“O estúdio sempre tem dentro dele mais coisas do que fazem sentido. Há restos de projetos presos às paredes. Os primeiros esboços de projetos a ponto de começar. Os vestígios de projetos que foram abandonados. Há objetos nas paredes e no chão do estúdio que estão ali há anos, esperando ser completados ou guardados.

Da mesa do estúdio, posso ver um tripé de madeira, um batedor de ovos grande. Debaixo de um desenho de uma xícara quebrada. Ao lado do desenho de uma paisagem. Ao lado de um molde de madeira de um cavalo, coberto com desenhos de nanquim. Há um espelho anamórfico. Um desenho de um pássaro voando em uma moldura. As patas traseiras de um gato, em nanquim. Há uma lista de horários de apresentações para este ano e para o próximo. Há um boneco de cachorro feito de papel: três anos. A silhueta de uma pessoa num barco: 12 anos. A silhueta de uma pantera: 11 anos. Uma lista de legendas para as páginas de um livro a terminar. Oito pranchas de gravura em linóleo de amostras coloridas, em preto e branco. Três ampulhetas. Duas prensas de relevo. E 163 outros objetos específicos visíveis da minha mesa. Perto de mim, há 52 desenhos independentes para um livro de animação.

É a partir desse caos de excesso que acontece o trabalho no estúdio. É essa incoerência, essa fragmentação de pensamentos diversos, que é preciso transformar num desenho coerente, num corpo de desenhos, numa obra.

Na exposição, “A sala do excesso” não tenta recriar o estúdio, mas sim mostrar algo de superabundância de imagens e impulsos que constantemente circulam na realização do que acontece no estúdio.”

William Kentridge, 2012

william kentrige sala excesso


“Working with public urban spaces as its platform, migrantas aims to make visible the thoughts and feelings of those who have left their own country and now live in a new one.

Mobility, migration and transculturality are not the exception in our world, but are instead becoming the rule. Nevertheless, migrant women and their experiences remain often invisible to the majority of our society.

Migrantas works with issues of migration, identity and intercultural dialogue. Their work incorporates tools from the visual arts, graphic design and social sciences. Members of the collective, mostly women who have themselves immigrated to Germany, develop the projects with other migrant women in a horizontal dialogue.”


via :: migrantas



I´m there with my work “das Un·kraut <-s, Unkräuter>”


“Unkräuter sind Pflanzen der spontanen Begleitvegetation in Kulturpflanzenbeständen, Grünland oder Gartenanlagen, die dort nicht gezielt angebaut werden und aus dem Samenpotential des Bodens oder über Zuflug zur Entwicklung kommen. Im allgemeinen Sprachgebrauch ist das Hauptkriterium, um eine Pflanze als Unkraut zu bezeichnen, dass sie unerwünscht ist. Je nach Sicht des Betroffenen kann ein bereits eingetretener, zu befürchtender wirtschaftlicher Schaden oder ein ästhetischer Grund der Auslöser für das Störungsempfinden sein.

Die Auslegung des Begriffs Unkraut hängt stark vom subjektiven menschlichen Empfinden ab. So werden manche Pflanzenarten pauschal als Unkraut klassifiziert, obwohl diese Art nicht nur als Unkraut, sondern auch als Nutzpflanze, Heilkraut oder Zeigerpflanze auftreten kann. Zum Unkraut wird sie erst dann, wenn sie als „störend“ empfunden wird.1”

Das Fotoprojekt versucht eine subtile Parallele zwischen Migrant_innen und Unkräutern zu schaffen. Die Grenzen zwischen erwünscht und unerwünscht kann man nicht leicht definieren.

Als störend werden Migrant_innen dann empfunden, wenn sie ihren permanenten Aufenthalt in ein anderes Land verschieben, das politisch und vielleicht sozial auch nicht auf ihre permanente Präsens vorbereitet ist.

Das politische Unerwünschtsein macht keine Aussage über das Potenzial dieser Menschen. Der Blickwinkel auf Migrant_innen kann sich verändern, wenn man versucht das Potenzial zu sehen.

1. http://www.hortipendium.de/Unkraut







At Campus Fachhochschule Potsdam. Kiepenheueralle 8-9, 14469 Potsdam

Hauptgebäude – Galerie.

Until February 12, 2014.

Alberto Baraya


Colombia, botany and classification; fake flowers and post-colonialism


Many historians contend that the ‘discovery’ of the New World began in the 18th century, when geographers, mineralogists, botanists and zoologists came to America to chart the territory and its natural resources. These scientists, financed by the Spanish crown until the 19th century and by European countries after the emancipation of the colonies, had clear political and economic agendas – charting a territory means having the will to dominate it. More importantly, acquiring an inventory of the botanical resources of the colonies paved the way for their subsequent capitalist exploitation. Like their sword- or cross-bearing predecessors, these explorers came armed with Truth itself, in this case a system of thought seemingly grounded in objective observation and the disinterested discourse of science.

Arguably, the categorization of the botanical wealth of the Americas was among the biggest instances of biological theft ever. As scientists, the Europeans imparted to the locals their empirical ‘knowledge’ about the superiority of some portions of the human race and the measurable limitations inherent in living in certain places. Geographical determinism made the case for the impossibility of people in certain climates to develop ‘sophisticated’ civilizations. The observations of the viajeros (travellers), as they are collectively known, helped buttress a social and political system based on exclusion, racism and privilege – establishing a pyramidal system of values, with the tip occupied by Europeans, their religion and cultural values.

