Visual artist Laryssa Machada presents us “é como permitir que a cena siga”, a selection of images that go from analog to digital photography in pre-apocaliptic times
it’s how to allow the scene to continue
When I’m running or turning into smoke, the consistency of the skin amplifies the dance the day invited us to. The urgency silences the hours that passed just watching the market go by. During encounters, in this vast territory of Abya Yala, we broaden our perception of places that survived the fire in the wake, in a blurry movement that often we are not even able to name, but that connects us below the earth. The first and last light of the day becomes almost an obsession. To write this I need to hear you.
Selling a bit of everything, from beer with chile, clothes in bags, a painting of the last supper, bags and carts, antique objects. Selling mirrors three years later, that were broken in the red dirt of Mina Gerais to break the legacy of mining. The same elements that covered the brown face of a Kubeo of the Amazon body in a fenced garden, constructed to segregate “X”number of plants to conceal the urban cleanliness that tears the metropolis apart. His same hair, his same figure embraces another woman in the same bags that transport food, in the same acknowledgement of a gaze and the shine and the beauty that we carry. The entrance of light burns almost every one of the mirrors of the analog image except the woman who carries her child in Cochabamba and we only found out weeks later when I picked it up in a store in the center of São Paulo. A few minutes walking distance from a garbage dump where we found çaacy perereg aymara turning on and off habitats.
“You’ll see. I’m here with Cássio taking all the keys”, he tells me.
I never thought that anyone was just human.
To keep the trace alive in the image is like allowing the scene to continue. That the scene doesn’t end in that small second. We crash into each other and we remain in the collective memory. The main thing I remember hearing from their mouths is that it came from far away. Many walked years and years to find each other there. And the journey doesn’t end with time.
We are time.
What has connected us for centuries are the rivers, the fire, the rain between our bodies.
Even in the mirror I move. Cocha climbs the yellow hill to Brazil to meet her father who works in a mine close to Belo Horizonte. “But I never was able to obtain effective power with these formulas: much more than knowledge is required so that magic works in things”. (El país de la canela (The Country of Cinnamon), William Ospina)
It’s as if your imagination could reach until it saw land. There are repetitions and repetitions and repetitions of images. In the best of cases, the grain moves away from the expected. The responsibilities of creating a life. Constructing smoke we rest our eyes. The oxygen in the environment has changed to the point of not having the memories of others.
What visions do you have in front of you while the foam of the Atlantic hits your back? What were the images centuries ago? Close your eyes. You who reads. Put yourself in the landscape. What directions have been tracing the legs along the same paths on this ground? While it’s not within the same movement, I cannot reach them. Why are we addicted to create ends?
“But the same day I knew of the city’s existence, I knew of its destruction.”
Separated by a few decades, they were born and stepped on the same stones on the edge of the same coast, even though, as everyone, we came from far. The choreographies of both suspended in the beach air. The time they bring in their eyes. The parties they celebrate with their children. The side the shade of the sun chose to support itself so as not to capture everything. Shoots and runs. Shoots and stays. What connects us is the waters, the fire that burns the image, the lights that accompany us.