement of purpose in her Authors Note.
Following in the tradition of her first book, Tango and the Political
Economy of Passion, she encourages her readers to feel and experience,
rather than just rationally or cognitively understand the in-betweenness
of identity she believes is characteristic of the globalized age.
Using the viscosity of fluids as her metaphor and Walter Benjamin
as her mentor, she argues that human subjectivity is constituted through
a mixture of materials that displace and make room for each other,
coalescing into a definable whole yet ever open to further transformation.
Those materials are not ideas, cultures, or emotions, but rather words,
which function in her texts as spatially situated, weighted, and dense
bodies. She rejects the notion that individuals constitute their subjectivity
through the acquisition of one primary language, upon which they layer
others like icing on the cake, arguing instead for a model of postcolonial
subjectivity constituted in several languages at once, and defined
in its identity by the constant tug and pull such bilingualism or
polylinguism creates.
-
Savigliano
puts her thesis into practice by having her readers
actively translate as a means of physically and emotionally engaging
us in the spatial and material process of moving between cultures.
Paragraphs appear first in one language (English) and then the other
(Spanish), taking us on a seesaw journey between linguistic continents.
The order in which the two languages appear consistently changes,
leaving open the question of which language is the more originary
and thus authentic, and which is the possibly flawed translation.
Sometimes, she leaves Spanish words in the English text, as academics
are wont to do when they want to indicate that words have a primary
meaning that cannot be translated, not even in the ensuing translation
(8). Her fantastic exploration risks loosing its anchoring completely
in her edition and translation of her characters, XYas
introduction, which she tells us was originally written in a piecemeal
English and Spanish fashion (15-50). At this point I floundered between
the two voices/languages with no sense of a primary source, thereby
attaining the in-between, floating state of Saviglianos postcolonial
subject.
- Taking up Saviglianos Satrean invitation to engage in her shared
madness (5), I found myself stunned by the powerful effect of
her linguistic experiment. It made me aware of the degree to which her
chosen materials (Spanish and English) indeed did constitute my identity.
As a native English speaker who is still learning Spanish, I rapidly
read the English, but dwelled laboriously over the Spanish, checking
Spanish words in the English translation to be sure. Sometimes, I felt
I was missing some colloquial or idiomatic Argentine meaning. At other
times, I made assumptions about where Savigliano felt most at home,
even questioning her translations from one language to the other. Occasionally,
I translated something into German in order to get a closer sense of
it, because that is a language in which I feel more comfortable. The
effect was just as Savigliano described: the boundaries of my identity
felt permeable, constantly crossed by substances that in different
states, at different speeds, and with different properties transit between
beings and beings, beings and things, the real and the imagined, the
conscious and the unconscious (24). As I moved between my familiar
English and cautiously Spanish self (which included whatever I knew,
remembered, or imagined of Argentina), I could not help but admire Savigliano
for such a brilliant conceptual act. We are all unevenly distributed
postcolonial subjects, carrying within ourselves the material basis
of multiple subjectivities and allegiances, amalgamations of the various
languages we speak! I wanted to shout out, and turned eagerly
to Part II, the libretto itself, to see how she had realized all this
theory in art.
Part II: The Contested Object/ El Objecto en Disputa
Angora Matta: Tangópera-Thriller in Two Acts and Fourteen
Scenes
-
The
libretto of Angora Matta came as a surprise. Having been so
carefully prepared to participate, engage, translate, and even become
Saviglianos text, I was puzzled to find myself thrown back into
the role of the traditional reader. Although the libretto was still
bilingual, Saviglianos remark that it had originally been in
Spanish, caused me to read only that language, ignoring the English
translation that ran alongside it as I would ignore any extra languages
in an operatic libretto. Not only was the game of translation over;
my sense of the postcolonial subject disappeared as well.
