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Magazine Cultural Escola Secundรกria da Infanta Dona Maria nยบ13. Mar-Maio 2012

ArtistasEscondidos


PALAVRA

S

Zebedeu? Já andava há horas a atravessar as enormes montanhas, a fugir dos milhentos insetos que me queriam

picar

e

deixar

gigantes

borbulhas

vermelhas para o resto da minha vida, a explorar todos os cantos e cantinhos daquela mágica e bela floresta à procura do pequeno e minúsculo anão: o Zebedeu. Ele era o único que possuía o antídoto para o veneno de cartalssima, uma estranha e aterrorizadora mistura

de

sapo

com

aranha,

que

tinha

mordido

o

meu

irmãozinho mais novo. Mas por causa daquela multidão que o procurava por motivos desnecessários (como é o caso de dona Jonanda – uma velha mal vestida que procurava um creme para deixar crescer as unhas), Zebedeu escondeu-se no meio da gigantesca floresta cheia de bichos irritantes. Como é que eu o iria encontrar a tempo? Não podia contar com a ajuda de ninguém

pois andavam

todos mais

interessados nos cremes de beleza antirrugas, nos cremes para

o

cabelo

e

nos

cremes

que

tornam

os

dentes

mais

brilhantes. Eu tinha de fazer tudo sozinha. Andei, andei, andei, até que, de repente, apareceu do nada um rapaz meio desorientado, de pijama e de chinelos com

um

enorme

chapéu

de

pato

Donald.

Quem

seria?

Não

parecia ser um daqueles que andava à procura de um creme para tornar os calcanhares mais macios, por isso fui ter com ele. - Olá, sou a Marta. Venho da aldeia dos Mil Fins e ando à procura do Zebedeu. E tu? - Eu sou o João Miguel e… acho que venho de dentro de um saco invisível!


-

Um

saco

invisível? És mágico ou a

tua

mãe

é

uma

contadora de histórias? - Como é que sabes? Ela é mesmo uma ótima contadora de histórias! - E tu és um menino desobediente que devia estar na cama a dormir mas preferiu aventurar-se. - Pois… e tu? Como vieste aqui parar? - Sou uma cowgirl do futuro. Quer dizer, não vim do futuro mas como todos consideram que os habitantes da minha aldeia dominam técnicas muito avançadas para a época atual, dizem que nós “viemos do futuro”. - E que cremes vens tu comprar? Eu contei-lhe a minha história e disse-lhe que não suportava tanta gente gananciosa que vinha à procura dos cremes de Zebedeu. Por causa deles eu iria demorar muito tempo a encontrar o anão e poderia não chegar a tempo para socorrer o meu irmão. Foi então que o João Miguel fez um ar matreiro e entusiasmado e segredou-me: - Eu sei onde mora o Zebedeu! Quando entrei para o saco

das

histórias

da

minha

mãe,

sem

querer,

dei

uma

espreitadela à última página deste livro e … vi onde ele mora! - A sério? E podes ajudar-me a encontrá-lo? - Claro que posso! Mas tens de me prometer uma coisa. - O quê? - Não contas à minha mãe que eu vim até aqui. - Combinado! E lá fomos. Andámos horas e horas pela floresta e desviámo-nos da multidão que só desejava cremes ridículos. A noite caiu e arrastávamos os pés de cansaço. Eu já não acreditava

nas

palavras

inventado aquilo tudo!

daquele

rapaz.

Se

calhar

tinha


O desânimo começava a tomar conta de mim quando, ao longe, vi uma pequena luz intermitente. Seria

o

anão

ou

seria

apenas

um

bonito

pirilampo? Aproximámo-nos. Eu nem queria acreditar! Aquela luzinha era o reflexo provocado por um enorme espelho do Zebedeu! Assim que nos viu, o anão deu um salto.

