Contemporânea

Rudi Brito (RB): Although the works depict interior, uninhabited landscapes—inert places—I think that, given their plasticity, they can assert themselves as an “alarm.” It is as if all the matter were screaming, even though it produces no sound. I keep a notebook where I jot down words or phrases that resonate with me. In fact, that’s often where the titles of my paintings come from. While preparing this exhibition, I tried out several of these, but none of them felt quite right. Then there was a moment when I came across this word—alarm—and it resonated much more strongly. It may also have something to do with the fact that this was the exhibition that cost me the most sleepless nights, because it involved a more ambitious production.

RB: More in terms of installation and logistics. I feel that this exhibition related to me like an alarm clock that wouldn’t let go of me at a very deep level. So I decided it made perfect sense to use that title. And also because we live in a time when we are in a constant state of alarm.

RB: Some of the references in the bedroom paintings come from photographs of real rooms. In the other two paintings [the bowls], it’s more a process that begins with collage, bringing in floral elements taken from textile patterns, or references to an image I once found of a silver bowl.

RB: Yes, this family of works I’m developing now explores a very different technique that operates in reverse to how I usually work. Here I’m excavating—I start with a white surface onto which I paint, and the image (and composition) emerges during the process, without any prior view of the whole. In the final result, the white corresponds both to the support and to the light. This imposes a certain coldness on the way I capture these images, as there are no mid-tones—only black and white, with a few occasional colours added. Chance, as such, introduces an element of surprise. The support consists of plywood prepared with synthetic enamel, over which acrylic is applied. Because the acrylic doesn’t adhere properly to the enamel, the two remain in a fragile relationship where it is easy to separate them. And that’s what I use to create the contrast in the painting. It’s a process of removal, and I rarely ever add anything after something has been taken away.

RB: First of all, it’s a question of perspective—closer to that of someone physically present in the space. I feel that if I depicted the space from further away, it would simply convey the idea of a bedroom by definition. In this case, through this proximity, and also through the elevation of the canvas, the way it is positioned, a more human, more real relationship is created. Even though the bed is small, it can become real in the viewer’s perception. If I position myself in the space at a certain angle, I can have a more real, more intimate relationship with the object.

RB: Yes.

RB: Yes, but if it’s an invitation, I think it’s a somewhat nostalgic one—an invitation to the past, which is in itself a bit anachronistic, because an invitation is usually to something that hasn’t yet happened. I feel that these images, as well as the whole charge of interior spaces represented in this way, always carry something of memory—even in the way they are depicted, which isn’t completely faithful. They recall the idea one might have of a space not currently before them, as if it were a portrait drawn from memory.

RB: Yes. Just like any bedroom or any house—any place that was once inhabited and, for whatever reason, no longer is—becomes a space that emanates a certain charge. I wanted to speak about that in these paintings. Many houses may hold great happiness, but they can also carry a rather violent charge within their histories.

RB: Every time I came to the space to think about what I would do for this exhibition, and because the space is low and wide, I felt the show needed sculpture. Even though I always want to show painting, because it is undoubtedly my preferred medium, for some reason this exhibition awakened other desires. Perhaps because the space is low and flattened, I have the sensation that everything is drawn towards the centre. I felt that if I only brought painting, I would be reinforcing that perception even further. Hence this idea of introducing several mutations. On the other hand, I’d never received an invitation with so much lead time, which gave me more than a year to think through the exhibition and refine my ideas until I got here.

RB: Of course. It allows you to tear ideas apart and refine them.

RB: I think it changed quite a lot, but all the ideas I had over time were absorbed, and something of each remained in the final result. It was like a process of polishing. For a while I thought I would make a sculpture in the middle of the space and place some paintings on the walls. Then, about three months before the exhibition opened, I had a revelation, and realised how I could alter the space by adding this wooden lining and transforming painting into sculpture. I understood I could turn the paintings into sculptures, thereby resolving the problem of the space.