-
Saviglianos
tango-opera tells the story of an Argentine guerillere turned
assassin who lives in Los Angeles, and is traveling back to Buenos
Aires to complete her latest assignment. There she experiences several
significant tango encounters. When the news breaks that the Argentine
President has been killed, Angoras friends and acquaintances
consult a medium, XYa, in order to find out whether she has committed
the deed. XYa takes them through a history of Argentina while in a
trance. The opera ends with a scene in Florida, where the President
reveals through e-mail that he has staged his own assassination in
order to escape Argentina. Angora finds him there and kills him.
-
Savigliano constructs her libretto, in the manner of Expressionist
theatre, around highly symbolic situations in which objects, character
types, images, and dances stand in for conceptual ideas. Rather than
translate between languages, she seeks the referential and symbolic
meanings of words now defined as entities with universal meaning.
She represents Angora Mattas relationship to Argentina through
variations on the tango as a symbol with fixed significance,
for
example, and used a named yet not heard musical leitmotif, the Memory
of Power, to evoke Argentinas suppressed memory of its
violent past. Her symbolic approach is most evident in these musical
signifiers, and in the spontaneous visual sketches interspersed throughout
the text, in which she depicts the operas characters and geographical
locations in the most generic and neutral terms. She draws Angora
Matta without a face, for example, as if to symbolize the contemporary
Argentine émigrés lack of clear identity. As signs,
symbols, or types, Angora Matta and the other characters pass through
each others lives like tango partners, engaging in a dance of
meanings reduced to symbols, but rarely communicating with each other
verbally.
-
I
had some difficulty understanding the symbolic content of Saviglianos
libretto, especially in relationship to the first part of her book.
Was she trying to move away from the materiality of language and translation,
in order to explore postcolonial cultural exchange within the symbolic
or ideal realm? Or was the libretto ironic? By now I was convinced
that Savigliano was playfully teasing with me, inviting me to indulge
in familiar, learned interpretive approaches, yet pulling the rug
out from under my feet whenever I felt too comfortable or close to
some kind of reading. As a postcolonial document this libretto was
also deeply troubling. Its main character, Angora Matta, who I identified
with Savigliano herself, thought of Argentina in romanticized, nostalgic
ways, yet possessed no trace of her American or Angelino identity.
Savigliano had admitted in Part I that bilingual postcolonial subjects
retain something of both their identities/languages, yet here she
had depicted the United States as a mere negation of Argentina, the
void experienced outside the expressive, emotional, remembered center.
Why, I wondered, had she reduced music to symbolic gestures, to a
single verbal leitmotif and to the contested genre of the tango, which
Argentine composers had used for almost a century to define their
national identity, and which at so many times in its history had sparked
intellectual debate because of its tendency to turn those very composers
into self-colonizing victims of the modernist musical industry? Many
composers and writers had fallen into this symbolic trap: Horacio
Ferrar and Astor Piazzolla in their Maria de Buenos Aires,
for one, and, earlier, Alejo Carpentier, who, in the 1930s, had represented
national characters in his libretti through characteristic and symbolic
dance rhythms. (Excerpt
from Maria de Buenos Aires.) Is postmodern musical identity
not much more complex than that, built on globalized trends, and hardly
reducible anymore to national symbolic types?
-
Saviglianos
use of the tango, nocturnal encounters, one-night stands, and flirtation
as metaphors for human relationships troubled me as well. What
about friendship and love? I thought, perhaps naïvely.
Arent there North-South conversations and developing relationships
that go beyond the gaze, not only at night, but also in
the light of day?
- Clearly, I did not understand. Surely, this libretto was trying to
tell me something meaningful about Argentina, especially given the dramatic
historic photograph on the cover.
|
Detail
from book cover |
But what? I felt left out, like a dysfunctional wallflower at one of
Saviglianos milongas (clubs or parties where tangos and
milongas are danced), seeking in vain to capture Argentinas
gaze, yet denied repeatedly the thrill of participating in the flirtation.
Had Savigliano just reversed the North-South dynamic, deflecting my
colonial gaze off her retina into the icy void of my decidedly unimperial
Northern (as in The Great White North, in my case Canadian)
soul? I wasnt sure I was willing to accept that role. I paused,
and turned to Part III for guidance.