Talvez

chapéu

do

João

se

tenha

Miguel

assustado ou

talvez

com não

o

estranho

estivesse

à

espera de visitas. Foi então que exclamou: - O que desejam? Algum dos meus cremes especiais, certamente, mas despachem-se que eu não tenho o dia todo! É algum creme para as unhas, ou para os pés cansados, ou para as orelhas…? - Nada disso! – reclamou o João Miguel – Nós, quer dizer, a Marta anda à procura do antídoto para o veneno cartalis…, cartilassi…, cartilassississi… - Cartalssima! – disse eu por fim. - AHHHHHHHHHH, com certeza. Aqui têm. E, por favor, não digam a ninguém onde é que eu estou. - Claro que não! – concordámos em coro. - Então vão-se lá embora. A cowgirl do futuro tem de entrar por aquela porta, que a levará até o seu irmãozinho. Quanto a ti, menino desobediente, entras por aquela outra porta e vais já dormir! Eu disse-te que acabava de te contar o resto desta história amanhã, não foi? - Mamã? Não me digas que tu és o Zebedeu? - Não me faças mais perguntas e vai dormir! Entrei pela porta que o anão Zebedeu me tinha indicado e, de repente, dei com o meu irmão a dormir agarrado ao seu tigre de peluche. Acordei-o, dei-lhe o antídoto e fui para a minha cama. Adormeci! Sonhei que conheci um menino chamado João Miguel e um anão Zebedeu que vivia numa escura floresta. Foi um dia confuso mas muito divertido!

Marta Agostinho Costa 7ºB Nº24


Educação Visual

7ºano Turmas B e C ILUSTRAÇÕES para CONTO Infanto juvenil


8ºs anos PERSPECTIVAS – pontos de fuga


Daniela Metelo nº8 – 9ºA


Teatro Novos talentos 7ยบano


IN ENGLISH

The house was, obviously, dirty and dusty, so, I had no choice but start cleaning it. This took me a lot of time, as you can imagine. However, there was one thing that I just couldn’t stop thinking of… That iron collar, which was standing on an old table, in the kitchen since I found it. Honestly, I was getting really nervous because I don’t like when I don’t understand something and, definitely, I didn’t understand anything about that collar. Why was it there? And why was it protected? Who wore it? And who was Sir George Fife? There were so many questions in my mind. But, suddenly, it came to my mind that, with a bit of luck, the man who sold me the house could know something. And if, by chance, he doesn’t, I won’t have anything to loose. So, after another day of hard work cleaning the house, I got in my car and drove to the address he gave me. When I rang the front door’s bell, I thought how ridiculous I should look like, expecting one man, who doesn’t know me from anywhere, to tell me a great secret. And there was, of course, the possibility that he didn’t know anything. I woke up from my thoughts when the door was opened by a surprised man. -Hello. Is there any problem with the house? – he asked me. -To be honest, I am not here because of the house… Or maybe I am, I’m not quite sure… -I am not understanding nothing… Please, come in and explain me better. I have to admit that I was nervous and I didn’t know why. -So, tell me what your problem is. – he asked me, when we both sit down on a brown and comfortable couch. The man gave me a strange look, like if he already knew what I was about to ask, so I didn’t take much longer. I found something in the garden. Something I am not quite sure what it is, but it remained in my mind since I found it. I am talking about this. – and so I took the iron collar from the suitcase I carried. At the same time, I saw the man’s eyes getting bigger and astonished. – I guess you know what this is. -I… I think this is what slaves used to wear… -Oh, but that I knew. My question is: who wore this one? -You won’t give up until I tell you, will you? – I denied with my head and he continued. – Everything started years ago, when my grandfather was the owner of that house… I am not proud of anything I will tell you, believe. So, my grandfather was sir George Jamisson of Fife and he was… Well, he was a bit crazy… And he was completely obsessed with his slave. -Did he just have one? I mean, powerful people used to own a lot more than just one. I told you, he was mad. Nothing else mattered but his personal slave. He was like a trophy or a prize to my grandfather. He made him this collar himself and he wrote this phrase very carefully, almost like if that was the most important thing in the world. It’s very awkward and a bit scary… But why was the collar bared in the garden? – I asked to break the uncomfortable silence that was growing. -I think the answer is quite obvious. He must have kept it as a reward or a memory and, later, he bared it in order to protect it. -Yes, you’d probably be right, I can’t see other reason. -You wouldn’t believe if I told you things my grandfather did… -Please, tell me. I am very curious about this story. -Every morning he asked his slave to help him having a bath. – I was not impressed, because I thought that was normal, so he continued. – And then, he always insisted on give the slave a bath himself. – now my eyes were wide open. – There were times that he even fed the slave in the mouth! In my opinion that’s obsessive and odd… -Yes, it really is… -But there is more! My grandfather used to read his slave poems or love stories. And never, on any occasion, he let my grandmother or anyone else getting close to the slave! He was so possessive… -Do you think he was… like… in love with him?


