Visual artist, teacher, writer, and curator: these are just a few of the roles Kássia Borges takes on. Active since the 1980s, she has, especially over the past decade, gradually carved out a space for herself in the visual arts in Brazil and abroad, with her experiments unfolding in full view of the public.
Whether as a ceramicist—a practice she began, as this interview reveals, during her time at university—or as a member of MAHKU (Huni Kuin Artists Movement), where she paints, creates murals, and acts as a spokesperson, risk-taking seems integral to her way of being-in-the-world. She embraces it with a grin and a sharp laugh, refusing the stiff image so often associated with the system we conventionally call “contemporary art,” where pleasure and fun are usually seen as incompatible with responsibility.
From her curatorial work at the Museu do Índio, affiliated with the Federal University of Uberlândia in Southeastern Brazil, to her current position as one of the curators of Indigenous art at the Museu de Arte de São Paulo Assis Chateaubriand (MASP), Kássia shows no fear when it comes to writing new chapters—or, to use terminology less tied to writing, telling new stories—about “contemporary art in Brazil,” whether this term involves “Indigenous art” or, if you prefer, “contemporary Indigenous art.” What emerges between the lines of this conversation is the sense that none of these perspectives are ever fixed, and that the identity shifts in tone depending on the narrator and their context. And though she remains keenly aware of this, her primary concern is to stay in motion and, as her own family history taught her, to respect the particular rhythm of the chameleon.
This informal conversation, shaped by accumulated lived experience, offers a few glimmers of her trajectory and the many battles faced by Indigenous people working in culture not only in Brazil but globally. Let’s not forget that Kássia not only began her career in a historical moment untouched by the internet and the public, real-time sharing of images and opinions, but also ventured into a medium—ceramics—which, despite its recent boom in the art market, is still often regarded as a lesser art form. Add to this the fact that her career has unfolded in Brazil’s Central-West and in the rural interior of Minas Gerais, regions still largely perceived as peripheral when it comes to the cultural and economic hegemony of the Brazilian visual arts. Considering all this, the person before us, as she herself tells it, is someone who today finds herself both joyful and surprised by the visibility she has come to enjoy.
We hope this interview is just the beginning of a broader process of visibility and institutional recognition in the years ahead; and that her wish for a future higher education institution in the visual arts geared towards Indigenous students might take shape in the not-too-distant future.
Raphael Fonseca: I’d like to begin by asking you to talk a little about how you first came into contact with the visual arts. How did your education in the field unfold, and at what point did you start seeing yourself as a visual artist?
Kássia Borges: I’ll start by saying that ceramics has always been part of my life, but in a sort of “normal,” everyday way—it was just part of life, you know?… All the more so because back then, the word “art” didn’t even exist in my vocabulary. My mum, who had been a schoolteacher since before I was born and taught me to read and write when I was five, always insisted I focus on my education. So when I visited the Federal University of Uberlândia—my ex-husband was a professor there—there were two moments that sparked my interest in the arts. The first was when I walked into the university building and saw a watercolour exhibition by Maciej Babinski. I thought it was incredible and asked myself: Will I ever be able to do that? Because according to university standards, I didn’t even know how to draw. The second moment came when I saw the ceramics studio—that’s when I knew that was the course I wanted to do. The professor was removing stones and cleaning the clay, and it was the act of cleaning that drew me in. It brought back memories of childhood, of going out to dig up earth, clay—back then, it was all just play… So I decided to enrol in the course.
Maciej Babinski ended up teaching me a lot. He took me into the sculpture studio, handed me a dry-point needle, and told me to go home and draw. When he saw the metal engraving I'd made, he said it was a really strong piece of work. He showed it to the other professors, and they finally started to think that maybe I could be an artist one day. But by then, in fact, I’d already internalised a complex around drawing—the belief that I couldn’t draw. So I stayed in the ceramics studio and began doing research on the materials, on what I was actually making… I already had a knack for modelling bodies and faces, and soon I started making these cut-up women, cut-up bodies…
[Upon seeing my work] My therapist at the time told me I needed to go find my father and resolve my issues with him. So I went back to the village looking for him. He’d disappeared from my life when I was six, and there was this huge emptiness inside me… When I got to the village, I didn’t find him; but I did find my family, who needed a home, a doctor, the basics. I was searching for my father but also for ceramics, for my ancestry, for an understanding of what was driving me to make all these torn-apart bodies. That was when I gathered a group of girls from the village and we began working together on ceramics, on body painting—and that gave me the strength to reflect on my work, on what I was doing at university and in my own practice.
