Ivan Grilo
FEELING BLINDNESS
Cover: When ground and water blend in (detail) 2013. Photograph on cotton paper
Ivan Grilo
FEELING BLINDNESS
Curatorship and text:
Bernardo Mosqueira
From October 22nd to November 23rd 2013
FEELING BLINDNESS São José III Travel Log (MCPUL - MA - Z6) 19 September 2013
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We began our journey back from Ilha dos Lençóis at 10:05am today. As it is the windy season, it will be six and half hours by boat up the creeks and tributaries to Apicum Açu to avoid the open sea. Then, it will be another five hours on the road to Cururupu, two hours ferry boat ride to São Luis, two hours’ flight to Brasília, followed by another 1 1/2-hour flight to São Paulo. In our small fishing boat, apart from me and Ivan Grilo, there are the fishermen, Bicho, João Carlos, Hélio, Tango and Nango, the teachers, Nina and Natanael, the school caretaker, Silvinha. and her daughter Silmara, as well as Renata, Renan and Renato – the wife and children of Nango, the owner of the boat. For two nights and three days, Ivan and I stayed at a yellow guest-house made of wood and straw, which was, in fact, two spare rooms in Nango’s family home. We came to the island looking for information about some local legends, which had seemed to us, in front of the laptop in Rio de Janeiro, very important for Grilo’s recent research interests. History tells us that Prince Dom Sebastião, the grandson of King João III was born in 1554 and awaited by the Portuguese people as “The Desired”. The son of Prince Dom João, who had died before he was born, he came to the Portuguese throne at the age of 14. Ten years later, he organized a crusade to North Africa with 500 ships and 20,000 men. While they were in the midst of combat, a fog descended on the Moroccan region of Alcácer-Quibir and, when it lifted, Portugal had lost 10,000 men and the young king had, surprisingly, disappeared. This is the origin of Sebastianism, a kind of Portuguese messianic cult based on the belief that, one morning in the future, a fog would enter Lisbon bringing King Sebastian back to Portuguese soil, as “the Hidden” or “The Sleeping King”, who had spent the intervening centuries waiting for the right time to return as Portugal’s savior and build a kingdom based on peace, unity, and prosperity. Ivan Grilo has spent the past few years studying ways of treating photographs from institutional and private collections and an important part of his work involves placing opaque films over the appropriate images. This procedure prevents the images chosen by Grilo, through a long and complex selection process, from being seen in their entirety by the public; rather than revealing the heritage of an institution or a family, Ivan is interested in fuelling our enormous and unavoidable capacity for imagination. At a IVAN GRILO | 5
certain point, he started investigating the idea of fog or mist and sometimes placing frosted glass over the photograph (sometimes just as a support, at others as part of the frame). His research on fog brought him to the story of Dom Sebastião. The curious fact is that the population of Ilha dos Lençóis, comprising less than 400 fishermen, completely isolated from their families 13 hours journey away in São Luis do Maranhão, which is 20% albino, believes that Sebastião, the Portuguese king who disappeared in Morocco in 1578, reigns over the island from an underwater castle. In view of this, Ivan and I thought it important that we make this expedition and, less than a fortnight after having had the idea, we met up at the airport in Campinas to commence our journey. As soon as we arrived at São Luis airport, we were met by our driver Patrick, who was to take us to Apicum Açu port. The first thing he did was to hand us an envelope containing information on the island and the region. All the photos were of flocks of scarlet ibis, a large very red bird that lives off small crustaceans in the mangroves of the region. The whole envelope was wrapped in a very red feather. Patrick made a point of saying, “You have to have this to go to the island, but you must realize that the feather wasn’t plucked from a scarlet ibis.” I understood. I accepted the feather and guarded it carefully. I am using it now to write this log. The journey out was tortuous. The landscape that we made our way through and that made its way through us was almost too welcoming, but the sea had more pot-holes and humps than the broken-down road between Cururupu and Apicum Açu. The boat rocked violently, often