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Anthropophagy and sadness: cloning citrus in SãoPaulo in the Plantationocene era

Tiago Saraiva

To cite this article: Tiago Saraiva (2018) Anthropophagy and sadness: cloning citrusin São Paulo in the Plantationocene era, History and Technology, 34:1, 89-99, DOI:10.1080/07341512.2018.1516877

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Anthropophagy and sadness: cloning citrus in São Paulo inthe Plantationocene eraTiago Saraiva

Department of History, Drexel University, Philadelphia, PA, USA

ABSTRACTThe present text engages the painting Anthropophagy (1929) byTarsila do Amaral as a performance in overcoming Brazil’s tropicalsadness diagnosed by artists, politicians and scientists. Whileanthropophagy, or ritualized cannibalism, is central to the recentontological turn promoted by the anthropologist Viveiros de Castro,the historically situated use of the concept as the one tried in thisessay suggests its value in writing new histories of science andtechnology that challenge entrenched divisions between GlobalNorth and Global South. The essay details the scientific practicesinvolved in saving São Paulo citrus orchards from the sadness virusthrough the cloning of Californian oranges. Contrasting with narra-tives emphasizing how the north imposes its presence in the south,or how the south resists the north, history of science and technol-ogy written as history of anthropophagy calls attention to devour-ing of the north by the south.

KEYWORDSAnthropophagy; Tarsila doAmaral; citrus; São Paulo;Plantaionocene; cloning

Anthropophagy, or ritualized cannibalism, is ‘the consumption of a fragment of the body ofa parent or of an enemy in order to ensure the incorporation of virtues or the neutralizationof power’.1 Anthropophagy is also the title of one of the most celebrated works by Brazilianmodernist artist Tarsila do Amaral, painted in 1929 (Figure 1).2 Tarsila devoured Europeanmodernism and its infatuation with primitivism to revisit the country’s cultural elementsand perform a new type of Brazilian art. The one-breasted figure at the center stands in for ablack servant descendant of the African slaves brought into Brazilian plantations by themillions, a more elaborated version of which Amaral had already presented in The BlackWoman (1923). The figure to the right is Abaporu, a Tupi word for the human that eatspeople, the Amerindian anthropophagus exterminated by European colonialism and Jesuitindoctrination, who had also deserved a previous painting by Tarsila. The 1929Anthropophagy composition braided Abaporu (1928) and The Black Woman (1923) in acannibal ritual, both on a green plain against an uncanny tropical landscape of oversizedbanana leaves and cacti. While inAbaporu (1928) the cactus ‘exploded in an absurd flower’,in Anthropophagy (1929) it exploded instead into a seedless orange/sun.

More recently, the anthropologist Eduardo Viveiros de Castro in his studies ofAmerindian perspectivism recovered this celebration of anthropophagy by theBrazilian modernist avant-garde.3 He took it not only as a promising way of

CONTACT Tiago Saraiva tsaraiva@drexel.edu

HISTORY AND TECHNOLOGY2018, VOL. 34, NO. 1, 89–99https://doi.org/10.1080/07341512.2018.1516877

© 2018 Informa UK Limited, trading as Taylor & Francis Group

questioning human/nonhuman divides, a major issue for all science studies scholarseager to follow the ontological turn, but also, and maybe more importantly for thepurposes of this collection of essays, as a productive approach to explore relationsbetween self and other, and more specifically, between south and north. In thisversion, anthropophagy drives us away from questioning the differences betweensouth and north, urging us instead to interrogate the modes in which the southdevoured and incorporated the north, thus producing a new social reality. Whileinspired by Viveiros de Castro, the present text historicizes anthropophagy bysituating Tarsila do Amaral’s painting in the deteriorated coffeescape4 around SãoPaulo in the first half of the twentieth century, a region swept in the space of ahundred years by ‘the agricultural blaze. . . driven forward through consuming whatit feeds on’.5 Anthropophagy is understood here as a modernist practice respondingto the concrete material conditions of life in the Plantationocene era. DonnaHaraway and fellow anthropologists, appalled with the depoliticized notion of theAnthropocene, put forward Plantationocene to denote ‘the devastating transforma-tion of diverse kinds of human-tended farms, pastures, and forests into extractive

Figure 1. Antropofagia, Tarsila do Amaral (1929), Acervo da Fundação José e Paulina Nemirovski,Pinacoteca de São Paulo © Tarsila do Amaral Licenciamentos.