When I went on to do my master’s, I ended up writing about “origin” as a profound principle because I felt my artistic work was probably tied to the Karajá origin myth, where the people emerge from a hole in the ground. Around that time, my drawings were full of holes—the pencil would dig so deep it would tear through the paper. It was in Walter Benjamin that I found someone who could express this idea that origin is a vortex in the river. And what does that mean, if not that we rebuild ourselves every single day? A blend of everything that was and everything that could be. For a long time, I believed my work was linked to this Karajá origin myth.
Years later, when I went back into therapy, I uncovered other layers (personal experiences, trauma) and realised that those holes, that excavation in the drawings, were about more than just an origin myth. They were about my origin, the origin of women, especially Indigenous women, of these bodies that anyone can use. It’s always been that way, and it still is, you know? That pain was constantly leaking into my work, even though I didn’t fully recognise what it was. That was back in the 1980s, and it was around then that I started making the corpotes—the body-memory works I’d been carrying inside me, even if I didn’t yet fully know it.
In 1987, when the Museu do Índio was inaugurated,[1] I started working there in the cataloguing of Karajá dolls, conserving the pieces and so on. That was where I wrote my first text about Indigenous culture, influenced by discourses like Ailton Krenak's. It was then that I started to understand the pain of what it means to be Indigenous. In my case, even though I’m mixed-race, there’s a lot of prejudice around my Indigenous “side.” Even when people saw me as white, that Indigenous half always “got in the way,” because it made me think differently. “Logic” didn’t include Indigenous thinking. Things are different now, but at the time, we didn’t have the right to speak.
RF: At what point in your trajectory did your Karajá identity begin to assert itself in a more direct way? From what I gather, you’ve always seen yourself as also Indigenous, even as a child, but it seems that during your time at university, there was this consciousness of being Indigenous without necessarily speaking openly about it—at least the way you do now (and of course, the world was a different place then too).
KB: That’s exactly it: the consciousness was there, even if I didn’t speak about it so explicitly. So much so that after I stopped doing the cut-up women, my first works were the body paintings, which had always been part of my life. My work has always expressed that Indigenous identity. And when I started to push painting into three dimensions and moved into installation, it was still body painting.
RF: Back in the 1980s, when you started taking part in salons and showing your work, did you feel that the curators or the people writing about it saw you as an Indigenous artist?
KB: No. I was in Central Brazil, and there was no way I could be seen as an Indigenous artist there. It was much easier for people to read me as an artist working with gender issues; at a certain point, indeed, I embraced that and started speaking about femicide. But that other question—about what it meant to be an Indigenous artist—wasn’t even on the table yet. When I first began studying art, I didn’t have much contact with that world.
RF: Taking a step back: you graduated in the 1980s, began teaching at the Federal University of Uberlândia in 1994, still quite young, and finished your master’s in the early 2000s… After thirty years of teaching, how do you see the intersection between being a visual artist and a professor? And how do those two practices contaminate one another?
KB: I believe being an artist complements being a teacher. If I were just a teacher, I don’t think I’d be able to draw out what’s really inside my students. I draw on my experience as an artist to speak with them differently, to ask things like: “What if we tried it this way?” or “Doesn’t that texture say more about what you’re trying to express?” Because my subject is a practical one, I couldn’t teach without the connection I have to art, to the act of making.
RF: And how do you see the intersection between education and curating? Do you think there's a strong educational element to curating?
KB: Absolutely. When you go to a show like Vaivém,[2] it’s like taking a class in art history. There’s a huge amount of research there that makes you do your own—the entire story is told through the hammock. That’s education: the curator is an educator. An educator shapes thought, creates the conditions for thought to flow. A curator is also a researcher, which is another way of being an educator.
I spent my whole life at the Museu do Índio, you know? I joined when it was first founded. A wealthy woman had donated a large collection of Indigenous artefacts to the university; not knowing what to do with it, they rented a house and, together with the Social Sciences department, created the museum under the leadership of Lídia Maria Meirelles. And it was there, in the museum, that I began to shape myself as someone critical of the system, conducting researching and committing to resistance and the survival of ancestral knowledge and culture.
When you carry Indigenous blood, when you live in a prejudiced world, you grow up with a burden, with a weight on you. It was at the museum that I started reading other kinds of references and realising that things could be different; that our people, Indigenous peoples, could be—and had the duty to be—different. It was there that I took part in countless projects, exhibitions, courses, that we began thinking about a new museology. And although the museum still leans towards ethnography, it’s gradually opening up to other projects, including exhibitions of contemporary Indigenous art.
RF: And how do you see that struggle today through your work as a curator at the museum?
KB: The university[3] is a space that allows for freedom. Of course, there are still financial and bureaucratic constraints, but it’s a place that allows for freedom. And as I said, it’s where I developed a more critical understanding of Indigenous issues and got to know key figures in that world. But when I started out, in the 1980s, everything was different. People were fighting for other things—basic things like survival itself, because we were still living under a military dictatorship. For us, Indigenous people, the struggle was still about land demarcation. Today, it’s a different story—there are far more opportunities. We’ve managed to work with different generations, to bring Indigenous artists into the museum's curatorial projects. There were still challenges, but we’ve made it happen.
