Audio Coursesby JellypodLesson 05 of 8
Overview
Grace: Welcome back to CríticaZoma. Today, we’re diving into Silvina Ocampo’s “Cielo de claraboyas”—a story that, honestly, has haunted me since I first read it. John, I know you’re as obsessed with the architecture in this one as I am.
John: Absolutely. There’s something about that glass ceiling—the claraboya—that just, I don’t know, it turns the whole house into this weird stage. You’re not just looking up at a ceiling, you’re looking into another world, but you’re always at a distance. It’s like you’re stuck in the audience, never part of the play.
Grace: Exactly. The narrator is always below, watching the family above through the glass. And the way Ocampo describes them—those “saint-like” feet, the shadows that move like hands underwater—it’s so eerie. The people upstairs are almost statuesque, frozen in their routines, but you only see fragments. It’s like, you know, you’re piecing together a life from shadows and voices.
John: And the voices, too—they bounce around, echoing off the floor, but you never get the full picture. It’s all partial, all distance. I think that’s what makes it so unsettling. You’re always separated by that glass, and everything feels just out of reach.
Grace: It reminds me of this house I used to visit as a kid. My friend’s place had a glass landing, and I’d just sit there, staring up at the adults moving around above me. I think that’s where my fascination with literary spaces started—how architecture shapes what we see, and what we can’t. Ocampo captures that so perfectly here.
John: Yes, and it’s not just about what you see, but what you can’t see. The glass ceiling lets in light, but it also keeps you out. It’s a barrier and a window at the same time. I mean, it’s almost like the house is designed to keep secrets, you know?
John: And then there’s the elevator—the one with the golden floral ironwork. I always get stuck on that detail. It’s beautiful, but it’s also, I don’t know, kind of menacing? Like, the ironwork is supposed to protect you, but it also means you’re always being watched. You can’t really hide.
Grace: Yes, the elevator is almost hypnotic, right? Ocampo describes the cables like snakes, and the eyes get “caught” in the ironwork when you’re sad. It’s both a cage and a vantage point. And then you have Celestina—she’s this cloud-like, innocent presence, but she’s always under surveillance. The people below are watching, and the people above are being watched, too. It’s a cycle.
John: Celestina’s innocence is so fragile. She’s skipping, laughing, but there’s always this tension. The observer below is both fascinated and, I think, a little bit afraid. The architecture—the glass, the ironwork—it all reinforces this sense of control. You can see, but you can’t touch. You can watch, but you can’t intervene.
Grace: It’s surveillance, but it’s also vulnerability. The glass ceiling means you’re exposed, even when you think you’re safe. And the elevator, with its ornate iron, is like a reminder that beauty and danger can be intertwined. Ocampo uses these elements to create a constant sense of unease. You never know if you’re the watcher or the watched.
John: Yes, and that’s something we touched on in our episode about the uncanny, right? The familiar becoming strange. Here, the house is familiar, but the way it’s built makes everything feel off. You’re always on edge.
Grace: And then, of course, the stillness breaks. There’s that violent scene—the woman in black, the chaos, the fall. It’s so sudden, but also, it feels inevitable. The tension has been building, and then it just explodes.
John: Yes, the way Ocampo describes it—the black skirt chasing the little feet, the shouts, the hair being pulled—it’s almost unbearable. And then the glass breaks, and everything changes. There’s this silence, but it’s not peaceful. It’s heavy, like the whole house is holding its breath.
Grace: Celestina’s song after the violence—it’s haunting. She’s transformed, almost ghostly, singing as if nothing happened. The house shifts from chaos to this surreal nostalgia. It’s like the violence is absorbed by the architecture, leaving only echoes behind.
John: Reading this story really changed how I think about architecture in literature. I used to see houses as just settings, you know? But here, the house is a character. It embodies the psychological terror—the way fear and violence seep into the walls, the glass, the ironwork. It’s not just a backdrop; it’s active, shaping everything that happens.
Grace: Absolutely. The aftermath isn’t just emotional—it’s spatial. The silence, the way the furniture “makes circles” around the memory of the day before, the green glass of the claraboya. It’s all part of the story’s lingering unease.
Grace: You know, all this talk about shadows and projections—it really reminds me of nineteenth-century phantasmagorias. Those theatrical shows with magic lanterns, smoke, and ghostly images floating through dark rooms. They were all about illusion, about making you question what was real and what was just a trick of the light.
John: Yes, and the way people watched those shows—from below, with limited perspective—it’s so similar to the narrator’s view in Ocampo’s story. You’re always looking up, seeing only fragments, never the whole picture. It’s like the house itself is staging a haunted spectacle.
Grace: Phantasmagorias played on anxieties about death, identity, and visibility. And in “Cielo de claraboyas,” you get those same themes—the glass ceiling, the disembodied feet, the uncanny atmosphere upstairs. It’s as if Ocampo is channeling that ghostly aesthetic, whether she meant to or not.
John: It’s wild how those old spectacles blurred the line between science and horror, and here, the architecture does the same. The house becomes a projection screen for all these fears and desires. It’s not just about what’s happening—it’s about how you see it, and what you can never quite see.
Grace: So, as we wrap up, I think Ocampo’s story really shows how architecture can shape narrative, emotion, and even our sense of reality. The glass ceiling isn’t just a detail—it’s the lens through which everything is filtered. If you haven’t read “Cielo de claraboyas” yet, or if it’s been a while, I really encourage you to go back and pay attention to that “techo de vidrio.”
John: Yeah, and let us know what you see through the glass. There’s always more to discover. Grace, this was a great conversation—thanks for sharing your memories and insights.
Grace: Thank you, John. And thanks to everyone listening. We’ll be back soon with more literary spaces and strange stories. Take care, John.
John: You too, Grace. Bye everyone.
