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user instructions *


          

Vilma Slomp photographs like someone who wants to be heard. In her own words, her images are not a "story made up of heaven or hell." However, those very images seek and form a voice that carries other voices and one single voice - that which speaks and listens at the same time that 'lesser other1 plunges into (and beyond) the world. And what would that world that world be - the geographical circumscription of a threat and its swaying between life and death? if that is what it is, the images in Vísceras in Vice Versa are the final ones until the moment when each of their doors are opened. Let the light that shines through give rise to a mother tongue, incorporating the great other. Hence, this series of images translates the period between 2004 and 2005, when Slomp soliloquized a kind of guesswork with her unconscious, later ready to dedicate the outcome to the external-inside' world.

            

In the middle of this journey, there is a letter, that is, one tone that turns "language into the fabric which affection is made of'.

In the letter, a victim.

Herself.

A medical error "renegotiated" what would be photographer's next images after the 'Illusion' series, first started in 2001. That is when Slomp decided to "publish" a novel about what the next and future days, would be like, which could perhaps be the near and the future between art and power.

The days of then and the days of now. They are spun from amalgams, from the north and the south of reality; from the north and south of reality, from a voice that shouts while another voice glide down the balustrade.

            

If there is "a grudgeless heaven" as she claims, the letter translates a world of hierarchies that foretells the force of nature in each of these photograph.

            

Do they hurt? Yes, they do. They hurt as much as the art of reason, as the masked like it hurt cry trance unknown that morning March. Hurt can hurt as much as the art of reason; as the masked face and diluted lies in the mirror told by liars can hurt. They hurt as little (as little?) as someone who tears oneself open can hurt when disclosing to alien eyes a common point, as fragile (fragile?) as the word. Something that will reveal both to the lesser and to the lesser and to the great 'other' a language that can be understood when the same user instructions are applied - those that record the memory of time and other that transfer the territories of thought to all places.

Diogenes Moura / 2006

Title * Angela Jesuino Ferretto, lecture at the Maison de l'Amérique Latine, May 1999