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Is it about drowning, then?

Is it about drowning, then?
Guilherme Teixeira

Something survives among Paulo Lobo’s paintings; something that crawls as a symbol from one effectuation to another, and that makes us question the place of symbolic representation and its applications, the babels that they unleash in the Gregorian calendar, in syncretisms, in the arcana of Marseille, in the mouths of snakes and navels that turn away from their before; to use the words of Ailton Krenak, quasi-humans who “for dancing a strange choreography are taken out of the scene by epidemics, poverty, hunger, directed violence.”. They are, in a way, bodies that insist on “staying out of this civilized dance, of technique, of control of the planet”, whether they are folklore or martyr, the delirious killer in a leather costume or the figure of a God of a thousand names of which today we only remember one.

The objects in Lobo’s paintings are endowed with a unique cognitive ability to enunciate themselves. The choice of a dramaturgy to accompany the paintings was not for nothing: so much took hold of what was presented there, everything screamed and needed to be heard. We promised ourselves that we would not ignore any voices; that alcohol, flame and coal are as effective as the monk who burns and the one who lights the fire, the uniform that steps on the neck and the body that remains; a house and its curse; a cassava golem and the cloud that precedes the rain.

The way in which paintings reproduce history is given; not only when its gesture turns into a nod to a specific time frame, but also how it allows another perspective to fall on what it enunciates. Who killed Marielle, who had the deputy killed? It is also given the knowledge that painting, using its own support logic, is able to reconfigure that which is sensitive to us.

There is something dancing and there is something echoing in these paintings. Perhaps it’s the mountains that want to make their presence heard, with stormy principles behind big yellow spots, or the flare that chars body, lead and concrete, that dissolves the narrative and makes the voracity of time strike us in the jugular and throws us in the dark corner of a cell.

We propose here a discussion on the drowning of myths and the ways in which their wills reach the present and, at times, destroy our perception the moment the metaphor realizes itself, and reality finds itself devoid of any palpability; somewhere in the pages that follow, you will probably come across spots of color that foreshadow a non-tangible state, another place where memory exercises itself when talking to us about shadows, and also what we leave behind or forget in the future. You will come across images of immense familiarity, in which the intimate is unheard of. In addition to the images, you will immerse yourself in a thick narrative of that which is made trauma and that which is made potency, about past violence that still looms, and complex horizons permeated with things that have not yet vocally taken place.

A bird sings.
It is a lament.
A man is died.
A bird sings.

Something doesn’t sound right in this story. I think it’s the wind, or that biblical desire to make everything uterine again; the flood.

Something inhabits the builders of the forest, something that jumps from one figure to the other and encourages us with a subtle phantasm and leads us to an affectivity which has its own strangeness. In the figure of that forest that unfolds for approximately twenty meters, the axis by which we travel to enjoy it does not change; be it the distance that makes the painting one, or the stride, brisk or otherwise, that carries us through that between. There is much to be said there, much about what we forget to hear from the mountains; the scale goes against the modest experience common to the support’s expository search. That forces the body at a distance and embraces, as if whispering into the nape of the neck, an old lost saying.

Something from today also resonates, even with the time there being so diluted, fractionated, present while endemic, a little thing that crawls over us. As if it was also today that we remembered that thing we forgot, hanging in a corner. A huge mouth resonates everything. The way in which painting resonates history is given. Something survives among Paulo Lobo’s paintings. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -