Over the Inquisitor’s Shoulder
Fernanda Pitta
In the myths of the origins of Brazilian art and artists, an act of “discovery” is repeatedly affirmed — the discovery of the “local color”, the discovery of “native motifs” or the discovery of unknown geniuses. Modern critics and artists “discover” artists like José Antonio da Silva, or another Silva, the one we are examining here — Francisco Domingos da Silva, better known as Chico da Silva. This vocabulary clearly has a colonialist legacy, mirroring constructs that reveal the processes of self-colonization that permeate Brazilian art history.
Stories reiterate the same point. The “construction” of the artist begins when they are acknowledged by someone — someone legitimate in the art field — who, impressed by their finding of something or someone, who was until then “outside” the art field, catapults their discovery to a place of visibility within a specific narrative. Critics and historians did not recognize Chico da Silva as an artist who was able to use his self-determination, or as someone with the ability to project himself into society on his own terms. Therefore, the strategies of production and promotion that he developed were systematically undermined by these agents, given that they did not fulfill the expectations imposed on the artist.
Perhaps it is worth reflecting on how this story was told by those who held power over it. The history of institutionalization, including art, is also a history of violence. The discourse imposed on people such as Chico da Silva is the history of the criteria used to capture and confine their creations, ways of working, and circulation strategies. The same constitutional criteria are used in the so-called Art History. Authorship and style are some of them. As such, there have been many attempts to define Chico’s best phase, his most “authentic” phase, to separate his “authorial” practice from the practice of his collaborators, the practice carried out under the supervision of Chabloz, from the practice interpolated by “commercial interests” or “distorted” by “bad” dealers, “dissolved” by “duplicators” or “fakers” or impacted by his life choices and dilemmas.
The history of Chico, the one that we can glimpse “over the inquisitor’s shoulder"[1] reveals, however, that there are intersections. Intersections that constitute strategies of resistance, negotiation, and survival.
What would the history narrated from the point of view of someone outside the mainstream art system like him be? Once again, we can call upon the other Silva, José Antonio da Silva, who told his own story several times in versions that are imbricated, overlaid, or moving far apart. Chico da Silva, however, did not leave any narrative like the novels by José Antonio. The most direct narrative that we have access to is the answers he gave to questions posed by Heloísa Juaçaba, which were published in the catalog of the 4th National Salon of Visual Arts of Ceará[2]. His history, therefore, can only be glimpsed through the discrepancies in the narratives built around him by historians and critics, and the contradictions that emerge when we note their parallax.
From the early 1940s, Chico da Silva painted the walls of Fortaleza. Relocating as a child from Alto Tejo, in the Brazilian state of Acre, to the state of Ceará, he became an artist by working with materials he imaginatively incorporated — bricks, charcoal — utilizing the medium that he chose to experiment with: the city walls. At a certain point, he decided to meet someone who had been pursuing him. It seems that he understood that finding an ally was something of a strategy. This person was the artist and critic Jean-Pierre Chabloz, one of the many foreigners who had come to Brazil to work for an international firm — in his case, a Swiss company that, during the Second World War, had arrived in Brazil to exploit rubber in the Amazon. This relationship had both positive and negative outcomes for Chico. He decided to change medium and material and began to paint, no longer on the city walls, but on paper, using gouache. With the works he produced after this encounter, he exhibited at the April Salon and the Ceará Salon in 1943 and 1944. In 1945, he went to Rio to be part of a group exhibition at Galeria Askanasy, with Antonio Bandeira and Inimá de Paula.
Based in Fortaleza, he developed a dual strategy for selling his works — Chabloz focused on Europe, and Chico commercialized in Brazil. It was during this period that Chabloz wrote his often-cited essay, "Un Indien brésilien réinvente la Peinture [A Brazilian Indigenous Reinvents Paintings]” published in Cahiers D'Art in 1952.
Even though mainstream narratives insist that Chico, after this initial phase, “disappeared” to be “rediscovered” by the same Chabloz in 1960, when the latter returned to the country, it is known that Chico continued working throughout, whilst also carrying out other manual trades, such as the repair of shoes, cookers, and umbrellas. He only “disappeared” from that particular art milieu, something which changed when he decided to have his first solo show in 1961, displaying a total of 10 works: Peixe Taquari e os Anões [Taquari Fish and the Dwarfs], Gavião Real [Royal Hawk], Arraias da Amazônia [Amazonian Stingrays], Serpentes das Lages do Rio [Serpents of the River Slabs], Peixe Paragô [Paragô Fish], Gavião da Mata comendo o Corveli [Bush Hawk Eating the Corveli], O Uirapuru [The Uirapuru Bird], Iracema e seus peixes [Iracema and her Fish], Gavião Vipino [Ripple Hawk], Sereias [Mermaids]. Speaking to a journalist, Chico named other works that he considered the best in his oeuvre — Cristo Redentor [Christ the Redeemer], Guerra dos Bichos [The War of Animals], Selvagens [Savages], Nagô, and Uicover — and defined his practice in his own terms, stating that what he did was “painting, sculpture, imagination — the inter-bay façade of the painter’s rage"[3]. Here we can see that he is far from the label of “primitive” that is often attributed to him, as he was able to articulate definitions of his own practice and set quality criteria for his work.
