artista: Rafael Silveira
por: Alondra M
“Una mañana, encontraron que la mesa había echado brotes, en la cocina, y la llevaron a florecer en paz al jardín.
Los ojos de ella habían cobrado un misterio singular, y, vista de cerca, en su epidermis había también unos como brotecitos pequeños.”
Floreal (fragmento), Alfonso Reyes
I dreamt that instead of a human face, I had a flamingo and birds, and a lake, a pond, a clean lake. my hair was blue, and there were red and orange flowers, but I could see and talk, and feel my face; I’ve always wanted to have a dream like this: weird, weirder, the weirdest, like that one time when I read about a man that woke up turned into a cockroach. I don't usually have strange dreams, I rarely even remember what was my dream about, but I would remember if I had a dream of me turning into an insect, or if I had a flamingo, blue hair and flowers for a face, instead of eyes, nose and mouth. so that time I dreamed of the lake in my face, and the flowers and the landscape, what I liked most about the dream was that I could see, as if I had the eyes of a flamingo.
I liked it because that didn't matter, it was as if everything else was normal, as if everything around were the same, but different, that all people lived in a different world than we live in today but nobody cared, we all thought and said the same as always, but things were strange, weird.
I was walking there, it looked like a desert, or maybe it was a strange landscape, with mountains in the distance, but was there dust, or was it sand ?, the clouds were pink, and there were cacti, like in the desert, but there were also people , walking, doing things, nothing special, living the same life as people who have eyes and mouth instead of flowers on their faces.
magic cannot exist if you don’t believe in it, it is a basic principle. it's like god. it's like the most famous characters in the magical worlds, you have to believe in them at least while we watch that movie, while we go to mass, while we read those stories. while we are sitting wondering about the magic trick.
Rafael Silveira plays as magicians and artists play. he plays the same way children play when they create and believe in their imaginary worlds and fictional characters; these are strange things but only because they are not common to our daily life. he plays with the world that Magritte created, and reinvents it, make a new one; a less european one and more of the western steppes, filled with sand, dust and heat.
I would like to say that Silveria's works are magical, and explain why, or hint how he did it, why he did it for, with what purpose, what possible explanation. but that would be like becoming that damn kid my mom always invited to my birthday party and spoiled the fun for everyone trying to explain how the magician -because I liked magicians, not clowns- did every single trick. I wanted to kick his chair so bad and for him to fell out of its seat, but back then I was just a little girl that I could barely contain the urge to go pee because I wanted to watch the show.
This is how I propose admire Silveira’s paintings: like a magic trick, without explanation. they are faces and people because they look a lot like the people I see every day, but with blue hair and flowers on their faces, because they have a life inside, instead of blood, because their blood is the flowers and the birds and the animals. so I don't want to be like that kid saying over and over what the trick is or what was it for, It’s better to just watch Silveira's works over and over again and think about those magical worlds and those new sensations they provoke.
I woke up from that strange dream, I had a dry mouth but that nice feeling of a fresh morning. I wanted to continue lying down, awake but with my eyes closed, waiting for my alarm to sound again. My arm was a little itchy, I scratched and opened my eyes, I saw my hands were flowers and my arms were made of water where some birds passed, they were macaws. I laughed and figured I was still dreaming, you know, a dream within a dream. however, I'm about to finish this writing and there are still fish playing around where my fingers should be, from side to side in the lake that are my hands.