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and enclosed plantations, relying on slave labor and other forms of exploited,alienated, and usually transported labor’.6 Anthropophagy, as practiced by Tarsilado Amaral and fellow modernists, gestured at the reimagining of this ravagedBrazilian landscape to save it from its alleged general condition of tropical sadnessdiagnosed by both local social reformers and visiting French anthropologists.7

The essay approaches science and technology as another manifestation of anthro-pophagy responding to Plantationocene conditions: It details how São Paulo agricul-tural scientists incorporated the perceived virtues of the industrious north into Brazil bycloning Californian oranges and defending citrus orchards from the ravages of thesadness virus. I treat Tarsila’s painting not as a metaphor for what scientists do, but aspart of a continuum of historical practices that includes both the sciences and the arts,the two aimed at saving Brazil from much feared sadness. In place of a history ofmutual influences of science and culture, this essay proposes practicing a single historyof science as culture demanding from the historian equal attention to viruses’ researchand modernist art performance.8 The text suggests the value of reclaiming anthropo-phagy from the exclusive spheres of art history and anthropology and using it to writenew global histories of science and technology. This historicizing of anthropophagyavoids considering it as free-floating concept, picked up from the work of renownedscholars or artists and applied indiscriminately. More than offering a corrective, thepurpose is to probe what a situated use of Anthropophagy can do to illuminate thehistorical significance of scientific practices in the constant remaking of the GlobalSouth through its devouring of the Global North.

Anthropophagy and the Plantationocene

Abaporu (1928), the human that eats people, had been offered by Tarsila to her loverthe poet Oswald de Andrade who inspired by her paintings wrote his AnthropophagusManifesto (1928) in which he proclaimed: ‘Only Anthropophagy unites us. Socially.Economically. Philosophically’.9 As later acknowledged by Andrade, ‘it was in Tarsila’sbarbaric paintings that I first saw this expression’. And as multiple art historians havesignaled, Oswald and Tarsila were not simply influenced by their Parisian modernistmasters such as Fernand Léger and importing them to the Brazilian context. Themanifesto and the barbaric paintings had, instead, devoured European forms whileperforming a new Brazilian art ready to be exported to the world.10 Anthropophagy,through European modernism, subverted traditional European landscape painting ofBrazil and its pretentions of objectivity of representation of local flora and peoplefollowing the rules of perspective. The figures of Abaporu and the Black Womanwith enormous feet and legs, small heads, and no facial features were not the humanswith a landscape in the background of canonical landscape paintings. These humanswere themselves landscape, not conceding any neat separations between humans andnonhumans.

In contrast to essentialist nationalist discourses establishing Brazilian identity,Anthropophagy not only celebrated Black and Amerindian elements as constitutive ofthe country, but it also suggested the value of Amerindian practices like ritualizedcannibalism for resituating Brazil in the world. The act of devouring implied a non-hierarchical relation between self and other, south and north, merging both, and

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producing something new, in this case, nothing less than a new Brazil.11

Anthropophagy refused any form of stable cultural self-identity and celebrated insteadthe constant incorporation through ritualized eating of the other for social reproduc-tion. Or as a provocative Oswald de Andrade affirmed in his Manifesto, ‘I am onlyinterested in what is not mine. Law of the Man. Law of the Anthropophagus’.12

But let us situate Tarsila do Amaral historically beyond discussions of her position-ing in the modernist art canon. She was the granddaughter of Jose Estanislau doAmaral, better known as ‘the millionaire’, who had made his fortune off large coffeefarms in the hinterland of São Paulo.13 In the aftermath of the black slave rebellion ofSaint Domingue of 1791, Brazil had taken over the Caribbean island as the undisputedleading coffee producer in the world, a position that still holds today.14 The coffee farmsalong the Paraiba Valley between Rio de Janeiro and São Paulo, carved out from theAtlantic Forest through slash and burn, converted the area into one of the major slaveeconomies of the Americas of the nineteenth century, akin to the cotton plantations ofthe South of the United States or the sugar plantations in Cuba. By 1885, some 285,000slaves were responsible for an output of 350,000 tons of coffee in the country. AfterBrazil finally abolished slavery three years later, workers would progressively arrive incoffee plantations not in shackles but as indentured labor from southern Europe andAsia (mainly Japan).15 By then the coffee frontier had already abandoned much of theeroded lands of the Paraiba valley and moved inwards into the interior of the São Pauloregion following the expansion of a dense railway network of some 7.000 km developedfor the transportation of the profitable commodity. In 1892 the port of Santos, whichwas also the railway terminus station, exported $40 million worth of coffee, and by 1912the total had risen to $170 million. A few hundred families owning vast plantations with100,000–1,000,000 coffee shrubs dominated this immensely profitable business. Thesewere the families that could afford to send their sons and daughters to Paris to getcultured in Europe.

