This space once was called vômito público, and it was a window to share some of my unfiltered writing, mainly in Portuguese. I decided to recycle it. The plan is to start again sharing here escrevinhanças and scribbles. It will be a virtual home for some of my short stories, almost poems, recommendations of books, and presentations of my ongoing projects and collaborations. It will host both the pieces of the self that inhabits Portuguese and the ones that dance with this foreign language.
"all blue after eyes closed in the bright" and me
"I wipe it away and breathe" by Rhiannon Inman-Simpson
On the 03rd of July 2020,
with some friends that are part of a writing collective, I went to Rhiannon Inman-Simpson’s
powerful and bold exhibition. She chose to call it “all blue after eyes closed
in the bright” after one of her sixteen exhibited paintings.
This is not a post that
has the ambition of saying what her exhibition is. Rather, it is a humble
sharing of how I experienced it. It is also my way of saying thank you for the
gift that such an exhibition was for me.
Luckily, the ability
gained a few days ago, during the workshop on Subterranea, allowed me, once
more to enjoy art without the pressure of having to understand it. I went there
to have an experience with those paintings.
I am a distracted person.
I did not notice that in a corner we could find a piece of paper with the
location and the names of all the paintings. Neither I saw the beautiful
booklet that accompanies the exhibition. Thus, I had the chance to first see
the paintings. No names. No words. Simply the paintings on the walls. Some of
them were big. Others were small. Some of them seem to be in some kind of relation.
Others were able to tell a whole story, by themselves.
I still remember how I
felt when I stopped in front of the first painting. I stood there and suddenly
my stomach was heavy. Through my process of digesting that painting, for a
moment, it became hard to breathe. But after those seconds I felt understood. As
if someone had been able to make visible an existential pain that I know too
well. After walking around the exhibition and establishing my own conversations
with the paintings I finally noticed Rhiannon’s words. They were presented
without pretension and with care.
Her choice of giving the
audience the chance of experiencing the paintings and the words separately if
they choose to makes all the sense to me. They are indeed separate pieces of
art that can be put in a conversation, or if one prefers, they can be
juxtaposed. The words are not a description or an explanation of the paintings.
Instead, they are art in themselves, an art that invites us to focus on certain
aspects of the paintings and of the exhibition. How we receive such invitations
of course depends on who we are and on where we are. If I would have entered
that exhibition with my old abilities, believing that I first need to see with
my brain, probably I would have had quite a different experience. I was open to
let Rhiannon’s obsession with certain colors talk with my fears and anxieties. I
am also aware that the fact that I am a woman, a foreigner, a mother, a
writer, a philosopher, a storyteller, a feminist, and someone that had the
pleasure of meeting Rhiannon before also played a part in how I related to her
The painting that I
received as the most whole, the one that made my stomach heavy, it is called “I
wipe it away and breathe”. This powerful and beautiful name, a name that I did
not know before made a lot of sense for the way I experienced such painting. It
is like the last line of a poem where a wise woman, from the pic of a mountain,
exposes her knowledge about existence being inescapably painful and awesome.
When we remember that the yellow is always there, on the first grain of earth,
no matter the brown, the ugliness, the mess we can breathe with all that we
are, and for a moment to be part of the world makes sense.
After experiencing and
enjoying the exhibition, which for me and forthe writing collective that I am a part of was also seed for creative
writing, I had the privilege of talking with Rhiannon about her creative process.
Because I am so obsessed with words and because her words were so whole and windy,
I need to ask her if she knew from the beginning that her exhibition was going
to be about the paintings and the words. She immediately replied no. She
confessed that her writing is something that has been going on for a long
while but in a private sphere. She was not sure if it would make sense to put
the words in relation to the paintings. She was too aware of the risk of the
audience receiving it as mere description, and that was not what she wanted to
When I heard the word
private I remembered all the women that only had (and so many that still only
have) their diaries, their private places to exist and to expose their voices,
their knowledge, their dreams, and who they are. After remembering it, I got
even happier about the fact that Rhiannon’s art is starting to find its place
in the public sphere.
When I asked Rhiannon about
her obsessions as an artist, she said out loud the words body and place. She
further explained that she prefers the word ‘place’ instead of ‘landscape’
because in visual arts landscape is a very marked word, (and I forgot to ask if
it is also a pretentious one). She explained that in her painting process she
was engaged in exploring the fact that we feel with our bodies, and that, in
her view, is a way to understand immediately.