throwing us from one side to the other, and we arrived on the island soaked to the skin. What’s more, tanned macho man from Rio that I am, I decided to make the crossing wearing only shorts (even though I had noticed that the fishermen wore long sleeves and long trousers). After all: boat + sun = shorts. However, I had failed to account for the Equator in this equation. As soon as we arrived, tired, drenched and sun-burnt, we realized that it had been worth it. But we could hardly have imagined everything that would be about to happen. Already on the first day, trying to hide our excitement, we were asking everyone about the legend that Dom Sebastião lived on the island. To our great frustration, people replied simply that they didn’t know the story, couldn’t think of any example of it, or that they did not believe in the myth of the king. We went to bed, very impressed by the beauty of the island: the seascape was very broad, the trees very green, the dunes very high. Our rooms had mosquito nets, which we did not use, because there seemed to be no mosquitoes. The towels were embroi6 | IVAN GRILO
dered with the Portuguese royal coat of arms. At four in the morning, I was awoken by a great gust of wind that shook the house violently, stripping off the straw roof and letting in sand and every kind of insect, living or dead. The mosquito nets that we did not use served to keep the wind from dirtying our bed during the night. While taking our breakfast of fruits and tapioca, I remarked that I had heard a horse trotting up and down in front of the house in the middle of the night. Renata quickly responded that there were no horses on the island and Nango added, “But your ears did not deceive you; it was the horse of the king. We hear it a lot round here.” Ivan and
I stopped in our tracks, our eyes popping out. This was the first time anyone had mentioned the king on the island as being real. All the other people at the table continued eating and talking. We tried to inquire further – to no avail. Frustrated with the people, we decided to take a trip around the island, to get to know it better and converse with it (after all, the island is the main character). Laílson was our guide; he began by showing us how to reach the other side of an enormous dune and revealed that, from time to time, golden objects are uncovered by the wind. IVAN GRILO | 7
Cutlery, jewelry, necklaces, coins. “They are part of the treasure of Dom Sebastião. His castle is right here, under the water.” We left the dunes and entered the mangrove. Lailson said, “For your own safety, only step on the roots”, before disappearing into the vegetation rapidly enough for us to lose sight of him for 15 seconds. To the despair of Ivan (who was using this experience of the mangrove to overcome a number of phobias that had dogged him since childhood), I took a bit of a risky step and both my legs sunk instantly into the gray mud full of crabs, almost up to the hips. Before clambering out of the quagmire, I quickly checked whether my iPhone was underwater or in my pocket. In my pocket! Saved! Amen! Praise the Lord! Further on, Laílson showed us a “medicinal plant” and repeated various times that it was a plant, not a weed. Ivan and I could not disguise our surprise, when we saw Laílson, without the slightest hesitation, take an enormous bite
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out of the stalk, tearing off a piece of the bark and sticking it on a wound he had on his leg. “It’s great for healing wounds. It stops inflammation.” I believe in everything, as people should. Laílson offered us the fruit of a cactus, which he said was the taste of the island (it was a cross between lychee and coconut); he showed us a creeper that was the smell of the island (it smelt like a creeper); and he took us to a place where a dune was burying the forest, the sand running through the trees like water. We walked in a straight line along a long beach, where the tide was throwing up the remains of shipwrecks, lost fishing nets, and all sorts of evidence of drama at sea. There he showed us the homes of the fishermen, which, because of the wind, they had to move every six years, as they became swallowed up by the dunes. Shortly before returning to the village, we saw the giant wind turbines, built by the current Brazilian government to bring electricity to