For more than a decade the Colombian artist Alberto Baraya has been working on deconstructing the figure of the viajero – and by extension, the discourse of science. In his ‘Herbario de plantas artificiales’ (Herbarium of Artificial Plants, 2001–ongoing) he parodies and questions the empirical objectivity of a botanical naturalist. The ‘Herbarium’ is as enormous and absurd an enterprise as that of the naturalist Carl Linnaeus: Baraya aims to collect, identify and classify every artificial plant he can get his hands on. Many of these plastic, cloth or paper specimens have been stolen from restaurants, lifted from waiting-rooms or pocketed at someone’s house, thus re-enacting the ethical quandary embodied in the act of ‘collecting’ committed by the historical scientific expeditions. As Baraya has stated: ‘By picking up some plastic flowers on the street, I behave like the scientists that Western education expects us to become. By changing the goals of this simple task I resist this “destiny”. In that moment all assumptions are put into question, even History.’1 The first leg of this ongoing project involved the classification of all the specimens in a sort of absurd taxonomy in the spirit of Jorge Luis Borges’ ‘Chinese encyclopaedia’. The plants in Baraya’s ‘Herbarium’ are accompanied by a file that lists the ways in which they can be classified: by the place where they were found (eatery toilets, funeral homes etc.); by their colour; by the spaces they are used to decorate.

In recent years Baraya has gone a step further by entering the territories explored by European and American scientists in the 18th and 19th centuries. He follows the path of these expeditions, collecting artificial specimens on the way: ‘In 2004 I participated as a documentarian in a trip to the Putumayo River. […] The anticipation of finding or not finding plastic flowers in the Amazon generated a certain fear, because it implied an ecological question regarding the fate of the last frontiers of resistance to “civilization” and “progress”. Actually finding them ended up being a sort of confirmation of what I would term “the laws of decoration”: even the most “natural” places need to be ornamented by any means. Also, that globalization penetrates even the farthest corners of the world, the evidence of a break of cultural frontiers.’2

For the São Paulo Biennial in 2006, Baraya spent three months in the Amazonian state of Acre, whose post-colonial history was shaped by the rubber boom in the early 19th century. Baraya reversed the process of material exploitation and, with the help of former seringueiros (rubber tappers), painstakingly covered the whole surface of a 30-metre-tall rubber tree with latex taken from similar trees. Once the latex solidified, it was peeled off and laid on the ground, like the discarded skin of a giant snake, a life-size cast of a lost cultural practice that fostered the decimation of the indigenous population, the virtual slavery of migrants from the drought-stricken north and the political transformation of an enormous territory.

Recently Baraya’s project has turned to his observation that flower and plant specimens are a preferred motif for tattoo artists and their clientele, and he has documented this tradition in photographs. For the current visual arts festival, Encuentro Internacional de Medellín 2007 in Colombia, he chose to work with the archives of the Museo de Antioquia, where he came across the drawings of Ruperto Ferreira, a forgotten local botanist. Baraya put together a booklet of Ferreira’s drawings and distributed them to tattoo parlours across the city, which in turn offered the historical designs to their clients. By once again dispersing knowledge throughout the social fabric Baraya continues his quest to problematize the certainties of scientific thought.

1 Interview with the author in Como Viver Junto, Fundaçao Bienal, São Paulo, 2006, p. 24
2 Ibid

José Roca

:: via Frieze


So man die Früchte sehen will

Matias Viegener, David Burns und Austin Young

“Öffentliches Obst ist für uns der Weg, wie wir die Stadt neu vermessen, um neue Verbindungslinien des Möglichen herzustellen, Linien, die das Raster der Straßen genauso überschreiten wie die Grenzlinien zwischen öffentlich und privat. Unsere Karten sind handgezeichnet, die Fundorte der Obstbäume nur ungefähr. Ziel der Karten ist eine neue Betrachtungsweise beim Spazierengehen in einer vertrauten oder unvertrauten Umgebung. Weiß man, dass es in der Nähe zwei Pfirsich- und einen Pflaumenbaum gibt, ohne den exakten Standort zu wissen, dann schaut man alles genau an – man nimmt wahr und sieht das, was für die Stadt nur zufällig oder zweitrangig ist: Man schaut an, was wächst. So schaffen wir eine Bühne für die Einladung, sich Stadt anders vorzustellen als einen Ort, der mehr is als Wohnen und Handel, ein Ort für Integration, nicht nur für nachhaltige Landwirtschaft, sondern für das Wunderbare. Wie viele utopische Fantasien spielt dies mit der Wiedererlangung eines goldenen Zeitalters, jedoch als offensichtliche Appropriation. Öffentliches Obst ist weniger Objekt als symbolisches Mittels, eine alte Besitzform, die Commons, zu nützen. Symbolisch werden neue Möglichkeiten für neue Besitzformen, die über öffentlich und privat hinausgehen, eröffnet und für neue Formen des Urbanismus”.

fallen fruit fallen fruit fallen fruit

:: via Hands-on Urbanism 1850-20120 / Von Recht auf Grün .

Herausgegeben von Elke Krasny

Architekturzentrum Wien

:: photos taken at Hungry City exhibition last year in Berlin.