-I don’t think it could be love, or any other feeling as well, because my grandfather was a cold person… He had no heart, so I think he was never able to love anybody. -Probably he had a disease… -Probably yes… That would be an explanation for all those strange things. -Sorry, but… How do you know all these things? -My parents had to told me when I asked them about my family. -It must have been shocking to discover all this… -A bit, yes, but I was already old enough to understand everything. I wasn’t a child, as you can imagine… -But the story ends here? -No, unfortunately no… As I said, my grandfather was completely obsessed with his slave and each time he left home, he left him chained, so that he couldn’t escape. One day, my grandparents came out with my dad an my uncles and when they arrived home, they found the broken chains and the collar on the floor… -The slave freed himself or had he help? -That I don’t know, but that moment was the beginning of the end… -The end? The end of what? -My grandfather was blind of anger, because to him that man was everything and he thought that he wasn’t going to get through that situation, so he committed a crime. The same day, when the police arrived, because my grandfather had called them to give the account of an occurrence, it was too late. My grandfather had killed my grandmother, my uncle and, then, himself… All of this in a ray of madness. All because of a slave. -But what happened to your father? -He escaped in time with his younger sister. I was thinking about this story. How would anyone be able to do something like this? Suddenly, I thought about my family and how much I had to thank God for none of these things have ever happened to me. -My father was heartbroken. Suddenly ran out of family, without support – told the man. – and with a sister in charge. The only good thing was that he had a cousin who took care of him and his sister in her house, until he could work, but he never was able to return to the place he was raised. -I can imagine. But the house was yours. Why? – I asked because I had to know all the details! Then we get the rest of the night talking about this subject. He told me that his aunt went to that house and has lived there, even after everything that has happened. He told me that she had married a merchant while her brother had built a house in that village and had established family. -My aunt never had children. – he said. – and she was a very dark person, like her father. While my parents worked and had their friends, she spent the day locked in the house and no one ever knew why. -Sorry to be insisting, but you didn’t answer me. Why was the house yours? -I am sorry. I totally understand your curiosity. My uncle died of prolonged illness and that destroyed my aunt, who went into a serious depression, until the day she died, also because of her health.. My mother and I helped her in the end of her life the best we could, so she left everything she had to our family and, as you know, my father didn’t want the house, so, eventually, she gave it to me. -Ah… Now I understand. But it must be difficult to live in that house. By what I saw and explored, the house is full of memories that I bet are difficult to remember… -A lot. That is why I put up for sale. My parents are living with me in a town near here and they asked me to get rid of it and luckily you appeared, but I understand if you want to get out of there, I don’t blame you. -I like challenges. In addition, the house is in perfect form, it is ready to be inhabited and I really like the place where it is placed. Thank you for allowing me to know all of this. -You’re welcome. The house is now yours, isn’t it? I think you have the right to know what happened there and the consequences of it. Whenever you need something, I will be able to answer you. We said goodbye and I went out. When I came home I had the curiosity to sit and read some journals that were in the old wooden bookshelves. Many of those books were old and eaten by the time and, after many hours poring over the kitchen table, trying to decipher what was written there, I confirmed all the information that I had been entrusted. Everything was there as if someone wanted that story to be documented and to be passed down from generation to generation, to continue in time by many and many years, just like the house, which had a huge secret. And all of this started with an iron collar.

