Cr贸nicas de lo Absurdo #34. El muro que arregl贸 la vista. [ES/EN]
馃嚜馃嚫 En Espa帽ol
Cr贸nicas de lo Absurdo #34
El muro que arregl贸 la vista
Hola querida comunidad 
Cr贸nicas de lo Absurdo.
Esta es una serie de cr贸nicas sobre lo cotidiano, sobre esas escenas que se repiten tanto que dejan de parecernos extra帽as. Aqu铆 no hay exageraci贸n ni ficci贸n forzada. El absurdo no se inventa, se observa. Son textos nacidos de la experiencia diaria, de la espera, de las normas sin sentido, de los gestos que todos conocemos y que casi nunca cuestionamos. No pretenden dar respuestas, solo detenerse un momento y mirar con atenci贸n eso que hemos aprendido a aceptar.
En esta trig茅sima cuarta edici贸n el tema es:
El muro que arregl贸 la vista.
Fuente Pixabay
Hay algo que siempre me ha llamado la atenci贸n en las ciudades: la importancia que algunas veces le damos a lo que se ve desde determinados lugares.
No es extra帽o que una ciudad quiera estar limpia y bonita.
Al contrario.
Una ciudad cuidada habla bien de quienes la habitan y de quienes tienen la responsabilidad de mantenerla.
El problema aparece cuando la prioridad deja de ser cuidar la ciudad y pasa a ser cuidar solamente aquello que alguien importante podr铆a llegar a ver.
Durante muchos a帽os, en Cuba fue bastante com煤n que determinadas empresas estatales se encargaran, entre comillas, de reparar, pintar o embellecer las fachadas situadas en los recorridos por donde pod铆an pasar caravanas de inspecci贸n, visitas importantes o determinadas actividades.
Y entonces ocurr铆a algo curioso.
Se pod铆a pintar un edificio que daba directamente a una avenida principal mientras, apenas unos metros m谩s atr谩s, otro edificio permanec铆a sucio, deteriorado y con las huellas del tiempo perfectamente visibles.
Desde un autom贸vil que circulaba por la avenida, todo pod铆a parecer bastante mejor.
Pero bastaba caminar unos metros hacia un lateral para descubrir que la pintura hab铆a sido mucho m谩s selectiva de lo que parec铆a.
Era una especie de escenograf铆a urbana.
La ciudad ten铆a una cara para ser observada desde la carretera y otra para quienes viv铆an detr谩s de ella.
Y esto no se limitaba solamente a pintar.
En ocasiones, cuando un inmueble se deterioraba demasiado o incluso sufr铆a un derrumbe, aparec铆a otra soluci贸n mucho m谩s sencilla:
un muro.
Si ya no se pod铆a mostrar el edificio, se levantaba una pared delante del espacio que hab铆a quedado vac铆o.
Despu茅s se pintaba.
Y desde la avenida...
problema resuelto.
O al menos eso parec铆a.
Recuerdo especialmente una zona a la entrada de Matanzas, en una de las 谩reas m谩s antiguas de la ciudad.
All铆 exist铆a un edificio de dos niveles, con una parte superior muy vieja y deteriorada.
La soluci贸n que se encontr贸 para que quienes llegaran a la ciudad por carretera no vieran aquel deterioro fue colocar un enorme cartel de bienvenida a Matanzas.
Y debo reconocer que la idea tiene cierta genialidad.
Si no podemos arreglar el edificio...
隆pongamos algo delante!
Y si adem谩s dice "Bienvenidos a Matanzas", mucho mejor.
El visitante puede concentrarse en el mensaje de bienvenida y no en la pared que est谩 detr谩s.
El problema es que un cartel no restaura un edificio.
Una pared pintada no elimina un derrumbe.
Y una fachada bonita no significa necesariamente que detr谩s exista una ciudad bien conservada.
Lo curioso es que estos recursos pueden funcionar perfectamente durante un tiempo.
Quien pasa r谩pidamente por la carretera ve el cartel.
Quien circula por la avenida ve la fachada pintada.
Quien llega en una caravana puede recibir una impresi贸n bastante diferente de quien vive all铆 todos los d铆as.
Y ah铆 aparece el absurdo.
No siempre se solucionaba aquello que estaba deteriorado.
A veces simplemente se solucionaba la posibilidad de que alguien lo viera.
Es una diferencia peque帽a en apariencia, pero enorme en la pr谩ctica.
Reparar un edificio requiere recursos, planificaci贸n, materiales y trabajo.
Levantar un muro o colocar un cartel requiere mucho menos.
Y desde cierta distancia...
ambas cosas pueden producir una fotograf铆a bastante parecida.
Pero hay algo que una fotograf铆a no muestra.
El interior.
El lateral.
La parte trasera.
El espacio que queda detr谩s del muro.
Y con el tiempo, esos lugares pod铆an terminar convirti茅ndose en espacios abandonados, llenos de basura y cada vez m谩s deteriorados.
Entonces pienso que quiz谩s el problema nunca fue solamente la falta de pintura.
El problema era una forma de entender la conservaci贸n:
si no se ve, parece que no existe.
Y eso no ocurre solamente con los edificios.
Tambi茅n puede ocurrir con las personas, con las instituciones y hasta con nuestros propios problemas.
A veces dedicamos m谩s esfuerzo a que algo parezca estar bien que a conseguir que realmente lo est茅.
