A few days ago, when I was preparing and then publishing an article about Blanca Andreu in EL PAÍS, there were phrases or reflections of hers that caught my attention when I heard them, others when I wrote them, and a few, least , when I read them. I’ve tried to shed some light by asking further and others have let me through because more important than knowing where an unknown person, no matter how journalistic, can intrude into someone’s private life is knowing how far no , you can arrive. However, there was something that completely escaped me as I heard it, as I wrote it, and as I read it (the moving of the material from the I know to the I is the staggering journalistic practice). It was only when I read it again, two days later, that I realized the devastating power of that phrase and everything it fatally conceals: “It was said that I had withdrawn because I had moved to A Coruña and they started stop calling me”. Andreu’s potential employers took seriously the idea of “living in Coruña, how beautiful it is; go on tour and sleep on foot”.
The phenomenon is not new (in fact, it was a worse phenomenon before the internet), and it is present not only in one big city but in all, but it is better to observe if you live in one, someone goes to their city 70 kilometers away, he is as if about to die, at just 37 years old, with a hug that even his father doesn’t give before the wedding. The self-confidence of Madrid as a whole has for years been such that when you leave the city, it seems to those still in it that the streets will automatically self-destruct as you leave. Or better yet, you left because you failed. Either you wanted to slow down or retire, or you had a terminal illness and were going to die in the city like a tumored elephant. All of these assumptions. Because it seemed – even now it seems – impossible to leave Madrid at the age of 50 because you immediately have the feeling of having been successful in life and having bought a small village in a bicycle town or having a child in a square with you want to raise trees and half a dozen houses around.
It is not mentioned or is not usually mentioned that there is a production system that favors the absorption of time, talent and money to such an extent that many people who are in Madrid fail to see Madrid as a city to live in but to conquer, and not a tool to enjoy (much) with, but to fight with to be able to do it. And that’s happening among students, boys with precarious jobs who are being pushed out of the center to make way for investors whose interest in the land is to exploit it, not occupy it, and executives who work 13-hour days and a Earn wealth with one goal: to check it out. Or worse, save it until they can spend it, which will be when they pull away from what they really enjoy: looking at it. The fact is that there’s a weird feeling, only sometimes unreal, that everyone who leaves Madrid when they’re not playing is just handing in their guns; and another sensation, more tangible and frightening, after which they force him to hand her over, as happened to Blanca Andreu. But that has to do with Madrid, with social media and with everything: the modern commitment to it bewhich requires practically nothing other than not going away, being seen, being available at the machine when someone wants to consume you.
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