Part III: The Controversial Evidence/Les Evidencias Controvertidas
Exhibits A, B, and C: Writings Attributed to Elvira Díaz, Manuela
Malva, and Angora Matta.
-
The texts in Part III propelled me back into the land of academia,
jarring me from my symbolic, magical fantasy back into the arduous
reality of ethnographic study. Although attributed to
Saviglianos characters, these texts read like her. I found it
impossible to read them straight, and realized with awe
that Saviglianos vision of how identities are constructed through
the exchange of linguistic material had transformed my conceptual
framework, even during the short time in which I had been reading
her book. She had entered my system as an author, and so shifted my
perceptions by her presence that I could no longer read academic texts
in the same way. I had become a cynic, ready to doubt every colonial
representation, and to question the authors voice at every turn.
Everything had become a symbol, a clue to the mystery of what Angora
Matta might mean. Why, I asked, were these texts exclusively in
English? Did that not reinforce a harmful stereotype, by which North
Americans possess knowledge and critical abilities, whereas South
Americas dance Tango and do other passionate things? I wished these
texts were in Spanish. I was angry they were in English.
-
I
cannot review all the essays in this section, which are vast in their
implications, so I will concentrate on the subject of this review
essay: postcolonial identity. Saviglianos character, Manuela
Malva, addresses this topic beautifully in her critique of representations
of Argentina in recent North American and European films (Evita,
The Tango Lesson, and Tango, no me dejes nunca). Here
I thought I had found the key to Saviglianos opera: she had
tried there to invert stereotypical of Argentina in an almost surreal
fashion. Her Argentine hero, Angora Matta, did not seduce Northerners
like the protagonist of The Tango Lesson, but rather killed
them, empowering herself through her knife, and even spurring the
authentic Argentine tango dancer she meets and is supposed
to love. Likewise, Mattas tangos are conflicted and failed affairs,
hardly moments of erotic encounter in which a Northern partner can
mistake the fulfillment of his imperial desire for a union of equal
partners. Savigliano had turned such crude representations on their
head in her libretto. Thatll showem, I thought.
-
But
troubling inconsistencies remained. These seemed to crystallize in
Elvira Díazs essays, and especially around
her interpretation of Julio Cortázars Las Puertas
del Cielo (The Gates of Heaven). In this short story from
1951, Cortázar described a lawyer whose friends girlfriend,
Celine, has just died. He decides to take his friend to a milonga,
which he explores ethnographically as an outsider. At one point a
moving tango is played, and both men are caught in a transcendent
moment of remembering Celine, who appears to them as a ghost, or as
the tango incarnate.
-
Savigliano
relishes this text as an example of the standard ethnographic practices
she so wishes to critique. I notice that her account and interpretation
of it leaves out certain key facts, however, which makes me simultaneously
realize that I am just about to critique her as her very own character
did in Part I. She focuses her interpretation of the short story on
the final moments, when both friends see Celine as ghost and engage
in a common memory. Savigliano argues that this is a moment of corporeal
passion, a mystical or transcendent state she has frequently
invoked throughout her book. Later, she (disguised as her character
Manuela) places music, and especially the voice, in this realm, arguing
that, the singing voice, a major feature of musicals, is dangerously
powerful in that it appeals to emotions that provide synthetic judgments
not readily available to critical ponderings (203). The tango
as dance likewise possesses supernatural powers to transport
the dead and the living into a common ground of nocturnal collapse
(163). It brings with it a strange philosophy, where ultra physicality
leads into a metaphysics of the corporeal (162). Metaphysics?
What is Savigliano saying? Has she not taught me in Part I that she
does not believe in culture (as universal or transcendent ideas),
and that only a physical act of translating language as material can
be trusted in the contemporary world? Why then, again here, does she
shift music, dance and relationships to a metaphysical realm, reserving
the reality of corporeal materiality for the limited domain of the
word/memory object?