Following the solo show, he began to work at the Museum of Art at the University of Ceará, invited by the dean, who he had met before the event. He stayed at the museum for three years, where he managed to produce more paintings, which were sold to members of the Fortaleza elite. He left the museum for another job, with the interior designer Breno Albuquerque, and later with the retailer Henrique Bluhm. It is at this point that the artist founded a collective studio with apprentices who worked under a workshop model. It appears that Babá, Ivan, Garcia, Claudionor, and Francisca worked in the studio under the supervision of — rather than just a favor from — Chico. It still needs to be better understood at which point this collaboration became a problem, and why his participation in an event such as the 33rd Venice Biennial, invited by Clarival do Prado Valadares, did not mean a “normalization” of Chico da Silva within the art field’s criteria, given that historians often insist on the quality of Valadares’ selection, which could have been used to solve the tension around authenticity linked to the concept of a collective studio. It is also revealing that these same historians insist on understanding his later production exclusively in terms of victimization, and the shadow of the artist’s physical and mental health problems. Is this the same criteria used to approach the practice of so many other contemporary artists who we know struggle with similar problems?
Beyond being the victim of those taking advantage of him or simply being naïve, perhaps it is possible that the strategies of collectiveness surrounding the practice of Chico da Silva, the use of assistants and the foundation of a school, the authorization of copies and the interest in dissemination that defies the standards accepted by the art scene are alternative ways to understand the circulation of a type of art felt in the artist’s “thought”, a type of painting that was about telling and feeling stories, and that, above all, sought to produce joy and contentment in his audience.
[1] I am borrowing here an expression used by Carlo Ginzburg, who, in one his studies about medieval peasant cosmologies, uses sources produced by the Inquisition. cf. GINZBURG, C. A Micro-História e outros ensaios. Rio de Janeiro: DIFEL/Bertrand Brasil, 1991, p. 206.
[2] Probably from 1973, the interview was published in ESTRIGAS. A Saga do pintor Francisco Domingos da Silva. Fortaleza: Edições Tukano, 1988, pp.93-94.
[3] ESTRIGAS, op.cit., p. 35.
The Continuous Exercise of Imagination
Raphael Fonseca
When we examine the art of Chico da Silva, some continuities draw our attention. In contrast to the works produced in the 1940s — partially preserved in the collection of the Museum of Art of the Federal University of Ceará in Fortaleza — where we see a constant relationship between human bodies and a tropical landscape, in the works produced in the 1960s, we see a near total absence of human-like figures. His universe is conjured by a plethora of different animals and fantastical creatures, which, every so often, and in a very subtle way, display anthropomorphic traces. In a second moment, it is very common to see pairs or trios of these figures. More than coexisting, these beings seem to be in situations of conflict, chatting, or even collectively celebrating.
A good example of this is Untitled, from 1974, in which the artist depicts two cocks pointing their claws at each other. The work is part of an abundant iconography found in Brazil in the 20th century: cockfighting. Extremely popular, this perverse sport became illegal in 1961, but its practice perseveres to this day. If in bullfighting we have a human male body confronting an animal with a strong symbolic virile charge, in cockfighting the phallocentric clash is between the two animals. There are no half winners in this duel; one of the animals is fated to die.
Chico da Silva chooses — as he does in so many of his paintings — to represent the animals raising their feathers and moving towards the attack. The artist’s ability to deal with color is seen not only in the physicality of the animals but also, mainly, in his treatment of the figures and the background made by brushstrokes that frame their bodies. The use of yellow creates a background that is presented as an endless (and abstract) stage for the action. As we can see in the paintings of this period — again, very different from his practice from the 1940s — body and action are always intrinsically related. For the animals, there is no space for resting, in the same way, that there is almost no area in his compositions where color is not shimmering for the eyes of the viewer.
Like the cocks fighting in the image, in the selection of works exhibited we see snakes fighting birds, different-sized fishes moving predatorily, birds eating fishes and dragons — another one of Chico da Silva’s curious obsessions. In fact, this observation deserves a question: are these fantastical creatures really dragons? Or could they be reptiles whose identification is not immediate? What are the boundaries between the notions of representation and fantasy in the artist’s practice? Is it necessary to establish frontiers and to analyze his image production in a markedly binary way?
The painter seems to always be answering no. As per Marcel Duchamp, there is a large “art coefficient”[1] in his images, which for decades has been fascinating viewers and leading us towards new interpretations, which, in the blink of an eye, can move somewhere else, similar to the suggested directions produced by his brushstrokes. Dragons, dinosaurs, lizards, crocodiles, and — why not dare to be anachronistic? — Pokémons can be found in his images.
