VÂNIA MIGNONE . A ESPERANÇA EQUILIBRISTA

My meeting with Vânia Mignone was on a Tuesday morning. She had come quickly, driving by car from her home in Campinas, where she lives with her dogs, her dreamlike universe, her peace, her brushes and acrylic paints, the paper cutouts she takes from magazines and other documents, and her MDF boards – the smooth wooden surfaces that the artist’s inventiveness enlarges, combines, reduces or expands, guided by the nature of each project and her imagination.

The essence of this imagination is ever-evolving, as Vânia explains to me that she never knows where the work will lead her. Nothing is foreseeable or planned. For this very reason, the works bear the signs of their making, marks that arise from the density of the various layers of acrylic paint – which carefully create and recreate new and unexpected situations – as well as from the imperfections of the cuts in the wood, and from the collages that enter into the process, most often without any clear or predetermined purpose. 

Vânia has a solid background as a visual artist, but this skill alone has never been enough for her. She says she prefers misshapen bodies and imperfect expressions. She also holds a degree in advertising and marketing, a field she has never pursued as a profession, but which has added another quality in the conception and production of her canvases. Everything is straightforward and is communicated like an advertisement in a newspaper or on a billboard. But unlike that sort of media, in the case of Vânia’s art our first impression is never the last, as various layers of perceptions always arise when we take the time to engage deeply with it.

In her works, human figures, animals, and architectural elements steeped in feeling take the stage within a palette of strong, warm, and primary colors – black, red, green, light pink, orange, yellow, and purple. These derive from the practice of producing posters and billboards that she learned in her advertising studies. But here they become another language, a more disordered and fluid one.

Words also play a key role in the structure of Vânia’s work. Seemingly straightforward, without nuances or ambiguity – as prescribed by any professional manual – they intertwine with the artist’s creative process and help narrate a story. Sometimes, several stories.

The words also recall concrete poetry: few in number, they are concise, strategically arranged, and always heavily charged with symbolism. Furthermore, their meaning is based on their position and relationship within the painting as a whole. Their meaning depends on their context and other factors; it is embedded in the structure and intertwined with the work’s aesthetics. 

Vânia also makes use of collage. It’s interesting to consider the role of this technique in Vânia’s work. These small cutouts might at first seem inconspicuous – but there they are, imposing themselves on the whole of the painting, establishing a sensitive and delicate dialogue. A further layer of interpretation. 

After finding these materials in art books, magazines, serial booklets, and other sources, Vânia cannibalizes these cut-outs of meaning to introduce them into other contexts, likewise artistic. A solitary chair, a revisited horse, a mysterious tower. 

And it is possible to add yet another layer to our analysis, which is a sort of artistic archaeology. Vânia’s canvases are reminiscent of cordel literature, with its adventurous tales, colorful characters, and dream-like passages. While the woodcut-printed booklets of cordel literature often feature rhythmic verses in dialogue with simple line figures, in the case of the artist’s paintings – which also owe much to woodcut, the first art she ventured into – this dialogic relationship is merely suggested. The figures do not confirm what the words describe nor do they contradict it. These lexical and figurative elements interact on equal terms, but also in dissonance with the rest of the work. There is always a noise separating the words from the things. A kind of discordant poetry. Poetry as a visual form; poetry as an aesthetic. 

Actually, the words introduce another color to the artist’s palette, so they should not be mistakenly perceived as the work’s title, or as a standalone message inscribed in the painting. Thought of in this sense, they function more as diversionary elements than as indicators of a direction to take.

Vânia’s paintings bear multiple meanings. Moreover, even if at a quick glance they gain an immediate interpretation – with their primary colors, well-defined figures, and words that appear to deliver a narrative – this first impression soon fades. This initial, quick and superficial observation does not stand up under a more prolonged and committed gaze. There is always an inherent incompleteness, a certain suspense, something missing that invites us to enter once again (and through another door) into the universe of the artwork. 