Tarsila do Amaral had learned of fantastic monstrous creatures such as Abaporu fromtales told by black servants on her family farm in the town of Capivari.16 Some 140 kmnorthwest of São Paulo, the town was at the center of an area which became known as the‘old west’, the second area of expansion of coffee cultivation that had replaced the ParaibaValley in the second half of the nineteenth century. In the early twentieth century, thisarea would in turn lose prominence to the new frontier further west, or the ‘new west’.Coffee cultivation, as practiced in São Paulo, ‘driven forward through consuming what itfeeds on’, demanded relentless grabbing of new land to replace soils eroded by themonocrop plantation system, a particularly voracious activity always in need of expan-sion for its survival.17 São Paulo’s coffeescape is indeed a good candidate to illustrate thenotion of Plantationocene and its constant production of ruins.18

When Tarsila do Amaral painted Anthropophagy in 1929, the production of coffeearound Capivari was considerably lower than it had been in the end of the nineteenthcentury, and coffee farmers made themselves with new lands further west whilesearching for alternative crops for their old farms.19 By 1929, it was obvious thatrecruiting a cheap workforce and fighting erosion and recurrent pests such as coffeerusts were not the only challenges to Tarsila’s family economic fortune. While inter-national market fluctuations had always been a constant cause for anxiety among SãoPaulo growers, the Great Depression and the plummeting of coffee prices in New York

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– the U.S. being the first importer of Brazilian coffee – meant catastrophic losses on ascale previously unknown. Public authorities burned tons of coffee beans in impressivesacrificial bonfires to prevent further devaluation of the commodity, and Tarsila had tosell her family properties, search for a job in the city, and abandon her lavish life style ofthe previous years. The coffee world seemed to have come to an end.

Tarsila do Amaral’s painting is no celebration of the coffee growers’ saga and theirimmense riches supporting her modernist education in Paris. Her art didn’t depictbrave settlers conquering new land and industrious capitalists bringing progress. Shehad preferred to engage instead with the leftovers of the ruined coffee landscape,namely Amerindians and black servants, as well as with cacti. In her memoirs, sheincludes reminders of her preference for the outskirts of the plantation, the rocky hillyareas beyond the well-ordered lines of coffee shrubs, eroded areas where cacti grew andwhere one could play among fantastic rocky shapes such as the mysterious ‘slave’scave’.20 It was from a cactus that emerged another of the hopeful elements painted inAnthropophagy: a seedless orange/sun.

The first orange orchards in São Paulo had been no more than a complement to theendless rows of coffee trees that covered the area.21 Occupying first the fruit andvegetable gardens surrounding the main house, as in Tarsila’s own farm, citrus wouldprogressively take over the poorer outskirts of the property, namely sandy soils deemedunfavorable for coffee. Citrus cultivation, initially meant for auto consumption insidethe property, would in the last decades of the nineteenth century profit from thecommunication networks tended to serve coffee operations and reach the increasingurban population of São Paulo. In the first decades of the twentieth century, always onthe back of channels first opened by coffee, São Paulo oranges, shipped from the port ofSantos, could already be found in the docks of London and Hamburg. Revealinglyenough, the main centers of citrus cultivation were Limeira and Araras, located in the‘old west’ where the rapacious coffee plantations had left behind exhausted unproduc-tive soils. Among the first owners of orange orchards were European laborers who hadsaved enough to buy the small and medium holdings produced by the division of thelarge coffee farms sold by their previous owners to make capital to buy new landsfurther west. The redemption of the land by orange orchards also included the promiseof a more inclusive social order than the one prevalent under the hegemony of largecoffee farmers.22

