I want to go on the high seas, undo the moorings of what I am not. To dance baião with iridescent shoals, uncapturable. Swimmers running away from the un-told stories. Keepers of tales about exploration of the flesh, rebuilders of themselves and of lost worlds. I want to reach the dark floor of the ocean depths, naked beside Wallace and David, in the Repertory, not yet told. I go about naked, timeless, of future and past. I want to be an interpellating sweat, of Eshuziac and beautiful nudity. So that in the pitch the melanin of the Amefrican skin fluoresces. Seus tons cintilantes e escamados de verde e lilás.
Its shimmering, scaly shades of green and lilac.
In the shoal there are no opposites… it’s always on the move. Redoing yourself and the surrounding waters. Its malemolence evades evolutionary predations, smug nineteenth-century photographs, black types, tropical landscapes, slavery, beautiful views. My way of rowing is unknown to pseudoscientists. It survives in the joint walk of the multiple selves. We are not alone. In the shoal I take care of you, I’m one with you and we choreograph the song umuntu ngumuntu ngabantu to get into the flow.
After the danger goes bye we set out in all directions, each showing an unparalleled beauty. The autonomous ceramics of Ana das Carrancas remain, far from the prows, showing partnership and communion. That’s where the real curatorship comes from: the clays of Nanã, the wet-nurses, nannies, the syncretic choirs of Sant’Anas. It comes from the survivals and the fullness of exchanges.
But humanity is sick. Careless of its nature. Forgetting to feel: eat, smell, touch, see and hear what really matters. “From here I saw what happened and I cry. I saw they looking at me. I saw they prayed far from home. I saw a scar under tree. I saw a bird sing alone”.
Will it be possible to retrace the path of those who landed in this backyard? Discover the missing names in that framed oil on canvas? Migrate towards the South, against the systemic colonial hurricane? Is it possible to reach the heights, through Ananse’s web and there to hear stories of healing and shared freedom, unconditioned by the exploration of the other-self? Overcoming private walls, institutional fences, segregating formations, pandemic isolation and capital logics? Recognize the oral dimension of science, the knowledge that passes through coexistence? Even without formal records, dialogue is the source of strong, rich and permissive water. Just open your ears to hear. But those who do not risk getting wet do not realize that it is possible to swim beyond Conventions Island.
It is worth taking care not to fall into perfect worlds, mythological candidacies… illusions. “Eshu killed a bird yesterday, with the stone he threw today”. The dystopias of now have germinated from the planting of utopias. Self-criticism is an endless exercise, and tomorrow there will still be branches to prune, memories to heal. In this world there is no purity of blood or ideal. Nature is multiple. Many seeds will wake up to celebrate differences in petal color and fruit flavor. The idealizations run away from the daily demands, from winter-summer, from bread and butter, torn thirst, dryness of the ground, from the president oblivious to the price of bread. Perfect love massacres the lines of wrinkles, the gray shine of the wires and the pleasures of living like this. The young model, the standard of beauty, has no likes because the time of hegemonic narratives has cost dearly, and we are still paying.
On the way to university, a new jet black generation listens to the hit I can’t breathe. They read, produce, defend, consume, make noise and make the noise grow in front of the silence sign in the gallery, in Jardins. They produce more because they do not wait for “the galleries and concert halls to open”. They spray graffiti, lick, make memes, dance steps, flash-mobs and ask the police inspectors: “Who ordered the killing of Marielle?”. They paint brown paper black and navigate outside of November’s themed exhibitions, because you can’t play to be black one day and white the next. They fly on the wings of the guira-una and swim in the philosophical shoal of the Global South, to speak more about blue than about everything they don’t let me forget.
Now, to talk about these things… rise… take some air…
To talk about scars and open wounds, still burning and thirsty for healing, it is necessary to look deeper. Pierce the blue immensity, remember the carelessness, scrapping, neglect, fires of our memories and death policies. Take care of the ashes, see the blood, sweat and burns on the skin. Recognize the deficit of representation of the bodies of women, blacks and indigenous people in decision-making chairs. We need healers who are able to appreciate without exploring. We need swimming bodies, vissungos from the song of whales to articulate intersections, to account for crossed, ancestral and invisible currents. To think about new treasure-archives repertoires based on historical silences and gaps. The reflection of many faces is still blurred in museums.
New dips can rotate the usual sense of vectors. Going from college to kindergarten, up to barefoot kids who have never seen the sea. Give breath to permissive creativities, community knowledge, particular experiences and inherent powers. Living unexpected interactions, in which the bathhouse can be lesbian and emotions are welcome, because tears are “healing that comes with salt”.
Such contemporaneity diluted linearities in polycentric fishing nets. We need to look for “la revelación de fuerzas que nos ligan / Se mezclan semillas de diversidad / Y la cosecha aclara todo lo que importa / Aclarate con la oscuridad”. Making the museum a more plural place: a reflection and home of our people.
The answers are not closed. Coexistence generates arrangements. On the high seas the constellation is of another order. And to understand the height of the waves that are to come, it is necessary to cross the Surf line:
Make a poem that messes up your own hair
and break in our heads
like a good
surfof only foam sand left
and salt between your worn away
teethAnd don’t say I didn’t warn you:
poetry is deep sea, beach
of tumble” . (CÓRTES, 2020)
Here, I take a rest. On a coast of fine sand, washed up by the waves, with no ready-made paths or demarcated limits…
and where there is no full stop
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