An Inhotim figure made its radiant appearance in NYC this past summer, at the New Museum of Contemporary Art, in the event of displaying her actual very Brasilian exuberant art-work. Born in Belo Horizonte, Rivane Neuenschwander covered the walls with hundreds of bright colored similar ribbons printed with virtual visitors wishes. A genuine storyline its origins belong with the church of Nosso Senhor do Bonfim in Salvador, Bahia: here the faithful tie the silk ribbons to their wrists and to the gates of the church and—still relative to tradition—their wishes are granted once the ribbons wear away and fall off.
—Meu nome é Gracinha, e o seu…?
The little girl that shows me around “Lembrança Do Senhor do Bonfim da Bahia,” A Day Like Any Other, tells me more of multicolored silk ribbons with black quotidien inscriptions covering the walls, “You wish your wish…”
We made our choice, we extracted it from the wall, and replaced it with a new wish, which we wrote on a slip of paper and dropped in the slot of a certain white box… there, in behalf of the actual purpose. A wheel of fortune, the everlasting project generates new ribbons, which generate new dreams… As yet in our wonderment we walk over to the 2nd floor.
Here the elevator opens to an environment of leaking buckets… Controlled from flooding by a Sisyphean recirculation, the water comes, goes, drips, overflows, splashes… Another kind of wheel, this is a wagon wheel of noise: beautiful sounds, distinct, very subtle, still quotidien happen again, and again, atoned within their recurring four-hour cycle…
Eric Laurent’s extraction operation still lingering in my thoughts, was the pink ribbon around my ankle gleaming? If the Other from where my wish was withdrawn is a rainbow wall, its lack would be a hole in the shape of the pink ribbon I deprived it of. Outside/Inside, what did I give back in the written, on the piece of paper I let go through the slot in the white box?
The persistent tinckling of the water around and across the room took over. Soon uncovering another scene, with a conceptual side wiew to it, them circles on the floor… they bear the mark. Drops on my fingers, is this another coming of the objet a? When the drops dry they will be invisible… A prevaling drift, they’ll act from this other scene, a one behind the scenes—cause of the desire, forever hidden…