#3 may-july 2026

dear every and one,

(i am so tired)

“Now that I have to save tomorrow, that I have to have a form because I don’t sense that I have the strenght to stay disorganized, now that, fatefully, I shall have to frame that monstruous, infinite flesh and cut it into pieces that something the size of my mouth can take in, and the size of my eyes’ vision, now that I shall fatefully succumb to the necessity of form that comes from my fear of being undelimited - then let me at least have the courage to let that form form by itself, like a crust that hardens on its own, a fiery nebula that cools into earth. And let me have the great courage to resist the tempation to invent a form.”
Clarice Lispector, The PASSION according to G.H. (p.7)

the conversations i have with the work are gentler situations. i am allowed to breath with them. i sit in this line with predictability and repetition. they allow for silence; and a literal reaching of a confirming hand touching me back.

(i try to) not swim against the current.

time is stretched and i feel stretching fingers elongate and u-turn towards themselves. moving forward (in what must be another dimension) i just might enter myself someway so to see what is in the outer, it is still humid but much warmer, i can wear a t-shirt now .

i think i crawl, i do it attentively. when i trace my hand i must keep tense so the pen doesn’t change it’s position, and keep the legs tense so they won’t move by themselves. i feel discomfort, i keep the body warm at night. i dont feel the left side of the tip of the right hand indicating finger.

if the pen isn’t able to touch my body i close one eye and keep its top part on the edge of the arm or leg, this is some indicator (not to get a taller pen) to give closer of a look. i hold the body with attention. i attentively hold my body. i paint inside the lines, my face sits above my leg.

i run away from my form to become a form with content. i run away from depicting,

these forms ( i insist on this word because of the Portuguese forma, it is more often used than form in english so has a wider symbolic association to it. forma is as well the tin we bake our cakes in, we say it in ‘ fazer de certa forma’ i.e. which means doing in a certain way. formar, enformar, informar. to shape, to insert in shape, to inform) have become characters in the atelier. they hold a cartoonish posture i feel mocking me. but i equally run away from form with no content, to be just abstract in my case is either i just compose an image or i really run away from myself. what is wrong with depiction when it is unintentional, as well? i do them not with the intention to. and they open their arms at me, and they scream but i hear the inside of my ear.

at the opening a child accidentally made one of the bodies fall. i was passing by the edge of the entryway when he did it so i was only witness to his reaction. he was panicked, wanted to run away. i told him everything is ok, i understood I was happy about the body falling. interaction is good, touching is good, that your hand gets red and you feel guilty about it. generating movement !! dance in the supermarket !!

a minha terceira perna e um braço ended up becoming a constraint piece. i became aware of my trying to open a box that was open already. this of discomfort i’ve spoken of through time, discreetly. here is the trouble with assimilating personal growth with the practice.

it became evident i am not to solve certain sensations. they are to be experienced as holding a cold glass of water. so i begin to swim in my own discomfort.

this, the physical sensation of being in complete power over my figure, the fear that accompanies holding a new-born.

it stands alone, by itself, without mine or other material’s help. it is the figure of a dive, i like to believe it dives into its own shape. as i try to do with myself. i control this figure. i cut it out, the knife is the inbetween. one hand holds it, the other presses against my arms. i do it out of utility, but notice it does something to the brain. this after the whole of it is singular. it is so mine i carry it from one room to another over my shoulder, at my hips. i feel my belly as i do mine. and i accept i am smaller than i thought, i was not to expect (accept) my two-dimensional self was to feel proportionally smaller than my body. more confusion. and i do this sixteen times.

i move between planes but leave my action always before me. to see the two as three and then four. the four we live in, one forgotten time. i recycle myself between dimensions. overwhelming it is to know there are more, that there are more colors as well, more sensations. and those that can be reached by hovering around the body make inaccessible those righteous to us.

and these pieces i make as an impasse, the hesitation here is something which belongs to my movement as when i walk and get dispersed, and my form dissipates into the street not to be differentiated from those walking past me.

this second body takes me where i must go, where i agreed to go beforehand but find no energy to; i agreed because motivation lies in the future. my present is dictated by what i must make happen for my first body with the second, in the future; i decide to stand so my legs know their utility, they can ask for movement if they wish. but the second body is a reserve, as an emergency body, this one only has two legs and two arms and one head. everything else stays in the first. who is this body that ate me; the words inside my head are mine but few. the ones left are reminders of what must be done. i wait in the sun.

the tip of my finger is noticed again. it is circular culminating where the flesh meets the nail and it goes down through the inside of the finger. the nail becomes noticed, i know it's shape by feeling it glued to my finger. you sense the body positively twice, this is why people are so negative.

you sense yourself physically in space and in thought, vaccumed within yourself.

i practice what i can not do.

link to untitled (body in)

the wall is space. where the colour of the figure meets the colour of its background there is a space that is both and neither.

this chiasm ponty felt ("(…) we situate ourselves in ourselves and in the things, in ourselves and in the other, at the point where, by a sort of chiasm, we become the others and we become world." The Visible and the Invisible p160) i feel too, and i am inclined to erase his words so i write the same on the same lines with different words.

Contour Shape Form Delineation the outline is the sensation of having a body, reinforced when in touch with another outline.

my resistance, and my separate obsession on understanding it and forcing it upon myself, is felt towards the world. the constructed world, the economy and the apparatus of our whole. have i been negating my body all this time for i should have looked at how this sense was reached. i feel the contrast of my skin with the air, air air filling the gaps it un-hollows.
i sense the area of my untouched body when i breathe.
so how am i not inside my body. i look now outside and i look at the practice. i speak so much of bodily resistances - resintances - and the tension i carry with my hands. this resistance is towards my lived experience, i am not so ill therefore. my lived experience in the constructed world i don't feel well in. not a soul auto-immune disease, just an immune disease allows to stand on some ground.
when i stretch i don't stretch myself, i stretch the world. i am again led to write to let the world touch me.