This reminds us of one of the interviews given by the artist where he states, rightly, the importance of the notion of imagination to his practice. Asked about how he plans a painting, Chico replied:
I feel art in my thought; then I stand still and imagine the fishes and the birds in movement, then I start formulating the colors. Formulating is a gesture, don’t you think, ma’am? I paint and sing, feeling the history of the painting for myself or for those who listen to me. They say my painting is folk because I paint what I focus on with my eyes, according to my feelings. In the case of modern art, it’s formulated via engineering. It’s designed via thought, by painting with no feeling… It’s a painting that can be rich and at other times poor...[2]
It is interesting to note how the artist seems to distinguish between an art practice related to the notions of “thought” and “feeling” in contrast to the word “engineering”, which he associates with “modern art”. It is particularly interesting to see how in his answer he seems to be critically reflecting on the reasons why he is perceived as a “folk artist”, in contrast to the things that are commonly said about the practice of a “modern artist”. This duality is a way of conveying the hierarchies, and the social, geographical, racial, and even class tensions present in Brazil in the 20th century, which were fundamental to the invention of “Brazilian modern art”.[3] How can we interpret this artist from a poor, non-white background who lived between the North and Northeast regions of Brazil, as a modern artist, as part of the pantheon of names that were already institutionalized in the mid-20th century, such as Tarsila do Amaral, Candido Portinari and Lasar Segall?[4]
Chico da Silva was the son of a woman from Ceará and a man from Peru, possibly from the Kampa people. In her master’s dissertation, researcher Gerciane Oliveira — one of the few people who have dedicated a postgraduate research project to the artist in Brazil — analyzes how art critics frequently examined Chico’s work unilaterally, often categorizing him as an “Indigenous artist”. However, according to the artist himself, “[…] the worlds that I paint are not recollections from when I was a boy, no; this is called imagination, occult sciences, astronomy… when I was a boy, I didn’t see anything like that, I was always on the river, up and down the river, with my father”.[5]
In a historical present where, finally, so many Indigenous contemporary artists are gaining visibility, not only in Brazil but all over the world, it seems fair that the visual arts system — galleries, museums, collectors, and agents alike — is now turning to Chico da Silva. The question we may ask at this point is: how can we approach his work in an equally imaginative way? How can we avoid examining his practice from the perspective of a single history, limiting the reception of his work through the (often generic) lens of the “Indigenous artist”? How can we do justice to his oeuvre and create readings that are able to multiply the feeling of awe that his work suggests? How can we examine his work in dialogue with his peers?
I shall repeat here a question I asked in a recent publication: what if Chico da Silva was seen as one of the great chromatists in Brazilian art history?[6] And what if we looked at his works not only in dialogue with the paintings of Jaider Esbell but also alongside the equally lively and colorful paintings of Antonio Bandeira, someone close to Chico da Silva both socially and temporally? What if we related his work to the Amazon painter Moacir Andrade and other more recent names interested in the relationship between organic forms, abstraction, and color, such as Beatriz Milhazes? And what if we analyzed his practice beyond the fictional limits of Brazil? Which choruses of voices would we hear?
There is a lot to do when it comes to researching the work of Chico da Silva. Fortunately, his paintings, papers, words, animals, and fantastical beings are never inert but rather constantly inviting us to a continuous exercise of imagination.
[1] “In the chain of reaction accompanying the creative act, a link is missing. This gap which represents the inability of the artist to fully express his intention, this difference between what he intended to realize and did realize is the personal ‘art coefficient’ contained in the work.” DUCHAMP, Marcel. “O ato criador” in BATTCOCK, Gregory. A nova arte. São Paulo: Editora Perspectiva, 1998, p. 73.
[2] ESTRIGAS. A saga do pintor Francisco Domingos da Silva. Fortaleza: Edições Tukano, 1988, pp. 93-94.
[3] Let us not delude ourselves – all these tensions continue to be crucial for the notion of “Brazilian contemporary art”.
[4] This question and unfamiliarity are precisely what led, for example, the artist and art critic from Ceará Estrigas to call his book on Francisco Domingos da Silva “The Painter’s Saga”. Given that Francisco Domingos da Silva was not an artist who could easily fit into the hegemonic Western concept of the visual artist (and painter), there was nothing more fitting than perceiving him as the main character in a saga or an epic, which is also a reflection of some of the many other anti-hero narratives written in Brazil.
[5] See OLIVEIRA, Gerciana Maria da Costa. Chico da Silva: Estudo Sociológico sobre a Manifestação de um Talento Artístico, master’s dissertation for the Postgraduate Sociology Program, Federal University of Ceará, 2010.
[6] I am referring here to the introduction to the publication for the exhibition “Raio-que-o-parta: ficções do moderno no Brasil”, which took place at SESC 24 de Maio in São Paulo in 2022. The exhibition was co-curated by Aldrin Figueiredo, Clarissa Diniz, Divino Sobral, Fernanda Pitta, Marcelo Campos, Paula Ramos, and myself.