Californian oranges in São Paulo

Promotion of citrus production was tightly connected with the recurrent overproduc-tion crisis of coffee. Indeed, diversification of São Paulo agricultural portfolio became amajor topic for state officials and local agriculture scientists. Among them, EdmundoNavarro de Andrade was probably the most eloquent one. As head of the forestrydepartment of the São Paulo railway Company (Companhia Paulista de Estradas deFerro), he launched in 1908 a program of reforestation of the state to supply thepowerful company with firewood and sleepers. His global search for fast growingtrees would not only result in the introduction of eucalyptus in São Paulo but wouldalso familiarize Navarro with citrus cultivation in California.23

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Navarro could not contain his enthusiasm when describing the Southern Californiaexpanding citrus business, which at the time involved some 12,000 growers employingno less than 25,000 workers in their orchards.24 Fueled by cheap credit, restrictive tariffsimposed on imports from Southern Europe, new railway connections with big urbancenters in the East Coast, as well as by increases in productivity that almost doubledtree yields, the residents of Riverside, the center of the Californian citrus industry,boasted the highest per capita income in the United States. The proliferation of banks,theaters, mansions, tree-lined streets, churches, and colleges in the communities of thecitrus belt around Los Angeles – from Pasadena, to Ontario, Riverside and Redlands –praised throughout the landscape the growers’ accomplishments while hiding how itwas all built on the backs of Chinese, Japanese, and Mexican wageworkers. Theboosters’ story of entrepreneurial white men transforming Southern California from asemiarid region that Mexicans and Native Americans had supposedly mismanaged inthe past into a new Garden of Eden had its epitome in the racially segregated commu-nities surrounding Los Angeles.25

In the 1920s, Navarro’s Californian experience constituted an important part of hiscitrus proselytism among São Paulo coffee grower’s elite who read his articles in thecity’s daily press. Navarro himself bought a large tract of land in Araras, in the OldWest, convinced several investors in São Paulo to buy more orchards next to his, andstarted a profitable nursery in the same area. Oranges, according to Navarro, didn’tmean only a new additional source of income to coffee growers under the constantmenaces of overproduction or dangerous pests. As he understood the Californianexample, they also constituted a civilizing force: ‘Orange trees don’t like their ownersto live far away or be constantly holed up in clubs or always away at their luxurybungalows on a secluded private beach . . . No one can deny that orange growing is ahighly profitable business, a veritable gold mine and treasure trove, but it requirestremendous care, demands extremely hard work and will give you many headaches’.26

While coffee had allegedly produced an idle urban elite divorced from the land thatconstituted the basis of their wealth, the orange tree would bring into being a commu-nity of civilized horticulturalists, informed by the latest scientific and technical advance-ments, directly managing their orchards. As in California, there was no mention of themasses of wageworkers doing the actual painstaking work on the farm as members ofthe new virtuous citrus community.

Cloning and sadness

Citrus cultivation methods were the main subject of Navarro de Andrade’s articles,brought together in Manual of Citriculture, published in 1933 when the author was noless than state general director of Agriculture. In this book, Navarro de Andrade refersto the importance of the bahianinha (little Bahian) orange, a seedless variety as the fruitpainted by Tarsila, in the growing success of São Paulo citrus exports since the end ofthe 1920s. Despite its Brazilian name, this citrus variety had arrived in the area from theUnited States and had been propagated by São Paulo agricultural institutions andnurseries. Indeed, the famous Washington navels on which Californian citrus industrywas built were in fact oranges from Bahia (Brazil) and had been sent to the UnitedStates in 1873. From there the Washington navels, or better said, the Bahia oranges,

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traveled to other new citrus areas of the globe such as South Africa, Australia, Algeria,and, of course, back to Brazil.

Buds from American trees selected for their productivity were the ones used tocultivate São Paulo’s new orchards, not buds from trees from Bahia, considered unreli-able in terms of fruit quality and quantity. Californian scientists had coined the newterm cloning to refer exactly to this proliferation of asexual reproduction in modernagriculture such as budding and grafting, which only differed from traditional horti-cultural practices because of new bureaucratic registration practices: buds sold aspropagation material had to have their origin certified, assuring that they were cutfrom high yielding trees.27 Citrus had been cultivated in Brazil much before thetwentieth century, but the citrus São Paulo growers used to overcome the problemsof the coffee economy was the ‘bahianinha’, (little Bahian), a strain of the CalifornianWashington navel.28 This bahianinha strain reproduced in São Paulo held smaller fruitsthan the Californian Washington Navels or Bahias, a characteristic that favored itsconsumption in the European market while Brazilian and American consumers alleg-edly preferred the larger fruits. The Brazilian identity of the seedless orange painted assun in Anthropophagy was certainly unstable: a fruit first identified in the orchardsaround Bahia which had travelled to California where it became known as theWashington navel, a strain of which (little Bahian) was brought into São Pauloto redeem the exhausted São Paulo old west.