-
The
answer to all these questions lies in her interpretation of Celines
ghost, which she believes returns as a body, or the body of tango,
representing memories as physical entities that insert themselves
into our lives. I now understand the central scene in her opera, when
XYa remembers the history of Argentina in a trance. The physicality
of memories as ghosts or incantations have the power to disrupt the
exoticizing act of colonial spectatorship, Savigliano seems to be
telling us (thereby confirming the thesis of her introduction and
the illustration on the books jacket). Memories block our view
like pillars in an opera house, frustrating our desire to indulgence
in spectatorial fantasies about colonized others.
-
But there are problems with Saviglianos symbolic system, in
which memories can achieve presence only by becoming objects against
the metaphysical landscape of music and dance. Can it not all be reversed,
with music as the corporeal presence that evokes memories as transcendent
ideas? A ghosts body is not material but rather an in-between
state, I would argue, evoked in Cortázars story not by
the tango movement but rather by its sung words, which his character
do not dance but rather hear: Faces were turned toward the stand
and you could see them, even twirling, fixed on Anita bent intimately
over the microphone…you were so much, you were so much mine,/and
now I look around for you and cannot find/you…You were
so much mine, weird how Anitas voice cracked over the speakers,
again the dancers (always moving) grew immobile…(110-11).1
Cortázar describes a mediated, amplified song, the words of
which move the emotions of his characters rather than their physical
bodies, and evoke ideal and spontaneous rather than corporeal memories.
His characters do not mystically engage with the passion of tango
and its impenetrable song, but rather celebrate the words as they
come through the microphone, an instrument for controlling sentiment.
The corporeality of amplified sound seduces them into poetic reminiscence,
immersing them in the nostalgic reverie so characteristic of tango
culture. The ghosts they see remind me nothing of the Madres de Plaza
de Maya, who reappear with life unaccompanied to music,
using their very real bodies to fight the political amnesia of contemporary
Argentina (165). They are, rather, gestic bodies evoked by the swaying
rhythms, the fantasies Savigliano otherwise would want us to discard
in favor of historical truth.
-
I now realize where Savigliano and I differ. Whereas she believes
that identities, ideas, concepts, emotions, and sentiments can be
summarized in symbols, signs and words, whose materiality she trusts,
I resist such a reductive practice. Not every North-South exchange
or memory is corporeal, reducible to a tango step, word, sign, or
symbol. Translation as a metaphor polarizes her narrative, I decide,
forcing her to squeeze identities into symbolic straight jackets (Argentina
as tango, for example), think in elementary binarisms (by opposing
the body of memory to the metaphysics of tango, for example), and
subsequently combine her entities like leitmotifs in a Wagnerian opera.
Surely the porous and malleable postcolonial subject needed to resist
such rigid signifiers by recapturing its metaphysical contentthe
aspect of human subjectivity that Savigliano has so mystified in her
text. We share not only our bodies and language with others, but also
our minds, emotions, and (depending on our beliefs) souls. Music participates
in the relationship of love or friendship rather than flirtation,
enabling memory, rather than serving as its mystic backdrop. Yet the
rigid materiality of Saviglianos approach prevents access to
these realms. Is this why Savigliano has labeled her North-South translations
fatal?
-
Suddenly
I realize that I have been duped. I have just defended universal truth,
denied geographical specificity, and wallowed into the mire of the
soul, thereby becoming the most primitive of Northern subjects, embracing
the very notions I have spent my academic life fighting to reject.
Has Savigliano done this to me on purpose, in order to reveal once
and for all the futility of both aesthetic and postcolonial discourse?
- I
cannot answer that question, or many others. I am left in awe of Saviglianos
achievement. I turn the book over, open its cover, and start again.
Maybe this time I will find a new path to follow, out of the stagnation
of postcolonial theory and ethnography and into a possible new world.
Tamara
Levitz
University of California, Los Angeles
Footnotes
1. Note the frivolous use
of a translation (Savigliano has trained me well.)
Works Cited
Cortázar, Julio.The Gates of Heaven. In Blow-Up
and Other Stories. Translated by Paul Blackburn. New York: Pantheon
Books, 1967. 110-11.
Savigliano, Marta Eleana. Tango
and the Political Economy of Passion. (Boulder: Westview Press, 1995).
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