life affirming art, as Barbara Hammer once said

1.

Sunset over the covelo park. Spring. Everything is in bloom, including me. I’ve just graduated from the theater school. The world is a promise. For the past year, I’ve been performing all over the place, in every way imaginable. Today, I’m presenting something in the garden, some readings, something simple. Inspired by Bonneville’s performances, I’d decided to start writing letters to my favorite artists. And today it was Van Gogh’s turn. Don’t laugh, dear reader, and don’t roll your eyes. At 18 years old, I was blossoming into life. This  was the day to read letters to van gogh - and no one showed up.

2.

Night. Growing up as an artist in Porto is, in my case, decidedly being of the night. Following the stars. Stars like beacons in the midst of darkness. Generative darkness. Dark spaces where I watched performances, where poetry was read, where theatre was performed. I lived in Rui Rio’s Porto, a Porto with nothing. A Porto where everything that existed was interconnected in niches and more niches and more niches. I grew up seeing artists as ants, and Porto’s arts scene as an anthill. Tunnels, directions, queues, networks of contacts, mutual support. Everyone working towards the same, because there was no one to sustain them. A romanticised version, of course. But even so, it seemed real when I was young. By mere chance I left Porto, headed for Lisbon, just as a queen ant had settled in, or revealed herself: the Rivoli.

3.

I’d gone to Lisbon to study on a scholarship, but I stayed between the two cities. During this interstice, I’d been invited to perform at the first edition of DDD. I was turning 19. Up until then, my performative adventures had been experimental and chaotic, bursting with enthusiasm and passion for what I was doing. But above all, they were precarious. No money, no support. But none of that would deter me. I wanted to be an artist and would fight any dragon that stood in my way – be that dragon precariousness, a family, an institution, or myself. 

   I had been invited to perform at the first edition of DDD and the first thing I realised was that, being barely 19 years old and lacking experience, they weren’t going to give me any money. With no knowledge of negotiation, I had to grovel and offer to do more (organise/perform at the opening and closing parties) so that they would give me a sum that I’m ashamed to even mention here. It was then that I found myself on the DDD festival programme as the author of a play set to premiere. The dream had begun to come true, even if the terms and conditions were ambiguous.

    I presented a piece at the first edition of DDD and, as the context was the same for me as for artists with far larger budgets and expertise, it was quite an… experience. I love what I did (an experimental version of Swan Lake) but I felt the reception was rather cold*,
*and would it have to be something else, I wonder, would I have to adjust my expectations, I wonder

because I have always felt welcomed by art - my beacon, my guide.

i’ve come to learn that a passionate relationship with art can be frowned upon, that perhaps it would be better to bury the dreams that guide me, bury them in the earth, let the root sprout in secret, deep in the soil so that no one sees, in portugal, no one wants to see your dreams, they are yours, how shameful, what matters is the flower that blooms in the end, the flower that is plucked and serves its purpose, the flower that is admired, how beautiful, bury it bury it, my dear, bury the dream here in our soil, for it will be fertile and

, leaving me terrified of the artistic circle that claimed to be welcoming. For the first time, I realised the exploitative nature of the relationship between programmers-festivals-artists

bury it bury it, my dear,

bury the dream here in our soil, for 

it will be fertile and

you’re biting the hand that feeds you

but the truth is that I was an adolescent and all the others were professionals in their 30s and 40s. I don’t want this to sound like criticism in the slightest. It is simply a tentative reflection on what institutionalisation might entail and its relationship with emerging artists or experimental practices

take this, all of you, and eat, this is my body, which is shared for you

Deep in my teenage years, I thought art was created so as to try and understand the other, as a kind of extra-verbal form of communication. Eu estava errado.

4.

not all vampires are -

Dawn was breaking. The night always promises its own end. The sun will follow the moon. It will rise in all its glory, illuminating everything that was once a mystery. Revealing, revealing, revealing,

The sun
was rising, and with it came lies. Rumours about me. However much we try to reclaim control over rumours and gossip, the truth is that we lack a critical discourse to address them. How they become toxic within circles where power winds its way through, such as in artistic circles. Competition is a poison - and the lack of awareness among institutions of how they contribute to that poison 

unrivalled

I often say that, when I go to see a show, that I did not consent to getting caught up in a sort of social networking. The ambiguity of power in the arts is so daunting that sometimes it’s better just to stay at home, quietly. But back to the point:

the sun was rising,

and with it came the lies.

(...)

Conclusion: people in their 30s and 40s spreading rumours and talking about a 19-year-old kid. That’s when I realised that

something is rotten in the state of Denmark

that, to be an artist

in Porto, I had to play a suffocating game.

realised that when there is a kind of centralised power, a single authority that distributes power and money – the artists around me would turn their backs on me. That the most painful wounds would come from within the anthill.

And because I write this now, I wonder

I am accusing someone, I wonder 

5.

I'm reflecting on growing up as an artist in Porto and, that beginning, is painful. In the sense that I loved (and I love) art in its broadest sense, but found myself trapped in a world of irresponsible adults. It began at the drama school, where my sense of belonging to that theatre was immediately tainted by the abuse I suffered there. Particularly at the hands of one specific teacher. The humiliation as an LGBT person was so immense that, by the end of school, I believed I would never have a place in theatre in Portugal. A trauma I have only recently begun to heal. Coming from that trauma into the arts circles and realising that the adults were so irresponsible and vampiresque was a shock. A shock that has determined how I move now. Growing up as an artist in Porto means growing up with wounds that no one has ever embraced.

it is to realise that the institutional discourse on care is performative and dangerous. 

People in artistic circles labour under the illusion that they are progressive, sensitive, and so on, but in my experience, they demonstrate on a daily basis that they are incapable of doing the inner work required to underpin their political ethics. This was brought home to me quite recently when, in a play in which I was cast as an actor, no one knew how to deal with or protect me from transphobic violence. 

             and I swallow it, because I have to be docile

            and I swallow it, just as the teacher wanted

            and I swallow it, because this text will be the last time I talk about this

                I swallow, because it’s in the past and what we want is positivity and for everyone to get on well, and we’re fed up with people who complain

and that’s why I don’t complain

and the teacher can do whatever he likes with m

e

because I just want to get through the day

6.

Growing up an artist in Porto means carrying a loneliness from which I have not yet been able to free myself. A heavy loneliness.

Perhaps one day the sun will rise in these parts.

and I've said too much.

I promise when you see me again
you’ll 
see me

with a smile on my face.

The text maintains the author's choices, both in terms of spelling variations and stylistic expression.