Una ciudad no se conserva pintando 煤nicamente aquello que aparece en la fotograf铆a.
Tampoco se recupera un edificio levantando un muro delante de sus ruinas.
Porque si para que algo parezca arreglado necesitamos esconderlo, quiz谩s no estamos reparando la ciudad.
Estamos reparando la imagen que queremos que los dem谩s tengan de ella.
Quiz谩s por eso el t铆tulo de esta cr贸nica podr铆a parecer una broma:
El muro que arregl贸 la vista.
Porque el muro no arregl贸 el edificio.
No solucion贸 el abandono.
No recuper贸 el espacio.
Simplemente consigui贸 que, desde determinado 谩ngulo y durante unos segundos, dej谩ramos de verlo.
Y tal vez ese sea uno de los absurdos m谩s curiosos:
cuando solucionar lo que vemos termina siendo m谩s importante que solucionar lo que realmente existe.
Hasta aqu铆 esta trig茅sima cuarta cr贸nica. Gracias por leer y espero sus comentarios al respecto.
Las im谩genes son de Pixabay y para la versi贸n en ingl茅s utilic茅 DeepL Translate.
馃嚞馃嚙 In English
Chronicles of the Absurd #34
The Wall That Fixed the View
Hello dear
Chronicles of the Absurd.
This is a series of chronicles about everyday life, about those situations that repeat themselves so often that they stop seeming strange. There is no exaggeration or forced fiction here. The absurd is not invented; it is observed. These texts are born from daily experience, waiting, meaningless rules, and behaviors we all recognize but rarely question. They do not seek to provide answers, only to pause for a moment and look carefully at what we have learned to accept.
In this thirty-fourth edition, the topic is:
The Wall That Fixed the View.
Source Pixabay
There is something that has always caught my attention about cities: the importance we sometimes give to what can be seen from certain places.
It is not unusual for a city to want to look clean and beautiful.
On the contrary.
A well-maintained city says something positive about those who live there and those responsible for maintaining it.
The problem begins when the priority stops being taking care of the city and becomes taking care only of what someone important might happen to see.
For many years in Cuba, it was fairly common for certain state-owned companies to take care, so to speak, of repairing, painting, or beautifying the facades located along routes where inspection caravans, important visitors, or certain official activities might pass.
And something curious would happen.
A building facing a main avenue could be painted while, just a few meters behind it, another building remained dirty, deteriorated, and visibly marked by the passage of time.
From a car traveling along the avenue, everything could look considerably better.
But it was enough to walk a few meters to the side to discover that the painting had been much more selective than it seemed.
It was a kind of urban stage set.
The city had one face for those observing it from the road and another for those living behind it.
And this was not limited to painting.
Sometimes, when a building became too deteriorated or even partially collapsed, another much simpler solution appeared:
a wall.
If the building could no longer be shown, a wall was built in front of the empty space.
Then it was painted.
And from the avenue...
problem solved.
Or at least that was how it looked.
I especially remember an area at the entrance to Matanzas, in one of the oldest parts of the city.
There was a two-story building there, with an upper section that was very old and badly deteriorated.
The solution found so that people arriving in the city by road would not see that deterioration was to place a huge welcome sign for Matanzas.
And I have to admit that there is a certain genius to the idea.
If we cannot repair the building...
let's put something in front of it!
And if it says "Welcome to Matanzas," even better.
The visitor can focus on the welcoming message rather than the wall behind it.
The problem is that a sign does not restore a building.
A painted wall does not erase a collapse.
And a beautiful facade does not necessarily mean that behind it there is a well-maintained city.
The curious thing is that these solutions can work perfectly well for a while.
Those passing quickly along the road see the sign.
Those traveling along the avenue see the painted facade.
Those arriving in a caravan may receive a very different impression from those who live there every day.
And that is where the absurdity appears.
The deterioration was not always solved.
Sometimes what was solved was simply the possibility of someone seeing it.
It may seem like a small difference, but in practice it is enormous.
Repairing a building requires resources, planning, materials, and work.
Building a wall or putting up a sign requires much less.
And from a certain distance...
both can produce a fairly similar photograph.
But there is something a photograph does not show.
The inside.
The side.
The back.
The space behind the wall.
And over time, those places could end up becoming abandoned spaces, filled with garbage and increasingly deteriorated.
Then I think that perhaps the problem was never just a lack of paint.
The problem was a way of understanding preservation:
if it cannot be seen, it seems not to exist.
And this does not happen only with buildings.
It can also happen with people, institutions, and even our own problems.
Sometimes we devote more effort to making something look fine than to actually making it fine.
A city is not preserved by painting only what appears in the photograph.
Nor is a building restored by putting up a wall in front of its ruins.
Because if, in order to make something appear repaired, we have to hide it, perhaps we are not repairing the city.
We are repairing the image we want others to have of it.
Perhaps that is why the title of this chronicle may sound like a joke:
The Wall That Fixed the View.
Because the wall did not fix the building.
It did not solve the abandonment.
It did not restore the space.
It simply managed to make us stop seeing it from a certain angle and for a few seconds.
And perhaps that is one of the most curious absurdities:
when solving what we see becomes more important than solving what actually exists.
This concludes the thirty-fourth chronicle. Thank you for reading, and I look forward to your comments.
The images are from Pixabay, and the English version was translated using DeepL Translate.
Thank you for reading.
Special thanks to 