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the island. Alongside these huge poles, was the “Cashew Tree of the Angels”, where the islanders buried children who did not survive childbirth or who died before ten years of age. The heat was indescribable. We began our walk through the deserted part of the island at eight in the morning. There was not a cloud in the sky and we only got back to the village at two in the afternoon. Exhausted and plastered in sand and sun cream, we sat down on the benches made of tree trunks in front of the island’s grocery store and had a beer before lunch. As people passed by, they asked if they could sit with us. I told them that I had heard a horse in the night and they said, “One of the oldest ladies on the island keeps a close watch on everything going on outside. One night, she heard singing approaching, went to the window and saw a group of people praying. One of them came up to her and gave her a lit candle to hold. When she blinked, she found that she was holding the leg of a corpse.” We had to have lunch, but we agreed to come back later for another beer. After eating a delicious free-range chicken, which, not long before, had been running around her feet, we were invited to visit the lighthouse on a neighboring island. To reach the island, we had to take a fishing boat and then a canoe. So as not to disappoint us once again, we were told that the lighthouse was almost a ruin and that we wouldn’t be able to climb up in it. It was an enormous lighthouse, phallic as anything, and painted in black and white stripes. Seeing the grand construction and the cracks in it, Ivan said, “It would be beautiful to see this lighthouse crash to the ground.” Two sailors from the Brazilian navy were guarding the place; they had been there nearly three months. The name of their village was sculpted in a stone: “Lieutenant Álvaro – Hydrographer.” For ten years, during my childhood, I had slept in one of two identical white shirts, handed down from the time when my maternal grandfather had been in the army as a young man. These white shirts that wrapped me as I dreamt, had been embroidered with the words “Lieutenant Álvaro”. One of the soldiers came to greet me effusively: a Rio man from Campo Grande, called Rodrigues. Ivan just waved from afar. While the second soldier showed us a framed painting containing details of the history of the lighthouse, Rodrigues changed his clothes and invited us in. “Shall we climb up?!” I said yes and Ivan no simultaneously. The soldier insisted and we climbed up. As soon as we entered the rusted iron door bolted with chains, I had the feeling that we were three dead men. “It would be beautiful to see this lighthouse crash to the ground” Ivan had said eight minutes earlier. As soon as we entered the lighthouse, we were dead men. The cracks in the walls were two fingers wide. The beams were 10 | IVAN GRILO
completely exposed and rusted away. Rodrigues was trying hard to endear himself to us and I felt that he was looking at us and smiling a little too often. From the top, there was an incredible view of the Amazon rainforest, various kinds of mangrove, flocks of scarlet ibis, white heron, brown heron, parakeets and parrots, of the rivers and the sea and, far in the distance, on the horizon, a huge dune. In all the time we had been on the beach of Ilha dos Lençóis, we had not noticed the lighthouse. Singing like a siren, Rodrigues urged us to climb even higher. We scaled a terrifying concrete spiral and the soldier, smiling, warned us not to go out on the balcony, because it wasn’t very safe. Even so, he invited us up another vertical iron staircase that led out through a 50cm square hole in the roof. On the top there, were three dead men and the light was out. We asked about local legends and Rodrigues replied, “They say that this is Lover’s Island But I don’t believe it.” No-one had ever told us that it was Lover’s Island. There is no such legend. Only for Rodrigues, who then invited us to sleep over in the village that night. “There’ll be cake!” He said we could walk back on foot to our island in the morning. When we finally came back through the rusty door, the soldier wanted to show us an eight-meter long boa constrictor that lived at the base of the lighthouse. I thanked him but turned down the strange invitation. We came down with the sensation that we had spent five minutes in the building. Our guides told us that it had been fifty long minutes. In the canoe on the way back, Ivan told me that Rodrigues could not hide his enchantment with what was between my legs. I, frankly, had not noted his interest nor understood where the sirens were taking us: going up in a