In 1933, a shipment of some 2,000 young orange trees from South Africa disem-barked in the port of Santos. Sanitary inspectors immediately put them in quarantineafter identifying leaf disease and, after several weeks, they had them all destroyedbecause the trees carried ‘aphids and other insects’. Shortly thereafter, a major diseasespread out from the coastal area near Santos affecting the orchards of the entire region.In the following years millions of trees in full bearing would die from the new disease,which together with the closing of European markets in 1939 due to the war in theAtlantic almost eliminated citriculture from the area. The South African nursery stockhad brought with them a virus, named by local São Paulo scientist Sylvio Moreira as‘citrus sadness’.29

American scientists from the USDA in Washington when recounting the sadnessvirus story pointed at the possibility of the name deriving from the reaction of SãoPaulo orchard owners in front of their devastated citrus trees.30 This was not howSylvio Moreira referred to it. The citrus tree itself was the one that expressedsadness: the rootstocks of affected trees were first depleted of stored starch notbeing able to supply the top of the tree with soil moisture and eventually killing it.One needed an engagement with the plant’s physiology to understand the nature ofits sadness. Appropriately for a natural scientist, there was no mention of growers’feelings in Moreira’s description of the effects of the virus. But describing a virus ascarrier of sadness instead of using the colder usual scientific language holds sugges-tive clues about the role of the scientist in this story, getting us back to themodernist connection.

Sadness had been an obsession of São Paulo cultural elite as well. Paulo Prado, heirof one of the largest local coffee fortunes, had published in 1928 his influential ‘Portraitof Brazil: Essay on Brazilian Sadness’.31 He offered grim visions of a sad countrypopulated by a mixed degenerated progeny of Portuguese colonizers, African Slaves,

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and Indians. Prado explained the ‘lack of love for the land’ allegedly characteristic ofBrazilians subjected to a history of Portuguese predatory colonization with its minesand sugar plantations. Scholars have not noticed how much Claude Lévi-Strauss’smythical Tristes Tropiques owed to Prado’s diagnosis. More important to our argument,Prado used his immense wealth to become the main promoter of modernist events inSão Paulo. His house in the fashionable Higienopolis neighborhood was the rendezvousplace where all modernists met, namely Tarsila do Amaral and Oswald de Andrade.Prado also prefaced Andrade’s poetry books, visionary texts performing the arrival of ajoyful Brazil leaving behind Brazilian sadness. For as Andrade reminded in hisAnthropophagic Manifesto, ‘Joy is the arithmetic rule’.32

Conclusion

Sylvio Moreira while engaging with citrus sadness was granting science the same statusPrado granted modernist art as a practice aimed at overcoming Brazilian sadness, or atleast learning how to live with it. Moreira thoroughly experimented with combinationsof rootstocks and scions not susceptible to the virus, pointing at how to have a healthyjoyful orchard even in the presence of sadness.33 After trade opened once again after theend of the war, Moreira’s experiment station supplied São Paulo nurseries and orchar-dists with no less than one million buds from virus-free trees. These sadness-free cloneswould make Brazil in the following years into the number one world exporter of citruswhile transforming Moreira’s experiment station into an obligatory passage point forresearchers around the globe studying the sadness virus.34 What seems a success storyfrom the point of view of scientists and orange growers is less so when told from a laborand environmental perspective. Problems not too different from the ones faced by thecoffee plantations would also afflict the São Paulo citrus orchards, making them intojust another iteration of the Plantationocene.35 Land concentration, poor treatment ofwage workers (mostly from Brazil’s northeast), and environmental degradation due toan excess of pesticides, were all features of the São Paulo citrusscape of the latetwentieth century.

