“(…) Liberation from Babel comes only through algaravia.” 1
– Maria Filomena Molder, in Babel, Arabesco e Algaravia
Of uncertain origin, the Latin quotation “quod me nutrit me destruit” [that which nourishes me also destroys me] floats solemnly in the upper part of the composition of Algaravia, produced in Rio de Janeiro by the artist Andy Villela. Some researchers believe it to be a variation of an older spelling, with famous references found in the writings of English poet and historian Samuel Daniel or the sonnets of the playwright William Shakespeare. In the latter’s work, it appears in the play Pericles, Scene 2:
SIMONIDES: What is the fourth?
THAISA: A burning torch that’s turned upside down;
The word, ‘Quod me alit, me extinguit.’
SIMONIDES: Which shows that beauty hath his power and will, Which can as well inflame as it can kill.
(SHAKESPEARE, 1611, Act II, Scene II)
Echoing Simonides’ interpretation, but avoiding any naive pretension to beauty, Villela conceived a triptych to reflect on the contrasts and intricacies of her production. The young artist, whose interest in pictorial possibilities drives her work, conceived Algaravia as an experimentation with different techniques and genres, in which fragmentary images are woven together on canvas. The opaque scenes in the painting, constructed out of the dissolution of their own pictorial making, arise punctuated by a prevailing instability that prevents the composition from being attached in any particular style.
The left canvas, with lighter tones, is constructed with greater attention to each fragment. Based on a rereading of the allegories in Giotto’s fresco series The Virtues and Vices (1304–1306), these figures are camouflaged in layers. These layers partially overlap the figures, or otherwise hinder their perception due to the proximity of their color with their surroundings. The first canvas in the triptych thus bears a set of elements that reflect on the human condition in Western art history. Their recovery, however, takes place through the ruination of their function in a gap-filled visual construction, making these figures more akin to exercises in composition than to instruments of moral reflection.
In contrast, the two rightmost canvases are dominated by better defined shapes and a saturated palette. With its somber tone, the second act of Algaravia seems to echo the sonorous character of its title in the deep, gloomy meanders of its composition. Between recognizable representations and fluid beings, the relationship between figure and ground is demarcated by the salient use of solid colors. Even silence finds its place here – in the lower left scene, with its coloration and theme that recall the paintings of Edward Hopper’s taciturn phase, or, on the extreme opposite side, where the mouthless face suggests a streamlined interpretation of Ismael Nery’s geometric figures. The serpentine patterns weave the three canvases together, sometimes framing the outer edges, sometimes interconnecting the scenes.
Going beyond the Petit Larousse dictionary’s definition of the term algaravia – “a bizarre, unintelligible language” – the artist shifts the pejorative aspect of the word, commonly directed at a foreigner who does not conform to the common language, to instead allude to the foreign as something that inhabits her own work. In a bold dive into dissonance, she runs counter to an art scene that values the ordering and categorization of artistic practice, instead setting out on a defense of multiplicity. In the course of her journey, it’s possible – and indeed likely – that certain practices seen here will solidify over time. Even so, it is to be admired that any such crystallization does not imply the suppression of experimentation for the sake of a set style. Algaravia is Villela’s ultimate expression on this path.
Lucas Albuquerque
- Freely translated by us.