collapsing lighthouse, meeting an eight-meter long boa constrictor, walking on foot between the two islands, in a place where the tide varies wildly. I prayed in thanks for the miraculous wax of Saint Odysseus of Greece. Before returning to our corner of Ilha dos Lençóis, we stopped off at a neighboring community called Bate-Vento. An elderly gentleman of 85 who went by the name of Jacó (or perhaps this was his brother’s name) had promised us a couple of coconuts in return for having given him a ride in our boat between Apicum Açu and Bate-Vento. On this island, which has no dunes or mangroves, there is slightly larger community, with houses made of brick, the names of local politicians painted on the walls (as throughout the State of Maranhão) and eerie air of gloom. The windless air of the place contrasted with our experience of the neighboring islands and with the name of the village itself. Jacó was very black, very slim, very wrinkled, and his eyes were completely white with cataracts. He talked to us as we sat on the rim of a wide deep well. With our faces reflected in the stagnant black water, he told us, much to his shame, IVAN GRILO | 11
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that he couldn’t give us the coconuts, since he was unable to scale the seven-meter-high coconut palms in his back yard alone. We thanked him for his hospitality and returned to our island to be greeted by the most stunning sunset we had ever witnessed. After dinner, I remained at the table talking to Nango’s father. He is a very mysterious character, who remained silent almost the whole time he spent with us. I realized that, sitting alone together at the dinner table, this would be my best chance to get him to talk. Maneco, as he is known in the family, puffed away on a roll-up cigarette, and answered my questions “yes” or “no” or said nothing. After a few painstaking minutes, I managed to find out that the community on the island was mostly Catholic, with no evangelicals, and a lovely Candomblé community, of which he, Maneco, was the leader. According to Maneco, he was the island’s healer. This Candomblé community had been founded by a citizen of Maranhão, who had “trained” in Nigeria and dedicated the main building to Oxalá. Nevertheless, the most important feast day on the island is that of Oxóssi. It is known that, in the Afro-Catholic syncretic religion, Oxóssi is Saint Sebastian and, on the island, Saint Sebastian is commonly confused with Dom Sebastião. When Maneco, who had warmed to us, invited us back to the island in January for the Feast of Oxóssi, Nango came inside after bathing in the spring and reminded us of the offer of beer at the grocer’s. If Nango had not arrived at that point, Maneco might have had time to tell us about the ‘Encantaria de Mina’, which worships the undead: people who are neither alive nor dead, who return to this plane in the body of initiates in trance. Perhaps, had he had time, Maneco would have explained how the presence of the ‘tambor-de-mina’ in the religious mix of the region had opened the way for belief in the Kingdom of Dom Sebastião. He may have had the time to explain that, in the ‘Encantaria de Mina’ (which is even practiced in São Paulo), there is the so-called “Família de Lençol” as these entities are known: who none other than Dom Sebastião, Dom Luís, Dom Manoel, Dom Felipe, Queen Bárbara, Prínce De Oliveira and so on, manifesting themselves in the dancing bodies of the initiates. But we didn’t have a chance. Beer beckoned. After we had downed several bottles, a group of six men and one woman were left. “If someone offered me a trip to Rio de Janeiro with all expenses paid, I would say thank you very much but I’m not going.” “In the Middle East no-one dies alone. It’s always 200 dead, 500 dead. The other day, in Egypt, a thousand were killed at a demonstration!” “How can you have a beard? Here on the island no-one has a beard.” “What’s it like meeting TV actors on the streets of Rio?” A few more beers and they were telling us stories of the King. “Once, a man appeared and bought 20 kilos of flour. He then asked for it to be emptied into the sea and disappeared.” “One night, a man had a dream in which he was ordered to pull down a house that was blocking the passage of the King’s carriage. It wasn’t pulled down and we had an accident in Cururupu, in 14 | IVAN GRILO
