Letter to Rubem Valentim
by André Ricardo
Dear Rubem,
I've been thinking about what to write to you in this letter. Perhaps I can begin by sharing that my youngest son bears your name, Valentim. He's merely three years old, yet he already understands that besides meaning "little brave one," his name is a tribute to a great artist. My eldest daughter, who's now six years old, is named Dandara. Well, needless to say, this is also a source of immense pride for her, as she loves recounting the origin of her name, which holds profound significance for us, symbolizing the struggle for freedom of the black people.
Next week, I'll be departing for London, where we will hold an exhibition together, you and me. The children already lament my absence, but I've explained how happy I am to have this show in dialogue with an artist whom I deeply admire. Collaborating with you on this exhibition is both an honor and a joy, yet it also entails a significant responsibility that I hope to fulfill.
As I began writing these lines, I attempted to recollect the first time I encountered your work, but the memory seemed somewhat hazy. I know it wasn't at a retrospective exhibition, nor in a classroom, be it at school or university, which one might expect given the grandeur of your work. This fact, if viewed as a reflection of the structural racism prevalent in our society, underscores the long path we still need to tread. Nevertheless, it would be remiss of me not to mention that, in the most vivid recollections I possess, your work reached me through the hands of the artist Emanoel Araújo, I believe first at the Pinacoteca and later at the Museu Afro Brasil, both in São Paulo. This acquaintance deepened gradually, intensifying in recent years with the realization of monographic exhibitions, such as the showcase "Rubem Valentim – Afro-Atlantic Constructions," held at the Masp – Museu de Arte de São Paulo, in 2018.
Equally significant were the collective exhibitions where your work was juxtaposed with that of young artists, highlighting the importance of your contribution to our history. I had the honor, indeed, of participating in some of them.
However, this timeline doesn't seem sufficient to explain my sentiments regarding your work. I have the sensation that your forms and colors resonate deeply, speaking of a cyclical sense of time where chronological order is irrelevant. I dare say that, although I never had the opportunity to meet you in person during your lifetime, I feel a closeness to you.
You, a Bahian. I, a Paulistano. I must confess, I would have loved to be born in Bahia. Yet, I've had the fortune to be born into a family of Pernambucanos and Alagoanos, with Bahian blood coursing through my veins. I don't wish to deny my Paulistano identity, but I am also the child of Northeastern migrants, and I cannot overlook the affection I hold
for Bahia, a land of rich, abundant culture, whose predominantly black population is a breeding ground for exquisite artists like yourself. Nonetheless, our geographical difference does not determine the train of thought I am attempting to construct; I am more interested in speculating about relationships that occur on a subterranean plane, transcending the objective boundaries of time and space.
Your work will always remain alive precisely because it serves as a portal to this suspended place, where I can glimpse new horizons and contours regarding what constitutes me as a subject in the world.
I am fond of the idea that the practice of art is a way to journey back to a primordial place. I recall how enlightening it was to realize that painting is akin to embarking on an internal journey, shedding light on a painting I already carry within. Visiting this inheritance is an affirmation of the right to memory, fundamental in the construction of our identity. Viewing another artist's work is also a means of accessing this place. Your work, Rubem, never ceases to provoke me in this regard, resonating deeply with each encounter.
Though I don't seek to imbue my paintings with a spiritual sense, at least not directly, as I can perceive through the inherent symbolism of your compositions, I like to think that we are reborn through our work, and in this process, we discover many brothers and sisters to whom we had not yet been introduced.
There's an image I like to evoke to convey this idea: the movement of waves against rocks. A small portion of rock on the shore resurfaces with each ebb of the waves, then subsides again, only to reappear afterward. Though always the same rock, the ebb and flow of the waters give it a renewed gleam with each return to the surface. It's impossible to apprehend it definitively, nor in its entirety. What we see are fragments of a whole submerged, rooted so deeply in the earth that all we can do is imagine its concealed aspects.
Isn't this our task as artists? To speculate on this hidden realm? In this sea, the ebb and flow of the waves teach me that time is infinite and circular. I plunge into the depths of these waters with the assurance that I am never alone, guided by those who came before. This is how I see your work reaching me, forging pathways like a beacon.
Thank you for everything.