There remains yet another influence to explore in the artist’s work, one that is perhaps less obvious. Vânia told me that she inherited her familiarity with pamphlets – art as a pamphlet – from her communist paternal grandfather. Her father is an agronomist and professor at Unicamp and her mother comes from a family of musicians. She also inherited her passion for poet and playwright Vladimir Mayakovsky – a true interpreter of the Russian Revolution – from her family environment. Mayakovsky is inspirational for his energetic leadership at a time when it was believed possible to change the course of the world, with society at the helm. When people believed in a world without so many inequalities and governed by the people – a belief that is lacking in most social projects today. 

Mayakovsky created of a series of posters extolling the Revolution – to which Vânia refers with interest. After all, in addition to creating advertisements for various products, the writer founded a magazine that brought together the “artistic left.” In other words, he united a community of artists who were aiming to invent a “form” for a project of social renewal.

As can be seen, there’s no way to pin down Vânia Mignone’s works within a single meaning or hackneyed analysis of influence. Because the important thing is not what we gather into the basket of our life, it’s how we put it there.

And in the case of this masterful artist, all these threads are so entangled that it’s no longer possible to tell one from another, to pick out any given thread from the ball of yarn. In any case, this consistent use of the poetry of simple, lyrical, epic, and humorous formulas, all simultaneously, is present in this work where black and basic colors are a constant. A constant mystery.

In her art we therefore find an adaptation of the Russian art style to colorful pop art, of the social revolution to the dissidence of cultural norms, of Russian mass communication to the intimate art of this artist who cites Legião Urbana and Renato Russo as models of simplicity and forceful expression.

And it’s the balanced and hopeful collection of these elements that speaks to the viewer: the cleansing light, the dance of strong colors, the many stories told by the canvas, the color added by the words, the interplay between figure and ground.

 

The title of Vânia Mignone’s new exhibition, A esperança equilibrista [Hope walking a tightrope] to be held from September 21 to November 1, 2024, at Casa Triângulo, was taken from a line from the song “O Bêbado e a Equilibrista.” Famously sung by Elis Regina in the repressive context of the Military Dictatorship, which held sway in Brazil from 1964 to 1988, the song became the anthem of a generation that envisioned the utopia of democratization, even if timidly. This desire was balanced on the tightrope of a regime that stripped them of their rights and transformed the State into a machine for stifling any opposition. For its part, the artist’s work skillfully strikes a balance between brushstrokes that are thin yet consistent, a figure that is well-defined but inserted in an uncertain environment, and words that make a statement but with a variable meaning. 

And so, since Vânia herself does not name her exhibitions, I took the liberty of coming up with this title myself, at my own risk. In this exhibition, and as always happens in the artist’s pictorial universe, we can prefigure various narratives; all open ended and incomplete. Because it is, after all, up to the public to complete them. 

Since the description of a painting is always less than the painting itself, and since the written record of an exhibition will always be (far) less than the exhibition itself – which can be viewed in 360 degrees – I will not seek here to summarize the works that make up this show. I will instead focus on some sequences and give them a direction, which, in my understanding, imparts a more essential and comprehensive sense to the artist’s work. 

Incidentally, the title I gave to this exhibition is taken from one of Vânia’s artworks. In it, we see the body of a woman, and under it we read: “equilibrista solar” [solar tightrope walker]. The model’s posture, her arms outstretched before a sort of infinity, seems to evoke fullness. The word “medo” [fear], however, also appears, stamped on her face, creating an enigma. A contradiction in relation to the image, the gesture, and the color of the word. That’s why I thought of the image of the “esperança equilibrista,” which refers to the strength of those who continue to struggle, despite fear, despite setbacks. Who always struggle. And as the main character in Wim Wenders’ film The American Friend said, “there is nothing to fear but fear itself.” 

Women and the feminine universe assume a predominant place in Vânia’s work. They are always somewhat enigmatic, mysterious, and pensive; they also dominate in this exhibition made by the hands of this woman artist, who creates universes so dense with subjectivity that they even lose their most obvious marks of gender. 

