artist book. 25 numbered copies.
co-author: Paloma Monnerat 2015 spectrum
literature ruins the
rio de janeiro
Excerpt from work:
The man who lives in the old slave market`s ruins.
“…nowadays nobody comes over ... It`s only me in this house. Some kids spend time here, seated on the crate, drinking a beer. But if it rains, no one stay. Who wants to get wet side by side with an old man? Even with the ice-cold beer, they drop out their things around in the little room back there and leave...
The problem, my daughter, is that this ruin becomes the mirror of the body, a mirror of all our despairs. It is spreading across, at the crack of inevitable, ripping the plaster. It is the sum of all open crannies. Because my flesh is made of the same blood of all the bodies that were dragged. When the skin swells, the wall burst. But there’s almost no wall here anymore. What is left are only those beams that do not support me. I stand alone then, surrounded by shadows of stories that are so anonymous, hardly known, but that never cease to burn.
Look at yesterday`s tragedy is facing time with the dishonour of the powerlessness. I feel their pain and I can do nothing for their poor souls. I'm always here. But here it is no longer a spatial extent. The here, covered by the remaining structures that does not protect me from the rain, this here is a time measure. My eyes deceives me, but the sound is so thick that I feel a tremble in my forearms pores.
I hear the noise of the chains that the those man spirits cannot get rid of. The search for escape, the freedom not reached in life. If you achieve the second floor, you will be able to see the window leading to the enclosed woods in the back. The trees are bigger than the humans. If you reaches them, you could have a chance to scape. But they never can. I am alone here, just listening to the groans of the souls, while finding out that they cannot move the window. Their fate is captive in this house for the eternity, missing the other edge of the big ocean. In the next day, there they are again. The spectres seems to have forgotten the day before and do everything again. They are just instinct, no memory at all. Then, for the umpteenth first time the discovery that they will never leave and all the moan begins again…”