which we almost died. Show them the scar, Laílson.” It was a 20-centimeter long scar on the man’s thigh. “In winter, the ground shakes and cattle are buried in the sand up to their necks.” (I note now, on the boat, that Nango has not shaved today!) On the way back to the guest house, without us asking, a boy told us that he had been arrested for ‘fingering’ another boy. We thought he meant “telling tales”. But he really did mean fingering. Around the kitchen table, Renata told us that she had had premonitions in dreams. Once she dreamt that Renato was crying. Some hours later, Renato cut his neck on a wire fence. He almost died, but the angel in the dream came to his aid. Another time, she had dreamt that Nango had another woman, short and black, while she herself was giving birth to Renan. It turned out to be true. When I saw the woman, I knew it was her. She told us how she prayed to and worshiped Dom Sebastião as if he were God. When we said that we wanted to go to the dune by the light of the full moon, we agreed that we would pray there to King Sebastião. Ivan and I, the full moon, the wind and the dune. We didn’t need much artificial light. The moon was so bright, we seemed to be walking on mountains of lunar dust. By pure chance, we had arrived on the island at the time of the full moon. It is said here that, when the moon is full, (called here the Light of Darkness) everything is eerier. I don’t how it could be eerier. After a while talking alone, as we tried to get a signal on our cell phones (which only worked on a spot a few square meters in area on the top of the mountain of sand), I saw a blue light flash. It was so real that, at first, I thought it was someone coming. It wasn’t. Then I realized that it was King Sebastião appearing to us. Before that, we thought we believed in the legend. From then on, everything we heard was more than a story; it was real. As real as the wind at our backs. After that, we were both overcome by a fear of the absurd. Some trees looked like horses from a distance. Or were they real horses coming in our direction? We spent a few minutes deciding whether we would walk to the end of the dune or not. The wind on our backs was so strong. I wanted to go. Ivan didn’t. Then Ivan wanted to go. I agreed. We decided to walk to the end of the dune. We walked slowly, as if we had embarked on a path from which there was no return. We were not wrong. As we descended the last curve of the great dune, the wind dropped. Silence. We looked back, but could no longer make out the village. Before us, dark water stretched out between us and the other island. Without the wind, there was no need to speak a word. Becalmed in the silence, we felt that time had stood still. Perhaps it had. IVAN GRILO | 15
We sat down together and looked out at the dark water under the night sky. It was then that, between us and the blue of the sea, a figure appeared in the air. It was King Sebastião, on horseback wearing a crown. No. In fact, it wasn’t. It could have been. But the figure appeared before our eyes and the sea rose and fell so fast. It was as if he was showing us that he could appear in any shape he pleased. But we did not see the King in the shape of a King. The glimmering shapeless ghost took my breath away for a while and my eyes filled with tears. Ivan asked whether I was alright. I, who had had no fear of the mangrove, of madmen, of creepy-crawlies, of the sun, or even the possibility of shipwreck, quaked before the King. Who does not quake before the King? Two more minutes of silence, my eyes popping out, wanting to soak everything up, and Ivan asked me, “Are you seeing something?” “What?” I inquired, already believing that I could obviously see the bull with star on the forehead of the one they had told us so much about. - The rising and falling of the sea. As absurd as it may sound, Ivan and I were sitting before a wall of water. We were dry, but the horizon was above us; the dune was sinking into the sea and the place where we were seated on the dune was doomed to be underwater. We were sitting before a wall of water! This was much more absurd than a bull and a star on the forehead. And it was so real, that it dispelled all fear. After a while, we walked back calmly and remembered that Renata had told us to pray to King Sebastião. On the top of the dune, the wind had picked up again and regained its full strength. We knelt down. We saw, for the first time, the lamp of the lighthouse winking at us in the distance. I asked whether Ivan would like to pray aloud. He said he couldn’t. So I did. When we thought we had seen everything, as I began to give thanks to the King, the sand of the dune started to rise up