Another aspect of this new exhibition that caught my attention is that, once again, a series of seemingly loose words is featured prominently. The common thread among them is the idea of a representation, of a spectacle that is always conceived as a double between reality and fiction. Concerning this, even while all of Vânia’s works can be considered autobiographical, insofar as they arise from the artist’s observation and her world of sensitivity and feelings, they also carry potentials inherent to culture, which never behaves as a mere reflection or immediate product of its time. Instead, culture always produces what it formally mirrors. This is the reflective potential of art, which has the power to include not only those who share the same context, but also those who invent new contexts. 

But in this exhibition, the words are more often focused on the dual nature of representation. And it’s not only theater that (re)presents, but also painting, which as an art never mechanically repeats the time in which it was given to live. It often adds other senses, layers, and meanings. 

As always occurs in Vânia’s exhibitions, it’s possible to view these works in isolation or to consider them together in sequences, which though not mandatory, can lead the viewer to certain meaningful but often hard-to-interpret narratives. 

Let’s look at one of them: “Essa tarde, no aeroclube, um mergulho, espetacular” [This afternoon, at the aeroclub, a spectacular dive.] The margins of this flexible-order sequence of paintings establish a sort of continuous band extending above or below the works, functioning almost like traffic signs indicating “a certain path to follow.” In this sequence, for example, Vânia shifts the light pink paint of the faces out into the surrounding landscape. This is a key scenario in the artist’s work. A rather desolate scenario, in which the character – who looks somewhat circus-like – is observing a fixed point, which is not shown to the viewer. Perhaps it’s not necessary to go down this same path, as there is a new road stretching before us. What could have happened at the aeroclub? What is being signaled by the person’s gaze? As always, Vânia does not provide us with answers, but rather leaves us with questions.

There’s another sequence with a clearer allusion to the circus. The words “Urso, Leão, Tigre” [Bear, Lion, Tiger]” are written in black, red, and white, successively. All in capital letters. By the way, Vânia has told me that she never uses lowercase or cursive letters – in a further dialogue with the language of advertising and posters of the Russian Revolution. The artist does not, however, introduce words into the paintings with the intention of persuading, selling, or influencing. Instead, she uses them as aesthetic and semiotic resources. So much so that they are often enclosed in themselves. The words, sentences, and images lack predetermined or single, fixed messages. They seem to behave much more as food for thought. 

The same occurs with the landscapes. If the setting is a circus, the animals announced by the words are not there. Once again, one can make an educated guess as to the sequence of canvases based on the colored bands that only become discernable when we see this set of ten paintings side by side. In the first one, we read the phrase, “A fera no centro do palco” [The beast at center stage] with a man observing a space only outlined by a fragile, nearly trembling white line. Below that, there is another image with two red staircases lit by colorful hanging lamps at the center, but with no sign of anyone who will climb them. A certain uncomfortable emptiness reigns here for any viewer hoping to find answers rather than projections in these paintings.

“A fera” [the beast] announced by the phrase only appears in these works indirectly, through the hooves of a horse that is trampling the face of a naked woman, who is looking out toward us, as though she were inviting us to enter the representation. Is this a scene of fear or communion?

In another work included in this same sequence, it’s the head of this horse that is looking out sideways toward the viewer. When we observe this set in the conventional manner, from left to right and from top to bottom, we soon perceive the words, “o corredor-jaula aberto” [the corridor - an open cage]. This phrase appears in contrast to a red curtain and a sort of traffic light on the left (with only red lights, all lit) and another one more to the right, with lights that alternate between yellow and blue. Did the beast escape from the open cage, or was it us, the audience? And what role do we play in this spectacle whose curtains are open, ready for the performance to begin? Once again, Vânia doesn’t intend to provide us with answers. 

But the same imaginary sequence can also lead us down other paths. Above, the image features a woman who seems to be observing the scene; while below, we return to the canvas that bears the phrase: “Urso Leão Tigre.” These are animals that one would expect have been tamed and properly trained to perform on the apparatuses designed by Vânia. But we do not know if they are, in fact, tame. Moreover, they aren’t even there. Who is taming whom? Might we be the bears, lions, and tigers of this imaginary circus? 