RF: I’d love for you to talk a bit about your experience at MASP and what it was like working on the exhibition Indigenous Histories. You’ve spoken in the press about how being a curator at such an institution can create a space of great visibility, but also of vulnerability. What’s it like to collaborate with an institution of that scale?
KB: I was already in touch with MASP because of the MAHKU exhibition in 2023, and that’s when I met Adriano Pedrosa. One day, when I was back in the village, he called me and invited me to curate a show. But there was no way I could take on something like that alone, especially because at the time we were already organising a WhatsApp group of Indigenous professionals involved in curating in one way or another. That’s how we had the idea of inviting Edson Kayapó, a historian, and Renata Tupinambá, who comes from a film background. We thought it would be interesting because each of us had a different approach to writing and working… And so over the course of the Indigenous Histories project, we were able to invite many artists whose work I already knew, some I had already worked with, and others I hadn’t yet had the chance to collaborate with. Everything we proposed, we were able to do. Later I even travelled to Bergen, in Norway, for a touring version of the exhibition. It was something I never imagined would happen.
And I have to say: for someone like me, who had come from such a simple background, who had been raised not to be anything—because the truth is those of us with Indigenous blood were brought up for a long time to be nothing, to remain invisible—getting an invitation to work with MASP was a dream. I never thought I’d one day show work at the São Paulo Biennial or curate an exhibition at MASP… So when it happened, I kept asking myself: What is this? What does it mean? Until then, what I knew, what I was used to, was the public university, where limited resources make it harder to get things done. So working with MASP, which boasts a whole other financial and human structure, was rather gratifying.
RF: Since you brought up MAHKU, how did you first come into contact with the group? Could you talk a bit about how you first met them and how you became part of the MAHKU family?
KB: It happened like everything in my life: sort of suddenly… Much later, I had my birth chart done, and it turns out it was all there. But this is how it happened: I was teaching at the Federal University of Amazonas (UFAM) and coordinating the university’s art gallery with Roberta Paredes Valin. Actually, we founded that gallery—there wasn’t one before—and she suggested inviting MAHKU for an exhibition. The university had no money, so we did a vaquinha,[4] I offered food and accommodation, a lot of people pitched in, and we managed to bring them. I cooked for them—made pequi, which is an Indigenous dish from my region they’d never tasted… The next day, we mounted the show. What fascinated me most at the time was the role of song in MAHKU’s work: how song becomes something else, shifting from sound to image. That really struck me.
Then they left, but Ibã Huni Kuin kept calling me every day. We had a long-distance relationship over the phone for quite a while, but our conversations weren’t about MAHKU at first. That came later, around the time of Vaivém—that’s when I really joined the group. With Vaivém, I realised there were things I could help with, technical stuff I could pass on as a professor: how to stretch and prepare canvas, how to treat materials, how to choose them, and so on. So I started teaching them some things, and studying others myself… And later came my marriage to Ibã.
RF: And how does that exchange work—of love and labour, but also of different cultures (Huni Kuin and Karajá)?
KB: I think it was a perfect match, because I learned so much from MAHKU. I used to be excessively perfectionist about technique, especially in ceramics. With them, I learned that anything is possible, that there’s no such thing as “wrong.” Because miração[5] takes you to another state of consciousness, and what comes from there is what’s meant to be. In fact, it leads to something even more beautiful: the hope behind our movement set me on a path of seeking healing—both for myself and others. That’s why I think I gained so much from this encounter with MAHKU; and they gained a lot from me too. Beyond the techniques I introduced and refined with the group, they also unlocked a new potential in the field of three-dimensional work, through a kind of ceramics that blends Karajá and Huni Kuin practices.
You know what bothers me about Indigenous art today? A lot of people want it to be naïve. And Indigenous people don’t have to make naïve art; they don’t have to not know how to draw. I think MAHKU engages with a side of contemporary art that dispenses with that naïve label. I always make a point of showing that there's thought behind it all—that we can reflect on what we’re doing. Indigenous art today can stand alongside major artists insofar as there’s research, and we understand what we’re saying and making.
RF: Can you talk about MAHKU’s relationship with architecture? What are the challenges of working on large-scale projects like MASP and the Venice Biennale?
KB: I think MAHKU converses with architecture, but also with urban art. And I see it as a kind of territorial appropriation. For example, between July and September this year, we worked on a massive mural that stretched across 150 houses. It’s a reflection on the city—on urban space. So I think about artists who leave the village and inhabit urban space: what does that mean? It’s a form of appropriation, or rather, reappropriation of space. MAHKU is building a repertoire that’s entering the city; we’re leaving the village to inhabit a space that once was ours, and that we’re now reappropriating through art. And I think it’s a beautiful struggle.