skywards, scratching at our faces, sticking in our throats. I said that I was thankful that we had arrived safely, that he had appeared to us and that we had had such a pleasant time on the island. I asked him to guide us back in safety to the port of Apicum Açu. I said that I acknowledged him as King of that island. - Long live the King! We returned in silence. The dogs barked at us, the vast moon guided us along our way, as did the spiders that were following it too. Another windy night. This morning, strolling on the beach, preparing ourselves to embark for home, I found a golden shell. Had this occurred on the first day, we would have been extremely impressed. On this last day, however, after the events of the night before, it seemed quite natural. Legend has it that anyone who takes anything from Ilha dos Lençóis will be shipwrecked. We were in no doubt as to what to do. 16 | IVAN GRILO
Some years ago, a professor at the UFRJ university, called Claudicélio Rodrigues da Silva decided to write a doctoral thesis about how the figure of King Sebastião in the oral poetry of the region has fuelled the imagination of the people of these islands. It is a marvelous piece of work and the author even managed to set up a “Dom Sebastião Memorial”, on this island., 13 hours journey away from São Luis. We visited it on the day of our departure. To our surprise, the first room in the little red building was a well-stocked library. It was no accident that Nango had a copy of Kafka’s Metamorphosis on his shelves. The people on this island were in the habit of reading. Moving through a curtain of beads and shells, we entered a room in which we were met by a statue of Saint Sebastian more than 1.2 meters high. Minus the arrows. At his feet, a round vessel made of clay that is commonly used in Afro-Brazilian religious rituals, in which the islanders placed the golden cutlery, jewelry and chains that they found on the island. This is where we placed our shell. Ivan and I paused a while staring at the dunes and so much raised sand. I remarked that if King Sebastião had disappeared in the fog, he could well reappear in a sandstorm. Ivan then remembered that Alcácer-Quibir is a desert region of Morocco and that fogs only occur in damp cold places. Dom Sebastião had disappeared in a cloud of sand. And Portugal was expecting fog. As we bid farewell to Laílson and Maneco, various people asked us for a ride on the boat on which I began to pen this text. Now, we have disembarked, driven for six hours, and travelled two hours by ferry boat. We are about to arrive at the airport. The trip was obviously tiring, but, for some reason, the return journey less so. Ivan and I exchanged few words the entire way. As we sat side by side on the ferry boat, we began to talk. We agreed that, as we had imagined, the trip to Ilha dos Lençóis had effected a transformation in Grilo’s work. With all that we had experienced, it was clear to both of us, that Ivan would henceforth not only be a man interested in archives of photographs and documents, but a great story-teller. Prior to this, Ivan had sometimes used public and private archives to produce his own comments and interpretations of the objects he was studying. Now, Ivan had seen the world and was eager to use his experiences—which are, by definition, impossible to exhibit—to develop more of his own comments and interpretations. We are now in the São Luis Airport and I realize that this text has been my way of telling the story of our journey and describing what Ilha dos Lençóis meant to us. The exhibition, “We feel blind” is Ivan Grilo’s own special way of doing the same.
Bernardo Mosqueira
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Ivan Grilo
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FEELING BLINDNESS Studies on possible shipwrecks 2013 Photographs on cotton paper, acid engraved glass (Pages 19, 20 and 21) Wait nearly presence 2013 Photographs on cotton paper, sandblasted glass, label (Pages 22 and 23) Studies on an inventory 2013 Photographs on cotton paper and acetate, acrylic plates, iron stand (Pages 8/9 and 24/25)
On the seas I have been 2013 Photograph on cotton paper and laser engraved acrylic (Pages 7, 26 and 29)
When ground and water blend in 2013 Photograph on cotton paper (Cover) Wind against the pier 2013 Sand, fan and photograph on cotton paper (Pages 12 and 13)
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IVAN GRILO 1986 Graduated in Visual Arts at PUC-Campinas, 2007. Lives and Works between Itatiba and Campinas / SP.
