A fragment of memory. A path of breadcrumbs. Little roses that my father used to charm at the table during mealtimes. I chew on family, tradition, and property, and regurgitate bread and circuses. I pierce the tube. I tear out its crumb. I take it from the girl with the flower in her mouth, who distributes, at ground level, a series of tiny roses. It's the shadow of Pirandello that flashes in the trap of those who watch where they step. A habitual exercise of the hands during the somersault. I stumble and fall, nose first. Manoel (Bandeira) and his exploratory acrobatics of manuscripts converse beside Joaquim (Cardozo). Super pirouettes pierce canvas and kiss clouds. I never promised you any garden, I only begin with flowers, those I can, those of breadcrumbs that, as they are consumed, open themselves to the ungraspable: a route without value of use or exchange. A maxi-somersault in self-dissolution. Perhaps a counter-force that glimpses "contour value and intrinsic value, beautiful speculations of the human spirit that are nonetheless an intelligent way for the girl to play with the infinite."
Flowers to all involved:
aodilea freitas, gabriela bernardo, margarete esteves, aline beatriz de souza, bia petrus, cadu costa, caio carvalho, cláudia lyrio, denise moraes, efrain de almeida, elizabeth franco, elisa simões, fatima pedro, fernanda pinto, francisco cintra, fred carvalho, gabriele esteves, joão hisse, joão pedro costa, lais correa, julia studart, laura cosenday, manoel ricardo de lima, marcelo campos, marisa flórido, mauro bustamante, mônica cruz, rafael ayres. Ricardo Paes, Sonia Salomão, Yolanda Esteves. Artists and curators who participated in the exhibition Limentes.
Paço Imperial, Rio de Janeiro, 2017
https://vimeo.com/manage/videos/235978423
"Braviary
Perhaps this new project translates the treading of a politics in art or for art. A semblance of strength or simply an initiation into Hakim Bey. I say perhaps because I am still learning to make an alliance with expenditure and destructive character, to remain outside the shell. I am learning precisely to have the courage to close the door of the velvet-upholstered closet where bourgeois flavors and their skeletons accumulate. Every night is this: a door open to astonishment. Now, just opinions or practiced descriptions of things, works, or events no longer add anything. Nor is mea culpa enough without traversing the implacable distance between the navel and the tip of the nose. This mise en abyme, this minimum of the two of us, me and merchandise, me and art, me and writing. I revisit some of my class notes and realize that closing my mouth or eyes can be essential for sticking out even a tiny tip of my nose, as Nelson Felix advised: art, this thing built on madness. A peeking in action, a kind of bootstrap. Handles with which I cling. Sampler: The Rise of the Baron. I think about connections: fragility and strength."