Dalton Paula and the black rebellion
The work “Máscara” (Mask, 2015) is an object that refers to the artist’s body, having been created for his latest photo performance but never actually exhibited to the public. It was intended to cover both head and face, emulating an orixá headdress. It is a simple yet highly symbolic object, consisting of hundreds of small glass medicine bottles containing a mixture of cachaça, leaves, roots, twigs, and seeds of erva-da-guiné (Petiveria alliacea), or guinea hen weed, woven together by leatherworking thread. These are tiny garrafadas, potions capable of healing or killing, a heritage preserved by the resistance and wisdom of black herbalists.
Guinea hen weed has become popularly known in Brazil as amansa senhor, a plant used to “tame the master”. It was used by slaves acting as priests, who manipulated and distributed potions of poisonous herbs as silent weapons against masters, overseers, and enemies. Poisoning against torture. The plant’s root powder was part of a set of ingredients widely used by those who acted against their oppressors, and its effects were aggressive, powerful, and lethal: lethargy, overexcitement, insomnia, hallucinations, seizures, laryngeal paralysis, and death*.
In the rebellion envisaged by Dalton Paula’s work, guinea hen weed springs forth at various instances and indicates multiple interpretations: a symbol of resistance to oppression and dominance; a means of defence and attack; a cure to slavery’s historical wounds; an orixá leaf and a sacred element of protection.
In the video performance Unguento (Salve, 2015), carried out outside the old slave market in Lençóis – a city located in Chapada Diamantina, Bahia state, and founded during the gold cycle –, Dalton Paula undergoes the ritual of making a strange garrafada by mixing cachaça with glass shards from another cachaça bottle macerated with guinea hen weed. The earliest record of this extremely popular drink dates back to the sixteenth century, and the artist’s rendering of it evokes both the sugar cane cycle, upheld by black labour, and the social prejudice which links cachaça to lower social classes, to black and indigenous people, pariahs, and drunkards abandoned to their fate. The Portuguese word unguento refers to salves used since ancient times to treat several infirmities. The garrafada possesses the same healing purpose, being largely used by the population in mixtures of cachaça and a wide array of herbs, roots, leaves, peels, sap, and animals. However, in the twofold process of healing and defence, the artist ends up producing a garrafada that is capable of killing by internal haemorrhage, hence bringing up to date the image of the foregone priest who treated or poisoned according to his need to tame or kill his master.
Guinea hen weed also features in Dalton Paula’s video performance Implantar Anamu (Implanting Anamu, 2016), carried out during his stay in Habana Vieja, Cuba; the performance took place before the wall of La Cabaña, a grand eighteenth-century fort designed by the Spanish and built by slave labour, imposing itself as a symbol of the architecture of power and punitive control. The fort, which formerly served as a military base and a torture prison, today houses a museum – yet another institution of power which continually applies selection and exclusion criteria not only regarding aesthetic language but also political, social, gender- and race-based aspects. Implantar Anamu is a work that expands Dalton Paula’s experimentations with guinea hen weed and with procedures for grinding objects. Having plunged into the repetition of an obsessive and blind gesture, Dalton Paula drives his body to exhaustion by dilating the time taken to macerate a few ceramic pots in the metal mortar until they are turned to dust, hence expressing a desire to give back to the earth that which had once belonged to it and which human culture had extracted. The work’s long duration evokes the sluggish rhythm of life inside a prison, where days do not go by – they drag by. Dalton Paula performs a ritual to grind what had once been molded and to plant within the ruins of destruction the antidote against oppression and subjugation; to plant guinea hen weed in the mixture of powder, ceramic shards, and fertile earth from the island, a plant known in Cuba as anamu. This plant binds together the narratives of enslaved black people both in Brazil and in Cuba, and through it the artist questions powers and repositions the place of speech and the volume of black voices in relation to past, present, and future.
Devoid of categories and assembling performance, video, and photography, the work Coronel Castelo Negro B (Colonel Castelo Negro [‘black’] B, 2013) also confronts the fusion of military and political powers. The title parodies the name of general Humberto Castelo Branco [‘white’] (1897-1967), the leading army officer involved in the coup of March 1964 and the first president of the military dictatorship, responsible for initiating a dark period marked by the suspension of political rights, repression against left-wing movements, persecution of opponents, and censorship on the right to freedom of intellectual and artistic expression. Dalton Paula creates a self-portrait in which he merges references to the army and military police; he seizes a colonel’s rank insignia, three yellow stars, and sews it onto his bare shoulder. The scene is set on a green landscape where the archaic and active rural coronelismo, or colonels’ rule, is in command, managing the latifundia and agribusiness with oligarchic political force and giving rise to countless conflicts for land ownership and use. Dalton Paula seizes this location and in his rebellion turns history around, assaults power ranks, and leads them to the memory of the shoulders of one with no possessions.
Nilo Peçanha (1867-1924) had a poor background and because of his skin colour was pejoratively called a mulatto by his opponents, despite denying any African descent; against all obstacles facing the social mobility of people from his social class, he became a major political figure and eventually president of Brazil in the early 1900s. This was an admirable feat in a society which had officially ended slavery only twenty-one years before. Peçanha’s name is the title of a video performance in which Dalton Paula, facing the Ministries Esplanade in Brasília, displays the Republic’s coat of arms – the utmost symbol of state power – sewn onto his back, thus introducing the question of how a black man is able to take hold of government instruments.
The video O batedor de bolsa (The pickpocket, 2011) highlights the violence inherent to social exclusion and to society’s racial prejudices, all of which have helped to shape a warped image of criminals and delinquents; marginality has thus become associated with black and poor people, i.e. those who often live without basic possessions but who nevertheless would not resort to stealing. Racism, now a criminal offence, is deep-rooted in Brazilians’ behaviour. Dalton Paula’s work records the performance carried out in the public space of a street in the city’s outskirts, having as background a stained white wall which contrasts with the blackness of the artist’s skin and bag. His action is economic and swift: while holding a truncheon (an object which becomes a weapon at the hands of police officers), he attempts to strike a woman’s bag hanging above his head. He strikes the air blindly until he becomes tired. The bag evokes other meanings, e.g. the stock market where global capital flows and which stands above the majority of the segregated population, or an object which stores the twisted moral and ethical values of urban middle classes. Hence Dalton Paula relives the prejudice he suffered as a child and denounces racial violence while purging the unfair association, generally made by white women, between the image of a poor black boy and that of the street thief who commits petty crimes, known in Brazil as pivete, trombadinha> or O batedor de carteira/O batedor de bolsa
* Reis, João José. Domingos Sodré: um sacerdote africano. Escravidão, liberdade e candomblé na Bahia do século XIX. São Paulo: Companhia das Letras, 2008. p. 152.
Goiânia, August 2016