INTERNATIONAL RESIDENCIES 2012 Transitante: entre álbuns e arquivos (Triangle Network) Arquivo Municipal Fotográfico de Lisboa / Lisboa / Portugal
SELECTED SOLO EXHIBITIONS 2013 - QuaseAcervo / Museu da República - Palácio do Catete, Rio de Janeiro/RJ - Nem todo fato é narrável / Zipper Galeria, São Paulo/SP 2012 - Isso é tudo de que preciso me lembrar / SESC Campinas/SP 2011 - Ninguém / Paço das Artes, São Paulo/SP - Perder o amor / Galeria Vertente, Campinas/SP - Sujeito Oculto / Galeria Homero Massena, Vitória/ES - A pausa do retrato / Usina do Gasômetro Galeria Lunara, Porto Alegre/RS 2009 - Irreversível / Centro Cultural Adamastor, Guarulhos/SP
SELECTED GROUP EXHIBITIONS 2013 - Bienal Internacional de Fotografia - FotoBienalMasp / MASP, São Paulo/SP 2012 - 2nd Ural Biennial of Contemporary Art / Ural Federal University / Yekaterinburg, Rússia. - Novas Aquisições 2010 2012 – Coleção Gilberto Chateaubriand MAM / MAM, Rio de Janeiro/RJ - 11ª Bienal do Recôncavo / Centro Cultural Dannemann / São Félix/BA
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- Situações Brasília - Prêmio de Arte Contemporânea do DF / Museu Nacional, Brasília/DF - 63º Salão de Abril / Galeria Antônio Bandeira, Fortaleza/CE 2011 - Arte Pará / Museu Histórico do Estado do Pará, Belém/PA - 16ª Bienal de Cerveira / Vila Nova de Cerveira, Portugal - Novíssimos / Galeria IBEU, Rio de Janeiro/RJ - 14ª Semana de Fotografia – MARP / Museu de Arte de Ribeirão Preto, SP 2010 - 35º SARP – Salão de Arte de Ribeirão Preto / MARP – Museu de Arte de Ribeirão Preto/SP 2008 - 14º Salão Unama de Pequenos Formatos / Galeria Graça Landeira UNAMA, Belém/PA - 7º Salão Nacional de Arte de Jataí / Museu de Arte Contemporânea, Jataí/GO 2007 - 39º Salão de Arte Contemporânea de Piracicaba / Pinacoteca Municipal Miguel Dutra, Piracicaba/SP - Festival de Vídeo Acadêmico Lisboa / Portugal / Universidade Autónoma de Lisboa, Portugal
PRIZES 2012 - Prêmio Funarte Marc Ferrez de Fotografia - Nominated / PIPA 2012 / Prêmio Investidor Profissional de Arte 2008 - Aquisition Prize / 14º Salão Unama de Pequenos Formatos, Belém/PA - Awarded by the Jury / 8º Salão de Artes Visuais de Guarulhos/SP
WORKS IN PUBLIC COLLECTIONS - MAM RJ – Coleção Gilberto Chateaubriand, Rio de Janeiro/RJ - MAR – Museu de Arte do Rio, Rio de Janeiro/RJ - Fundação Bienal de Cerveira, Portugal - Galeria Graça Landeira UNAMA, Belém/PA - Galeria Homero Massena, Vitória/ES
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FEELING BLINDNESS FICHA TÉCNICA Curatorship and text: Bernardo Mosqueira Frames: Votupoca Acrylic: Artever Foundry: Fundiart Metal work: Decorferro Printer: Artphoto Translation: Paul Webb Proofreading: Juliana de Paiva Ferreira Press: CW&A Comunicação Catalogue design: Bitty Nascimento Silva Pottier - C-Art Brasil Web design: Luana Aguiar Catalogue printing: Barbero - Graphus
EQUIPE DA GALERIA LUCIANA CARAVELLO ARTE CONTEMPORÂNEA: Artistic direction: Waldick Jatobá Sales: Ronaldo Simões Sales: America Cavaliere Production: Julia Vaz Finances: Valeria de Araujo Teixeira Assembler: Renato Cecilio das Dores Support: Francinato Araujo Pereira 30 | IVAN GRILO
The history behind Luciana Caravello Arte Contemporânea is directly connected to the professional trajectory of the art dealer Luciana Caravello. Since 1998, Luciana has been working with contemporary art, representing several visual artists from Rio de Janeiro and other states of Brazil involved with researches on various supports. The Gallery’s current location has privileged architecture, adapted to host exhibitions of both established and emerging artists, always showing the best in national contemporary art. Thereby, the gallery builds a consistent schedule, whose main goal is to emphasize the constancy of the artistic language, evidencing the contrast between consolidated artistic paths and the boldness and freshness of the avant-garde experimentations.
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www.lucianacaravello.com.br