Nada Pertence

In the set and in each of these new works by Ana Prata, the possibility of a phenomenon is announced, a “natural” occurrence which will have as one of its functions to destabilize the rhythm of things – in both reality and nature – or at least produce questions about the way the viewer experiences things. More than just watching these “events,” we anticipate them, we wait – somewhat anxiously – for them to present themselves, to manifest.

The most elemental of dilemmas (form x content) is a starting point for reflecting on these works. In his introduction to the script for “Last Year at Marienbad”, french writer Alain Robbe-Grillet asks himself: “But wasn’t the film’s argument in itself already a staging of the real?” In this sense, Ana Prata offers a two-way street, in which both the real and its representations are crossed –and hopelessly contaminated – by a notion of mise-en-scène that points not to the solution of these tensions, but to their ambiguities and deeper contradictions.

In Grillet’s texts (and in all of nouveau-roman), in the cinema of Alain Resnais or Godard, faced with an iconic image (in the semiological sense of the term), the viewer has at least two possibilities before them: to seek an imaginary connection linked to their subjective memory, or to connect themselves with the history of the image, as an object, its “past” and all the symbolisms it carries. One option does not exclude the other, as it is an experience of simultaneity (as with cinema), and which necessarily takes place in the present, at the very moment in which you are in front of the screen.

Grillet wrote that the essential feature of the image is its presence. For him, while literature has a whole range of grammatical tenses, which make it possible to situate events in relation to one another, when it comes to images, verbs are always in the present tense.

So, what we see in a painting is happening in that moment. It is the image itself that is given to us, not just a reference to it. In other words, an experience of direct, unmediated contact. Ana Prata also talks about “keeping narratives open” and it is clear that for this to happen, some strategies (or “methods”) were adopted. The most important of them occurs at the beginning of the process, with the decision of what to paint, in terms of figuration.

We see a pyramid. Or rather, “Pyramid” (not by chance the title of the work). “Volcano,” “Explosion,” “Fireworks.” These are decisions specific to the artist, but which can also be understood as a building of repertoire, one that is freely offered to the viewer – as a real possibility for choosing.

In this sense, they are images for use, not just contemplation. They were made by the artist, but by her own decision do not belong solely to her but to everyone and anyone, precisely because they integrate and activate a common vocabulary.

In the universe of this grammar (which is necessarily public and collective) a car is “this car,” any car, and all of them at once. Or at least those that we insist on remembering: our parents’ childhood car, the car found in the woods and printed on the cover of the newspaper and on the homepage of news sites, the cars in The Godfather and on CSI (the police show whose motto is: “follow the evidence”), and all of Tarantino’s cars.

The content of these images by Ana Prata are therefore signs of something that is not there – or rather, that is only partially there, as a suggestion, projection or mere symptom. The rest, which would complement them in terms of sign and language, is not located in any specific place, but in a kind of collective unconscious – Diderot’s Encyclopedia, Jean-Louis Schefer’s great library, Jean-Luc Godard’s Histoire(s) du cinéma, Google and YouTube.       

Her painting is made up of icons devoid of potency (“weak signs” in the sense established by Walter Benjamin and recently taken up by Boris Groys). Like the logos of security companies created by Rodrigo Matheus, or Rodrigo Bivar’s melancholic children’s fantasies. An interesting contradiction arises here, because to deal with such common, “banal” emblems, she uses a material that is most associated with longevity: oil paint. In this way, by being able to remain in this limit between two movements that are only apparently antagonistic (their transitory nature and their desire for permanence), they summon the viewer to other layers of reflection and escape from crude schemes of interpretation.

Nada Pertence’s works carry their own past and point to a possible future. Strands of meaning that dialogue among themselves, narratives and fictions that escape between the cracks, and whose single, powerful indication is a light mist that forms in the space, a possible syntax between the images and their relative independence. But their desire for consistency is in relation to themselves, and their own story. It’s about the search for an internal ethics – and in the gradual conquest of this autonomy resides most of its power.

Fernando Oliva is a curator, art critic, professor (School of Visual Arts at Faap and Santa Marcelina) and member of the Programming Committee for the 17th Videobrasil Contemporary Art Festival.