Lampoon’s 20th issue titled, Fluido, will be released on February 20th 2020.
The attitude of a contemporary day — beyond equal rights, beyond pride, and beyond shame: we are fluid. The word defines an identity that is undefined. Not gay or straight nor male or female. Water flows between our fingers in the light of the day. Not only is the demand of a definition unfair but so is the question. The image of fluid is simply water that cannot be held in our hands. There is nothing more discourteous, less well-mannered and less modern than asking a person who they are with or making an assumption about it. The word fluid is now used around the world — from pop culture, to gossip, to children’s music — everywhere. It could also appear to be that celebrities use fluid to conceal some cowardice to avoid exposing themselves — losing the chance of becoming an example to their fans or followers. But aside from any human weakness, the concept of fluid grows stronger: the identity of a person is not a connotation. It has no importance. We choose to be with who we love, no matter who we prefer in bed. Fluid is not one who is confident with their own identity, but rather one who is strong enough to give their identity away, and with it no stress.
Last December in Miami, Luc Defont-Saviard walked the runway for Kim Jones at Dior: it was clear that man could appear as the icon for a fluid generation; a face that conveys the awareness of its own mas- culinity, which is worth more than any kind of virility — the adolescent becoming powerful, the dreamlike angel revealing its indecency. Fluid is not the destruction of gender — fluid is the pride of annulling all definitions, whether sexual, social, or racial. We are made up of 90% water and water will find its way around us.
On February 27th 1930, Ba Gandhi prepared vermilion-colored flower paste from pulverized petals. With her finger, she placed a red dot on her husband’s forehead and proceeded to do the same on the foreheads of all of the men ready to march. The youngest was sixteen years old, the oldest one was six- ty-one: he was Gandhi. Two hundred forty miles in twenty-four days. Along the way children and women ran in the streets, petals flew from windows — kilometer after kilometer, men joined the march. Day by day, the number of marchers multiplied and journalists began to publish, stirring public opinion. On April 9th, in Dandi, Gandhi stepped into the sea and stopped at the shoreline where salt was deposited by the tide, took a handful in his fist, and with that gesture, symbolically broke English law. From there, the march turned towards Dharasana, twenty miles away from Dandi where the salt was stored and locked up. The army and the police, equipped and armed, were deployed to defend the warehouses. In groups of twenty-five, embracing one another and chained together — like water against the rocks — Gandhi’s men walked towards the warehouses and towards the government’s soldiers. Many fell to the ground. All of them were stopped. These images circulated worldwide. The British Raj, the English empire in India, would soon disappear.
Fluid like the love all around you — be it a well-delivered sermon in church, or fluid like the march to Dandi was for Gandhi. We are like water, from waterfalls, clean and new, from above — before becom- ing dirty with the mud, cities, faucets, rivers — until it finally reaches the sea, and yet, for man, nothing is more beautiful than the sea — this remains to be one of the phrases of which I am most proud. Both love and water will continue to flow around the rocks without letting anything stop them. The love which embraces you, my love, will shake you, submerge you, it will always be there, getting into every nook and cranny, every angle, and every corner of your body. The water around the rocks has the same touch of every embrace in which I hide you from the world.