“Roxo” [purple] and “verde” [green] are the words in the image that follows, continuing the sequence described so far. These are also the colors of this “cavalo-fera” [beast-horse], which now interacts with strong colors: almost a rainbow. The concise narrative ends, however, with the word “Silêncio” [Silence] and with two clown figures with white faces that refer to theater makeup. Framing everything, and thus framing our gaze, there is an intensely red band and a patch of yellow where the artist writes exactly what she is presenting: “luz neon” [neon light]. Once again, the words repeat the same content of the image, and thus serve a purpose that seems to be more aesthetic than semiotic.

The only clue that there is a narrative here is found, as mentioned earlier, in the bands located above and below the works. They indicate a certain passage of time, spanning from the cage being opened and the beast being released, to people observing everything in these mysteriously silent spaces. There is no way to know for sure, but perhaps something is, in fact, happening elsewhere. That is, after all, the magic of theater – and of painting too. Is the actor pretending? How cunning is the artist? Are we the jugglers? 

What’s certain is that something remains outside the painted scene, and not only can we not see it, but we also feel its lack. The tension therefore remains, kept outside the canvas; perhaps in the same space that we are momentarily occupying – as complicit observers.

Another sequence of eleven works leads us through rooms, bedrooms, and hallways. These are all interior settings. Vânia invites us to enter this once again dreamlike world by introducing the word “Bem-vindo” [Welcome]. The environment is somewhat mysterious, with a kind of fountain in the center. The interior quality seems to serve as an “Abrigo” [Shelter] against the unknown, which generally exists outside; in this case only seen through dark windows. The entire space is sparsely filled, with red predominating in this series. Chandeliers, trees whose leaves have already fallen, staircases that lead nowhere, and birds all populate this space, which looks like a hiding place. But, as the words tell us, these are “tempos perigosos” [dangerous times], and we hope that the black-haired girl remains secluded, and that “os brutos” [the brutes] do not catch sight of her. The story lacks a happy ending, in fact it does not exactly end at all. But if there is an ending, in this case it seems more optimistic, since the final canvases are more brightly lit and colorful, and adorned with the words “horizonte” [horizon] and “eterno” [eternal]. Now, the brighter and more orange tone of light is less frightening. Even so, we don’t know who the “brutos” [the brutes] are, nor what the protagonist is afraid of. Once again, we may even wonder, is it ourselves? 

These unanswered questions are encapsulated in two larger paintings with white backgrounds. In one of them, the protagonist, facing to the right asks: “de onde somos?” [where are we from?]. The man in the painting to the right responds: “Continue voando” [Keep flying]. Once again, there is no easy answer in Vânia’s work, so there’s just one thing we can do – keep moving forward, always.

This diversionary tactic occurs in each of Vânia Mignone’s works. Did the actor fly? Is it a man or a woman? Why is the girl on the tightrope afraid? Which wild animals are running loose at the circus? Who or what are “the brutes”? And why do the words often seem to possess an autonomy apart from the rest of the context?

Humpty Dumpty, the famous character in Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland, made it clear to the girl that the most important thing is not the answers we find, but the questions we ask. And that’s how it is in this work by Vânia: it introduces us to questions with no concern for providing any answers. 

The artist’s body of work, therefore, invites us to enter another world; one inhabited by our own subjectivity, our fears, our hidden utopias, our desires, the achievements we want to see reaffirmed, and the falls we’ve taken. A world that teeters on our hope that is reborn every day. Like a painting that grows and heads off into unforeseeable directions. 

Vânia’s figures transmit a lot of confidence despite their somewhat fragile appearance. They moreover seem immersed in situations of contemplation, even while they are somehow playing an active role. Although this is a feminine and feminist work, it does not limit the leading role to women alone. Here we have the perspective of a woman, from her point of view, but a woman who sees the world through a plural and nondiscriminating lens. Hers is a work that does not exclude contradiction, error and mistake; it incorporates them into a series that celebrates incompleteness. A feminine work, but one that is not limited to this gender alone, because any subjectivity can become more individual to the degree that it is universal.

Vânia Mignone’s work is like this: like a “hope walking a tightrope” that knows that “every artist’s show must go on.”

