childhood was a happy space. A site where the act of playing installs in my life
forever. Forever playing ...
have the strange certainty of being watched, loved, praised. The little school
in Flores: A brick house in Caracas and Rivadavia, the house terrace, my
friends. A never ending party. Good student, not because I was nerdy, but
because it was easy. A little bit
of a bully, but not much.
everything. Even when I did not know how to read. Salgari' s books and above
all, a reading that will imprint me forever: Alice in Wonderland.
Perhaps, because, I thought, in that Argentina of the 50s, I was in
wonderland myself. Of course, I wasn't. But,
I knew that later. Maybe too late, because that "sense of wonder" it
is already a mark of origin.
in the delicious waters of those times, I see myself eating figs out of my
cousin's fig tree in Vicente López. I see myself writing my fist poem that came
out with ink blots.
mother wanted a pianist daughter: at four I was already playing Bach. English
classes, declamation, magic classes. I used to listen to operas in my Viennese
fell in love with James Dean, and I covered my room with his photos. In the park
where I used to play everyday, the Peronist government had placed a sign saying
that: "In the new Argentina, the only privileged ones are the
children." I used to vent that
slogan as a symbol in front of my parents who were anti-Peronists.
radio was a kitchen ritual. Lorenza, my nanny, and I would laugh at Niní
Marshall, suffer with Tarzan's adventures and dance with the Glostora Tango
fifties, so 'yanquis' (Yanquees), so little cake dolls, so cheesy, dressed me up
in frilly little dresses for birthday parties where being blonde and blue-eyed
was a winning card in such a racist country like this one.
like Alice in Wonderland, made out of all sense nonsense; of every solemnity, a
trick; of every power discourse; an irreverent parody.
And Alice, still in the year 2000, remains my heroine. Like her, I often
cheat while playing croquet with myself.