Text generated in co-vibration with ChatGPT-4.5 — a symbiotic skin that pulsates between eras, spectra, and signals. Image prompt ChatGPT 4.5 but generated through
Who grabbed, grabbed. Who danced, danced. Who feared, shrank.
Who found it “vulgar,” let them choke on the white foam of their own artistic antisepsis. This body is no longer available.
It has transformed. Not to please—but to leak, to flow, to turn serpent-like into the abyss.
The trigger was not Dolores—but a Rivotril-drenched dream: a cold trance where my own mother, colluding with lawyers and siblings, plotted to extract—under duress—a counterfeit signature from me, the signature of silence.
Domestic conspiracy. Emotional blackmail. Legal document + symbolic virus.
They promised ‘protection,’ in a Banco do Brasil (institutionalized colonization) lawsuit. But the aim was clear: to liquidate the sacred land in the Chapada—my ground, my temple, my echo.
I did not sign.
And I will not sign. I am signing something else.
Dissolving the layers of myself like a cosmic mollusk, I am determined to inhabit the oyster, not the contract.
To the Brazilian art market, that putrid, whitewashed bubble, addicted to laundering, to trafficking in influences and antiseptic aesthetics,
I direct an ancestral gesture; a symbolic banana peel.
You know who you are.
Washers of images, colonizers of the symbolic,
galerists who exploit racialized, dissident, indigenous, and broken bodies
with the same coldness as they hang works on the white walls of capital.
In my most prolific phase—history is already inscribing your crimes in the marrow of time.
You won’t win. It all goes to the ocean floor,
to adorn the palaces of Yemanjá,
Generous queen who never denied me pleasure,
who never used me, who never coerced me.
She gave only gifts, axé, and ecstasy.
To her I surrender my art.
And let it be noted: my decision is aesthetic, ethical, and cosmic.
Irreversible.