The surrender of one of the greatest achievements of the bourgeois cultural universe –the establishment of an impenetrable veil between public and private conduct– cannot be considered a defeat of the contemporary world, as we could apply to some labor or social rights, but rather it has been a voluntary surrender: we remove blinds and curtains and let the illuminated rooms of our houses be visible. In a digital sense, we have done it with the exception of offering windows choosing the angle and the scene. We are customary artists of our own biography, with all the frankness and imposture.
On the weekend of the death and resurrection of the Messiah, the viral Instagram photo was one of those stolen poses that offer a perfectly measured plot of intimacy and that want to give very specific information but end up giving another: Minister Irene Montero sitting listening former Vice President Pablo Iglesias, guitar at the ready. As almost always, the accessory ends up obscuring the obvious, and the photograph went viral on Instagram and other social networks –above all, the one with the scandalized screams and the moral lessons: Twitter– for a few pixels in the lower left part from the frame, on the table, which could have been a line of cocaine but much more likely a dangle from a bag zipper (unless the cocaine has grown little hairs of late).
Of course, the heretical hammer of Catholic morality – which in these lands is wielded by Catholics, agnostics and atheists with equal enthusiasm – launched into condemning the use of recreational drugs by two public figures – well despite that the political formation to which both belong is in favor of the legalization of narcotic drugs–, without having made the consequent checks on the handful of pixels, a fact-checking that, as usually happens, the tweeters carried out to conclude that, indeed , the thing seems more to be a necessary accoutrement than a promise of happiness to the Colombian.
But, distracted by the accessory, we do not pay attention to the patent, which ratifies two certainties: the divorces, separations and liquidations of real estate assets attributed to the couple in the last five years were trolls that were part of the unparalleled personal harassment that Montero and Iglesias, and that the cultural universe of the left that they embody is closer to the parents who listened to Silvio and Krahe than to the children who memorize romances by Bad Bunny and Quevedo (Góngora’s enemy, no, the other). As if between one thing and another – between the Cold War and the invasion of the Ukraine – there hadn’t been a Bunbury of the end of history to throw himself in the face. As if between “the era is giving birth to a heart” and “the nights without you hurt” there had been no gales of history: “If it can’t get worse, make one last effort, wait for the wind to blow in your favor.”