Listening to her words
(the written and the spoken ones) I could piece together my feelings and my
thoughts, what made me relate to the Mayas’ idea that we also think with our
bodies. For the Mayas the center of our thought is in our heart. The
sociologist Silvia Cusicanqui retrieves the Aymara cosmology according to which
knowledge is something that we build not only in our brains but also in our
superior entrails (heart, lungs, and liver). While experiencing Rhiannon’s
exhibition I understood or at least embraced such ancient and deconstructive
ways of knowing.
I could not resist my own
obsessions. I asked Rhiannon if she thinks that the fact that she is a woman
matters regarding the obsessions that she embraces as an artist. She said that
yes, it is part of her place in this world, as a person and as an artist. She
was generous enough to share with us a story marked by our ongoing struggles
for gender equality. She remembered that one time, she received the
‘compliment’ that her art looked like it was painted by a man. It was a woman
who ‘complimented’ her in that way. Rhiannon explained that throughout art
school she was repeatedly told to avoid being emotional, or delicate. She was
told that she needs to be bold. And what I heard (thanks to my own obsessions) was
that in the European painting universe, still predominantly a male scene, it is
accepted that in order to be bold one can not create as a woman.
For me, “all blue after
eyes closed in the bright” is a warm, colorful, odd, and bold exhibition. And it
is all of that not because it is the result of the efforts of a woman trying to
adjust to the accepted norm of what defines a good painter, contrarily, it is
bold because it is marked by real struggles of an artist that is aware that
being a woman is definitely a part of her process of finding her voice, her
language, and her place.
I left the exhibition
exhausted but in a good way. Rhiannon put all those powerful colors in front of
my heart, my stomach, and my chest. All my pieces left full of pink, yellow,
blue, brown, and green. The distracted me was shaken by a new awareness that
there is a lot of life to gain if we open our skins to all the colors that constitute
this world. I left that big and white room carrying with me the original yellow
that was always part of this chaotic world, and that speaks of the power of new
beginnings that the sun knows so well. With me also the messy brown that the
artist reminds us with words and with images that we cannot escape. The blue,
that I always carry with me, suddenly felt less heavy and even dared to tell me
that I don’t need to label it all the time. Neither I need to hide behind it.
The green I did not quite digest, however, I accept it in the pile of all my
pieces that I still cannot name. Most of all, I left deeply moved by Rhiannon’s
hopeful gesture that “there is a hint of pink out there”. I walked and let that
fragile certainty “there is a hint of pink out there” find it space inside of
me. One step, then another, a drop of pink in my lungs, another in my brain, my
broken heart, a bit pink as well. After all the steps needed, I set down with my
writing group at Hordaland Kunstsenter and wrote about that pink. I established
my own conversation with the pieces of art that Rhiannon’s so generously shared
with us.You can read it here
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Conceição abriu-se, hospedou a poesia e gritou verdades doídas, em sussurros Otacílio ouviu-a e ficou maior de reprente, de supetão, surpresa boa de domingo preguiçoso viu-se parte do espelho social um tiquinho de nada uma manchinha só difícil saber se uma mulher negra estava mesmo tendo espaço e lugar pra lembrar, entender e dizer em voz alta o quanto é injusto existir num mundo que nos vê e nos marca de acordo com a cor da nossa pele não, Otacílio não estava sonhando chegou a vez de começar a ouvir Conceição passou da hora de parar de fazer de conta que no Brasil a miscigenação é um sucesso Otacílio sabe que ser preto no Brasil não é brincadeira não talvez o que ele ainda não entenda é que ser preta é ainda mais difícil Conceição, Djamila, Sueli e tantas outras estão abrindo a boca, a pele, os livros seguindo o exemplo de Lélia Gonzales elas adentram o espaço público e ousam fazer barulho “chegou a hora do lixo falar” o que é verdade e já não pode
'O sangue dos outros', livro da escritora, filósofa e feminista francesa Simone de Beauvoir, traz até nós um pouco da história da França e da Europa, assim como pontos da história da filosofia. Mas, o que realmente conta quando lemos tal livro é o fato de que ele mete na frente da nossa cara, do nosso coração e do nosso pensamento velhas questões essenciais, que não cansam de repetir-se: qual o sentido da vida? o que significa existir? o que significa resistir? o que é o amor? qual o nosso lugar na história? 'O sangue dos outros' é a história de Jean, um burguês. Quer dizer, um ser humano que nasceu burguês, mas, que escolheu fazer-se outra coisa. Jean abre mão do seu lugar de privilegiado para juntar-se aos operários. Ou ao menos tenta. Não é fácil. Em grande parte porque aquilo que somos, depende também de quem fomos, da bagagem que carregamos, além de depender dos outros, de como os outros nos vêem. Marcel, o cínico artista, lembra a Jean: "haverá se