blue days

carlos rezende

Drawings, scraps, notes. Small treatise on Melancholy and the Perceptive Time, comes with these words that hold, in a way, some ambivalence. White paper sheets where we see anatomic details written, letters, sketches, elements arranged in seeming disorder, curious schemes. The allegory about Time is not represented; it’s an hourglass where sand, replaced by metal balls, doesn’t flow. The balls get stuck, pulled down by persistent, paralyzing Gravity. (Pulled down by the Gravity. Persistent. Paralyzing). Time’s representation and living attempt is flawed. One can only perceive Time, in its abstract essence. In the attempt to explain it we use language elements, numbers, words. Melancholy is the natural state of the designer-painter, the poet or the philosopher: their ethos, as wanted Aristotle. It’s not about an illness. The foam metaphor amazes me, mixture of air and liquid; I highlight the bubbles, its peculiar shape, spherical, mixture of air (pneuma) and liquid. Champagne bubbles, sperm bubbles. Aristotle associates the scientific idea of Foam (aphros) with eroticism, relating explicitly to Dionysius and Aphrodite (VI, 200-203). Air bubbles turn into metal, spheres where I exercise ways to perceive time: check the pockets, first the left one, then the right one. Follows the systematic manipulation of the metal balls, oily solids. Taking them from the pockets and placing them into my dry mouth, salivating and then putting them back in the other pocket. And on and on. Resistance tested, I could put them back into the pockets. The obsessive ritual of taking a sphere from my pocket, dampen it, put it back into the left one. Put one in my mouth, salivated and returned it to the right pocket. Took a second one from the same pocket, dampened it and placed it back in the left pocket, and on and on. The empty left pocket, slowly took the metal balls, one by one, from the right pocket, dampened it and transferred it to the left pocket. Your rough tongue sought unexplored edges. Kept on with the balls’ transfer from the pant’s left pocket to the jacket pocket. One by one, dampened. When there was one Ball left to go from the pocket to the jacket, the cycle started again. Five balls in the right jacket pocket, six in the left one. There were still two more balls in the extra pocket. Six balls in the pocket, carefully replaced, dampened. This distraction mechanism, moving one ball from a pocket to another, could be easily represented by a circle and an arrow. The operation’s result, spheres carefully dampened, one by one, in repetition. Some dampened twice, not once, not being dampened. At the end of all the transfer sequence, choose a pocket, still empty and restart, indefinitely, up to the end of the operation. Mechanism to measure imprecision, a compulsive action, guided by the obsession with the passing of time. Take a ball from your pocket; let it go over the table. Obsessive rituals fill an afternoon with laziness. Foresee a sex organ penetration with a humid phallus, strange theatre of cylindrical and spherical shapes. The metal balls’ transfer, circus show of no interest, unless for the evolution of your strange time delimitation. From the durability of the things related to their sturdiness, to the materialization of the non-natural elements. In a metal ball, for example, in an ordinary sense, there could be glimpses of thematic affinities, in its strict sense. Thoughts on the nature of inutilities, the obscure inventory of impossible connections, archived in apparent continuity. Spacial genealogy unprovided with logic and efficiency.

{ poetic memorial }

By Carlos Rezende

Watercolor and blue Koh-i-noor copying pencil on Fabriano paper 100% cotton 300g76 x 56 cm

Watercolor and blue Koh-i-noor copying pencil on Fabriano paper 100% cotton 300g76 x 56 cm

Watercolor and blue Koh-i-noor copying pencil on Fabriano paper 100% cotton 300g76 x 56 cm

Watercolor and blue Koh-i-noor copying pencil on Fabriano paper 100% cotton 300g76 x 56 cm

Watercolor and blue Koh-i-noor copying pencil on Fabriano paper 100% cotton 300g76 x 56 cm

Watercolor and blue Koh-i-noor copying pencil on Fabriano paper 100% cotton 300g76 x 56 cm

Watercolor and blue Koh-i-noor copying pencil on Fabriano paper 100% cotton 300g76 x 56 cm

Watercolor and blue Koh-i-noor copying pencil on Fabriano paper 100% cotton 300g76 x 56 cm

Watercolor and blue Koh-i-noor copying pencil on Fabriano paper 100% cotton 300g76 x 56 cm

Watercolor and blue Koh-i-noor copying pencil on Fabriano paper 100% cotton 300g1.03 x 0.72 m

Watercolor and blue Koh-i-noor copying pencil on Fabriano paper 100% cotton 300g76 x 56 cm

Watercolor and blue Koh-i-noor copying pencil on Fabriano paper 100% cotton 300g76 x 56 cm

Watercolor and blue Koh-i-noor copying pencil on Fabriano paper 100% cotton 300g76 x 56 cm

Relativism and questioning bring us to the Time and its measures. Obvious: the Time. Its measures and incivilities apart, I focus on the Space. This one we all know since we were born. The Z-axis (along with the X and Y as well). The volume.

Taking it for granted, I pick up a ruler, or a measuring tape, or intergalactic lasers – translations into language of the parts that build up the three dimensions we first created, then impriosoned ourselves. Method, idiosyncrasy, melancholy.

It is known, by definition, that a rectangle based prism, standard volume to define a space, implicates three dimensios. We're back to the X, Y and Z. I take my measuring tape from my pocket. Open it, close it. It's useless. How to move within a space that is not measurable? How can a space with no volume exist?

In the eagerness to name things, we create signs. Letters and numbers are placed within a method. Symbols put themselves to the task of coding and expressing reality. Nevertheless, language is reductionist. Names and numbers express magnitude, but not the Experience. The process is no more than this: ordered irrealities gathered so as to shape a group of references to the Experience.

Virtuality.

In a volumeless space, the scale of things is changed. An infinite plane, X and Y-axis still well defined. A little volume, yet virtual. We can measure them in a schizophrenic attempt of controlling the signs of that haunting experience. Centimeters are replaced by the pixels, but the icon is still the image of a measuring tape.

Infinity within a screen, without scale. A window into the volumeless immensity. Virtuality. Going outwards drowning more and more into yourself. Melancholy. Welcome to the world. Breath and get used to it.

By Tarik Hermano

http://www.plusgaleria.comhttp://www.plusgaleria.com/bloghttp://www.plusgaleria.com/expo

Flickrhttp://www.flickr.com/photos/plusgaleria/

Facebookhttp://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/PLUS/115500235155816

Twitter@plusgaleria

PLUS TeamWeb – SOFUN http://www.sofun.art.br/

Photoshop – Orlando Lemos (Ólux), Bruno GalizaTexts – Andrea Regis, Tarik Hermano

Guest DJ – Hugo Siqueira http://function.com.br

Thanks toAndrea Bersanetti, Claudia Nunes, Eduardo Bueno, Holly Armishaw,

Hugo Siqueira, Jardel Sebba, Oscar Fortunato