RB: Yes. Some of the paintings already existed before I knew they would be placed on these structures. I was already making them on wood, but still with the idea that they might hang on the wall. When I had the idea of showing them in pairs, as monoliths, I decided to build these structures with a certain weight and depth, using metal. I also decided to include the reverse sides, allowing people to see between the structures.

RB: There’s a reason behind the way the paintings were paired. When I installed the work, I became aware that there is always a reverse side that ends up being neglected. I didn’t want, for instance, to have A paired with A and then B with B—I didn’t want it to be that obvious. I was also interested in the dynamic of having two bowls and two bedrooms, but never seeing them at the same time. And so you need to rely on memory to understand whether the paintings are exactly the same.

RB: For a long time—closer to the final stages of preparing this exhibition, I think—I was looking again at many photographs from the nine months I'd spent in Japan, where I had the opportunity to paint in a small studio. The space was a traditional Japanese house made entirely of wood, including the floor and ceiling, which creates a feeling of total absorption. But because it was in Japan, it was probably about an eighth the size of this room.

RB: Yes, and it was perfectly enough; people adapt. And suddenly, when I was looking at photographs of the paintings I made during that period, I realised that the fact they were in that environment, surrounded by wood, changed my perception of them significantly. Instead of being in a kind of “white cube,” they were in a much warmer environment. So I decided to create a replica of that space. Here, because the wooden boards are plywood, the knots become very visible, and each knot shows what was once a branch of a plant. For me it was a positive surprise to see how these woods work in the space, because I feel they immediately bring a lot of movement and warmth. It’s almost as if you were in a room on fire.

RB: I feel that my work is self-informing. It always goes a bit hand in hand—each piece, each year, hand in hand with the next. The fact that I turned the paintings into sculptures is very important in my trajectory and something I will continue to explore.

RB: There is something that has always been present in my work and is worth mentioning. I have always painted, since I was a child; it has always been my favourite activity. But after finishing my degree in Caldas da Rainha, I became more involved with music for a while. Then, when my daughter was born, I had to make a choice. I decided to set music aside and dedicate myself entirely to painting. However, I think music has never really left my work. And in these paintings, specifically Alarm Clock, I brought back an element from some older paintings (2019) that I made right after that period, when music was still very present in my life. This red element came from drawings where I used it to represent sound. I think it was Virginia Woolf who said that there is a “zone of silence in the middle of every art.” Painting, I think, ends up being one of the most silent arts. And when painting is good, I feel a kind of suspension in the room. Very often, if a painting produces silence, I believe it is because there is some depth in it. Because you need silence in order to assimilate it. And I’m also interested in this idea of producing a painting with sound—in this case, a representation of sound.

During the process of making this painting, someone also told me about Satch Hoyt, an artist whose work I found incredible. His research mainly involves visiting ethnological museums and, with their permission, playing instruments that have been stored away for hundreds of years. His argument is that these instruments were made to be played and that, even though they are millennia-old artefacts, this remains their sole function. So a kind of dichotomy emerges: even if an instrument is inside a glass cube, with alarms and a security perimeter that makes it inaccessible, it does not lose its purpose or its potential.

RB: Exactly. We would be damaging them out of excessive care. What is a strident musical instrument inside a glass cube? It remains a powerful thing, because even if you cannot play it, it still carries a purpose. I find that concept interesting, and it is also somewhat what I try to do with these paintings. I try to make them strident within their void.

RB: Yes. The fact that the room itself is a box relates to this through the material, which is also used in the construction of a guitar or a piano. Or even a sound system.

RB: I used to make music with synthesisers and tapes. I even released albums and toured in the UK. I wouldn’t say I’ll never play again, but [stepping away from music] was a decision I had to make, and I’m happy with it. It gave me the opportunity to engage more deeply with painting, perhaps in a more committed way than if I had divided my time between the two. I know I can always return to music later—and sometimes I still something with [my daughter] Glória, just for the pleasure of it.