RF: And the composition process happens through the encounter between your bodies and the empty wall, right? You don’t plan anything beforehand.
KB: Yes, it really is a conversation between bodies [there’s no prior sketch]. The body creates the space and produces the forms. I don’t know, maybe it’s the mirações too, because it’s a complex method… We take Nixi Pae [ayahuasca], and it opens a channel—I can’t explain it exactly, but there’s a lot of scientific research on ayahuasca. I don’t know what opens up, but it’s something really powerful in terms of perception. So you start seeing colours more intensely, and things start dancing in your head, like a kaleidoscope… But I see things differently than the other members of the group, because they grew up taking Nixi Pae. So, Ibã Huni Kuin starts singing, and the forms begin to emerge in our minds as he describes them. Then we start to draw and paint; there’s no plan beforehand. It’s really intense, and the drawing just happens. It’s very much a matter of the body.
RF: It’s interesting that there’s no control over everything, right? And there’s also something beautiful in the way people who aren’t part of the group can participate, especially when it comes to applying colour… I wanted to ask another question: how do you see international audiences reacting to MAHKU’s work?
KB: I’ve heard all sorts of things, from deeply prejudiced reactions to genuine admiration. And I get it, because it’s not easy to truly look at the other. Because when you look at the other, you’re forced to recognise yourself. The other is a mirror, and you have to recognise yourself in it. When the other you’re seeing is very different from you, there’s often a big shock. I’ve seen some rather intense reactions to MAHKU’s work—from people left completely dumbfounded to others who think it’s total nonsense. I’ve even heard someone say, “I hope the next Venice Biennale is a normal one.” There’s lots of talk, but so what? What does that mean? Indeed, it’s important to see the other—who’s not like you—because it reminds you that the world holds many possibilities. My truth isn’t the only one: there are many truths…
RF: You end up representing Brazil, but also a globalised notion of what Indigenous art is. What’s it like to deal with that? As an artist and a curator, what's it like to know your work can be seen through so many different lenses?
KB: Yeah, there really are so many lenses, so many [interpretive] possibilities… I don’t think it’s even possible to pin it down just yet, because we still have so much to do. We still need to think a lot, and maybe one day we’ll be able to reach some kind of conclusion—or perhaps there won’t ever be one… But even so, what’s happening right now is really important. The first time I saw an exhibition of Australian Aboriginal art was in Denmark, in the 1990s; and at the time, I didn’t understand why it [Indigenous art] wasn’t being shown in contemporary art museums in Brazil. And I thought: Why can’t that happen here too? Then I remembered I was Indigenous, and that I could make it happen. [chuckles]
RF: Looking to the future, what do you think is still missing? What are the next important steps for Indigenous presence in the contemporary art scene?
KB: I think we still need to open up space for Indigenous curators, especially in major institutions, big museums. We also need a real commitment to bringing Indigenous people, thinkers, artists, curators, and so on into those spaces—that’s what helps us build our own repertoire. I also believe that Indigenous people need to study, you know? I think it’s important that we learn and understand what we’re talking about. It took me a long time to fully grasp what I was talking about… So I think academic and professional training is crucial, including courses specifically aimed at Indigenous people.
RF: Do you think it would be worthwhile to create a dedicated Indigenous visual arts programme in Brazil?
KB: I believe so, yes, because we, Indigenous people, have different issues to reflect on—questions that come from our daily lives, from our ways of living, from the struggles we face every single day. All the more so because, for us, making art is a struggle, right? It’s an act of resistance. So I think it’s really important to be fully aware of our own issues before we enter into debate with non-Indigenous people. We need to be perfectly sure that what we’re doing is art indeed. So yes, I think an Indigenous art school would be incredibly important.
MAHKU (Movimento dos Artistas Huni Kuin) — MAHKU: Migrações, Museu de Arte de São Paulo Assis Chateaubriand (MASP)/ exhibition views. Photography: Isabella Matheus. Courtesy MAHKU, Isabella Matheus e MASP.
- Now called the Museum of Indigenous Peoples at the Federal University of Uberlândia.
- Vaivém was an exhibition held at the Banco do Brasil Cultural Centre (across various cities in Brazil) between 2019 and 2020, curated by Raphael Fonseca and featuring the MAHKU collective. For the mural and canvas painting work developed during its touring, the collective was joined by Ibã Huni Kuin, Kássia Borges, and Pedro Mana.
- The Museum of Indigenous Peoples is part of the Federal University of Uberlândia.
- In Brazil, the term vaquinha is commonly used to refer to crowdfunding campaigns.
- A visionary state induced by ritual. [Translator's note]