I SUPPOSE IN A DREAM
Original at: Kupfer
The earth is opening up underneath her little girl’s feet.
I don’t remember why I first decided to write about memory. I suppose it is difficult to ignore the sense of time inscribed in Carole Gibbon’s recent work, a painter who has been active for more than 60 years. Or perhaps the idea emerged when I first looked at Luke Samuel’s paintings: is it a room I once spent time in? A place in one of my dreams? An uncanny interior inviting me, or Carole, to reminisce about our past? But – of course – it is more likely a combination of these, compounded by my own mid-life point, when the might of accumulated experience and memory becomes unavoidable, like trying to dodge a waterfall of time.
IT'S AN ARTIST'S THING
Original (in Portuguese) at: Marli Matsumoto
Translation by Bárbara Andrade: Marli Matsumoto
If it were literature, perhaps Xandi’s work would be a poem. Not a mannered, imposing, impenetrable poet-to-poet kind of poem, but a haikai, which combines common language to a fixed structure to distill the beauty of an instant, with no need for metaphors or similes: just the thing as it is. But I don’t think he’s going to like the comparison – a bit overused, no? – so I’m going to change it. If it was literature, perhaps Xandi’s work would be one of those poems made of every day, written by an Angélica Freitas or an Adília Lopes, two experts in turning the ordinary into wonder.
FLESHY MAGIC
At Somers Gallery, London
I couldn’t help but notice she had four fingers. I took a tired-looking mug of hot tea from her hand. All but the missing nail gleamed with shellac. “I am the nipple on the cake”, she spoke unprompted, the undersides of her uneven boobs touching the cold, glossy kitchen surface. Like an ostrich, she was fascinating to watch. “What would happen if you stopped painting?”, I finally asked. “I would grow feathers”, she sighed.
GRACE BY RAFAEL D'ALO
Original at: Bandini Books
I woke up prematurely again. The kitchen felt hollow and groomed. A ten pound note stuck to the fridge, next to a post-it: Please answer if I phone. Beyond the turbid window, the bay tree dimmed my garden beyond any warmth. The roads were closed, the kettle was on and I was making history. A pair of torpid clouds coalesced, rocking an eternal sleep. I watched a diagram of furry hats, the velvet skin of black bears. There was no change of direction, no treasonous deviation. They carried on like a well-choreographed platter of scaleless fish. Shared sacrifice, they clamoured. My phone was cold, lifeless. I opened the camera and my pictures became necessary, yet unexcitable, like drinking tepid water. Centuries of residual water. I needed a rainbow and there it was. An island of my own invention. These were people I knew but didn’t recognise. Reflected on the hazy screen, I looked as smooth and elegant as my grandmother’s bean stew. The TV still blared – oh so quietly – and I didn’t answer the phone. We can’t march ourselves happy.
STILL THERE ARE SEEDS TO BE GATHERED AND
ROOM IN THE BAG OF STARS
ROOM IN THE BAG OF STARS
Original at: Kupfer
calling from the land of seeds
I collect stars dreams and alter-egos
I eat symbols both practical and magic I stare at leaves until they speak
I am the soil, a constant sedimentation of notes and quotes
roots nourished by incantation and accumulation
a bag of infinite space made of hay clay plexiglass paint or china
embodied forms in the making… formless until no more
tired of my self-containment
I long for a moment of ocean
HOW TO DISAPPEAR
Original at: Green Art Gallery
How to Disappear marks the conclusion of Ana Mazzei's ongoing project “Love Scene Crime Scene,” a three-part exhibition series centered around the fictional disappearance of a ballerina. In this latest installment presented by Green Art Gallery in Dubai, the Brazilian artist deepens the enigma by introducing a collection of bronze sculptures and oil paintings that leave the spectator wanting to play the role of investigator. Her sculptures, featuring half human, half animal creatures placed on raw concrete plinths, take center stage against an entire wall displaying approximately 50 paintings. While it may be tempting to label these creations as evidence, there is nothing evident or obvious about them.
NOTES ON A NEVER-ENDING LOG
Original at: Kupfer
Lots of people like to read. But not many have the urge to write. The reason most readers are happy with just reading whilst, for some of us, writing cannot be avoided is a matter of concern for Roland Barthes in his famous series of lectures at the Collège de France. Barthes splits the act of reading into two distinct types of pleasure. The first, he says, is “the absolute pleasure of adolescent reading, immersed in a classic novel, the absolute satisfaction of reading”; and the second is “the pleasure of reading that is already tormented by the desire to do the same, in other words by a lack”.
BETWEEN HANDRAILS
Original at: Kupfer
This winter, Kupfer has the absolute pleasure to host Between Handrails, Mirela Cabral’s (b. 1992, Salvador, Brazil) first solo show in the UK, which brings together a large group of new paintings and embroideries. The exhibition is the culmination of a three-month residency period in which the artist produced a prolific collection of layered abstractions with sparing but powerful figurative elements.
I'LL BE YOUR MIRROR
Original at: Kupfer
Mirrors are both reflecting and distracting; we look at them as an attempt to decipher the many ways our selves are shaped by internal and external forces, revealing the unavoidable juxtaposition between our self-image and the gaze of others. Her work invites the viewer to engage with her choice of reflective materials as if by saying, in no particular order: don’t look at me, look at you, or don’t look at you, look at me.
IF I WERE YOU
Original at: Kupfer
If I Were You is simultaneously a celebration and a critical examination of the poetic power of a place. Both the allure of a place and the stain of a place[3]. Ghalib’s Vidigal (2017) gives us the only image of Rio in the show. A rare panoramic vista of the Cagarras Islands from Morro do Vidigal. As our eyes move from the hillside to the ocean, the iconic carioca beaches, some of the most expensive real estate on the planet, are nowhere in sight.