By thinking of science through anthropophagic lenses, one can describe this story asone of São Paulo scientists devouring the north to incorporate it into the south. Theydevoured California and its oranges to produce an alleged joyful Brazil with a new ‘lovefor the land’. One does not have to follow the actors’ belief concerning the virtues ofthis newly discovered Brazil to acknowledge its historical significance. While recogniz-ing the powerfulness of things from the north, the devouring cannibal practice bysoutherners suggests a non-hierarchical relation between north and south that producesa new entity that incorporated both: Brazil. Contrasting with narratives emphasizinghow the north imposes its presence in the south, or how the south resists the north,history of science written as history of anthropophagy calls attention to the historicalrole of science in the devouring of the north by the south. Inquiries of science asanthropophagy make more salient how scientific practices incorporated the other in theself, deserving the attention of any historian interested in exploring the changingconstituency of such large collectives as Brazil.

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Notes

1. Lévi-Strauss, Tristes Tropiques, 387.2. Herkenhoff and Pedrosa, Anthropophagy and Histories of Cannibalism; Gotlib, Tarsila a

Modernista; Amaral, Tarsila; d’Alessandro and Perez-Oramas, Tarsila do Amaral; andSöderlund, “Antropofagia”.

3. Castro, Cannibal Metaphysics; Danowski and Castro, Há mundo por vir?; Latour, Face ÀGaïa. For a critical perspective on the ontological turn see, for example, Pina-Cabral,World.

4. On the notion of cropscape see, Bray, Hahn, Lourdusamy, and Saraiva, “Cropscapes andHistory”.

5. Lévi-Strauss, 93.6. Haraway, “Anthropocene, Capitalocene, Plantationocene, Chthulucene”; For a critical

revision of the notion of Anthropocene see, Bonneuil and Fressoz, The Shock of theAnthropocene.

7. Lévi-Strauss, Tristes Tropiques; and Prado, Retrato do Brasil.8. For similar attempts in the European context see Saraiva and Matos, “Technological

Nocturne”; Wise, Aesthetics, Industry and Science; and Tresch, Romantic Machine.9. Andrade, “Cannibalist Manifesto”.10. Campos, “Da Razão Antropofágica”; Asbury, “Parisienses no Brasil, Brasileiros em Paris”;

and Gouveia, The Triumph of Brazilian Modernism.11. The invention of a nationalist identity for Brazil was a common project of cultural elites

aligned with the dictatorship of Getúlio Vargas and his Estado Novo (New State) (1937–45).Gouveia, The Triumph of Brazilian Modernism; Dutra, O Ardil Totalitário.

12. Andrade, Manifesto.13. Amaral, Tarsila.14. Clarence-Smith and Topik, The Global Coffee Economy in Africa, Asia, and Latin America.15. Marquese, “Capitalismo, Escravidão e a Economia Cafeeira do Brasil”.16. See note 13 above.17. See note 15 above.18. Tsing, The Mushroom at the End of the World.19. Milliet, Roteiro do Café.20. See note 13 above.21. For a general overview of citrus production in the São Paulo area see, Hasse, A Laranja no

Brasil.22. On the diversified class structure of landowners in São Paulo hinterland see Font, Coffee

and Transformation in São Paulo.23. Henriques, “Agricultar a Agricultura”; and Ferraro, “A génese da agricultura e da silvi-

cultura moderna no estado de São Paulo”.24. Andrade, Manual de Citricultura.25. Sackman, Orange Empire; Vaught, “Factories in the field revisited”; Garcia, A World of Its

Own; Henderson, California and the Fictions of Capital; and Saraiva, “Oranges as modelorganisms for historians”.

26. Andrade, Manual.27. Saraiva, “Oranges as model organisms”.28. Vasconcelos, “A Bahianinha de Piracicaba”.29. Moreira, “Observações sobre a tristeza dos citrus ou podridão das radicelas”.30. Swingle, “Tristeza Disease of Citrus”.31. Prado, Retrato; Waldman, “A selva escura da história do Brasil e o seu torrão paulista”.32. Andrade, Cannibal Manifesto.33. Moreira and Brieger, “Experiências de Cavalos para Citrus ii”.34. Salibe, “Production, selection and commercial use of citrus nucellar clones in Brazil”.35. Boechat, “O colono que virou suco”.

HISTORY AND TECHNOLOGY 97

Disclosure statement

No potential conflict of interest was reported by the author.

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