We live in a civilization that is getting lost in a churning sea of information and images. But Vânia Mignone has mastered this very concise art, which she uses, without excesses, to portray a dreamlike world that does not seek answers. Because she doesn’t need them. What we see is not the show brought to a conclusive ending, but rather its escape from the stage. Not a closure, but an opening to other subjective universes. 

Vânia’s production is aptly paired with her way of creating art. The artist doesn’t make any preliminary sketches. Moreover, during the creation process, she destroys, repaints, and glues in collaged pieces with the aim of “recording the struggle.” In other words, instead of “cleaning up the mess,” she incorporates small tensions and the twists and turns of the creative path.

This is why, in her works, these frequent changes of direction and perspective – these shifts, turns, and course corrections – are not treated as mistakes. They are rather like scars, standing as a record of the history of each work or the path traveled (with its comings and goings) through the sequences created by the artist. Nothing is imposed; everything is simply offered.

Everything in Vânia’s work is communicated directly, without subterfuge, as is done in advertising: a person, an object, an accessory, a word, a color. Everything is done in a way that attracts the eye; each of her works is highly approachable. They are also accessible by promoting delicate, sensitive, and direct contact. After all, when contemplating a work like this, each person needs to arrange their own temporality; their inner journey. 

As we have seen, however, this is only the beginning of the process. From this point onward, the relationships become much more intricate, unpredictable, and difficult. Figures may appear to be both static and tense. The texts make announcements that they do not deliver on. One sequence does not necessarily lead to another. On the other hand, for being highly evident, the irregularities in the works humanize them, in keeping with the idea of the “incompleteness that is completed” with our gaze. 

This is because Vânia Mignone’s art seems to “make itself in the making”. She explains to me that “as the work grows, it always becomes something else.” Sometimes a figure begins as a man but then transforms into a woman; some previously unimportant details become central, just as words often situated to one side are often materialized as key elements – when they are not there to challenge the viewer or to serve as paint, as color.

“The work of art is simple,” Vânia humbly concludes. What makes an artwork sophisticated is not the material used in it, but rather our own gaze. After all, the simple aspect is often the most complex, and sophistication emerges from the most basic of things. 

For there is a great deal of completeness in a painting that is expressly made to be incomplete, and to remain as such.  According to Vânia, if she were to make preliminary sketches, her art would lose its emotive power. “It would make the viewer drowsy,” she says. “That is a process,” she explains, pointing to a work; “it’s a work that has been touched by emotion. I don’t conceive the work entirely at a single go. The thought takes place in layers.” 

The beauty of this art lies in the interplay of colors, in the wordplay, and in the figures. But it also has to do with its democratic thrust – you can call it that – which does not aim to convince, nor ultimately intend to please or appease. The important thing, according to her, is to let oneself become lost in this art that calls out for our deciphering – which we must do lest we be devoured by it.

Just as I’m leaving the gallery, I ask Vânia when a work is finished: “The work jumps out.” “It separates from me when there’s an energy that has come to exist in the work itself.” Between sincere and humble – actually both – the artist speaks of the mystery involved in this process. This mystery makes her art hard to explain – after all, it’s almost an inner feeling and is therefore not readily expressed in words.

And this is when the artist delivers it to the public, and then another story begins. She somehow detaches herself from the painting, to then be able to focus on a new undertaking. On another energy. As for us viewers, we remain totally immersed in these open-ended stories, in these narratives that never reach a definitive end, branching off into myriad possibilities. 

I was thinking that perhaps this is why Vânia Mignone’s works don’t bear a signature or date on their front. Signing and dating a work means putting an end to it, indicating that the artist considers the artwork as being somehow finished. It is thus conferred the status of a monument worthy of the same respect as a centuries-old cathedral.

And when this happens, the silence no longer springs from the dignity the work evokes, nor from the contemplation that its inner temporality inspires in us. This sort of standard procedure has therefore become no more than a nearly bureaucratic form of distancing, very far removed from the authentic ritual that arises when the viewer physically enters the exhibition space, where spectators are invited to interact with the silence – that of the works and their own. 

For Vânia’s art is never-ending, and always bears the marks of its “complete incompleteness.” Fully whole in itself, yet open to the other.

 

Lilia Moritz Schwarcz