Ana Rita Valadares, nº3, 12ºF Maria Inês Figueiredo, nº19, 12ºF


The Collar’s Journal 26th August, 1767 All I could hear out of that stressful situation was that heinous noise. That terrified yell, beaming in my ears like the scream of the mother elephant who just lost its offspring to the blood-thirsty hunter. I was handed over to the departing husband and father. His hands were rough and sweaty. I suppose it could mean he was aware he would never see his loved ones again. We walked into a ship, from what I heard. After we took off, everything turned into a silent cry, from which I could feel the surrounding ocean overflowing from my new owner’s eyes. The last thing I could hear that day was: “My dearest Mumba, be safe… I’ll always lo… Don’t forget… I’ll alw…”. 19th September, 1767 *Boom Kaboom* I heard as I fell from the hands that held me so close the entire trip. My owner has grown weaker every single day of the journey, and so did his reminiscing desperate calls for his homeland. We arrived at last, in America I think. Someone claimed my owner as his own the moment we got off the ship, with a redneck voice filled with arrogance and disgust. That person, who I figure it was a man, picked me up and engraved me. It was as painful to me as the whip that struck my owner’s back when he refused to hand me over to that detestable monster. I guess we are doomed to survive through misery and oppression. And they call it the land of the free…! “My long-lost Africa, how I long for you, body and soul!” my owner prays every night, as if he still has any soul left under that misused exhausted skin. 7th October, 1767 We were moved to a huge barn and were confined to a pile of hay in the corner of the stables. My owner’s name over here is “number five” or simply “five”. According to what I’ve overheard, they have slaughtered four other working slaves before they bought this one, so he shall be called five. By God, they didn’t even reefer to his name with a capital letter… Around his neck, I feel his body crumbling like a dirt rock and I hear his utterly hopeless sighs and cries at night. He spends all day mowing the fields, dehydrating and starving under the strong autumn sun, only to be rewarded with a late night beating from the drunken slob who owns him. He found a rotten violin on the side of the roads the other day, and hid it under the horse’s bed. He has been trying to play it for the past few days. What a lonesome sound that is keeping him from madness… 24th December, 1767 It’s Christmas Eve, so Five had extra heavy work today. He murdered today. He had to do it. He chased the victim that ran furiously, scared to death in the most literal meaning of the expression. After he caught the poor fellow, he tied him down and cut his throat in a quick slash. I felt horror running through his veins, pumped by his tachycardiac heart. He stood there, muttering “may God save your beastly soul”, fast and repeatedly. He took the body to the kitchen so the cooks could prepare him to be devoured by the family later. Five worked for four hours in a row after that and, without cleaning the dry blood from his hands, he picked up the violin. He improved a lot this past month, and what used to be a ghastly sound is now a ghastly strain of mellow feelings of this tormented soul. I can now hear his memories of a once happy life. He wasn’t a high-class man where he came from, but he was no piece of rubbish. He had a family like the white man; he had a marriage that gave him lots of joy and lots of pain. As the notes flowed, I’ve lived all over again the day he tied me up around his wife’s neck of a delicate ebony skin; the day he heard his first-born child grasping his life with a cry of both fear and hope; the day they parted; the first night he spent away from his family; the days he was left in his corner with his live-red flesh covering his skin. He suddenly stood up, walked up to the side of the road and threw there the violin. He went back to the stables and slept near the rest of the cattle.


31st January, 1768 Mad day’s I’ve been living… We’ve met Mrs. Fife. “Lay Down with me”, she said. Five’s head was tilting side to side in a frightened way. “I’ll tell him you raped me if you don’t”, she said. “Your head will roll in the muddy ground if you don’t”, she said. She tied his hands and took his torn clothes. I felt regret and terror paralyzing Five’s muscles. He closed his eyes shut, he tried to get away from that situation. The cougar all over his weeping body, biting his shoulder, her claws sinking into his back matching the scars Mr. Fife had already carved. A sinful thrust stealing his last opportunity of meeting his wife, his family in another life. When that was over, she left him there, nude in the cold frozen grass. He stood up and started to walk randomly, in despair. His mind was probably filled with doubts about his living hell, about his involuntary betrayal, the way he dishonored his family and his vows. Pure sorrow was being whispered through his lips, in mixed up words I could not understand. He entered a building, and abandoned one, I presume. He hid me in a piece of cloth and lay next to it. With no food, no water, no one to care. And he has never said any other word since. And so this is the story of the mishaps of the man left alone leaning on the doors of oblivion.

Mariana Oliveiros Beatriz Martins


A preto e Branco

Dachau Jo達o Santos


BErlin

Potsdamer Platz

Berlin

Berlin Domm


Professor Jo達o Santos

g o s t a r d e

art. G

ost art.


Maquetes 9ºA Arranha-céus


Moradia


CENTRO DE CONGRESSOS


Arranha-céus e Torre Publicitária


Torre para parque Temรกtico


Edif铆cios de escrit贸rios


PINTURA 8ยบANO


PINTURAS 7ยบANO


Desenho Sala de aula 7ยบano Turma B


Desenho colectivo Sala de aula 9ยบano Turma A


Desenho abstracto Sala de aula 7ยบano Turma B


รšltima pรกgina

ASTRO BOY

DISCO INFERNO

Computer Art TRABALHOS DE GUILHERME FERNANDES 11ยบC

ARMAZÉM Nº13  

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