Camerino 7/9

with Paloma Monnerat

Artist Book

25 copies

Rio de Janeiro, 2015.                                                          

Camerino 7/9

com Paloma Monnerat

Livro de Artista

25 cópias

                            Rio de Janeiro, 2015                                                      

Trecho de : notas para o potencial do fragmento (Camerino 7/9)

Trecho de: O homem que vive na ruína do antigo mercado de escravizados (Camerino 7/9)

Excerpt from: The man who lives in the old enslaved market's ruins (Camerino 7/9)

"…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 stays. Who wants to get wet side by side with an older man? Even with the ice-cold beer, they drop out their things around in the little room back there and leave... 

My dear, the problem is that these ruins become a mirror for 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 to the bottom. When the skin swells, it is time for the wall to 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 dishonor of the powerlessness. I feel their pain, and I can do nothing for their poor souls, my poor soul. I'm always here. But here it is no longer a spatial extent. The here, covered by the remaining structures that do not protect me from the rain, this here is a time measure. My eyes deceive me, but the sound is so thick that I feel a tremble in my forearms pores.

I hear the noise of the chains; those spirits cannot get free. 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 back's enclosed woods. The trees are taller than humans. If you reach 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 discovering that they cannot move the window. Their fate is captive in this house for the eternity, missing the other edge of the big ocean. The next day, there they are again. The specters seem 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 starts all over again…"