Seven cities. Seven beautifully sexed dogs.
Domain extension is fear made surrounding matter. Conceptual walls and ritualized existence.
Filipe Marques paints (literally) with meat. Then he elides in extreme whiteness the universal guilt thus exorcised.
Heroes-victim emerge in sanguine tones and Warholian memory. The splendor highlights the heroic nature of the victim who is not, after all: his gaze des/martyrs them.
The gaze saw life in the evidence of a relentless history of organized impunity.
In the documentary Meeting the man: James Baldwin in Paris, the author is irritated by the filmmakers' incomprehension of his radical alterity. He doesn't want to talk about himself. The work speaks for him.
The Party is over! He warns with the gravity and urgency that defined him. The sidewalks of London and Paris will one day be raised by the oppressed of this world.
No, James: the sidewalks are still there, fed on digital ignorance.
Imposing, the paintings contain light streets. The light of reason transformed into the banality of evil.
Filipe Marques knows that the feeling of belonging will be shattered more and more. Voices are multiplied and paradoxically limited.
Is the voice of a white westerner allowed in this context?
The assumption of this putative prohibition is as indigent as the premise that each and every racialized artist has to talk about their origins and socio-historical problems in a committed art. Can't be a conceptual artist? An abstract purist? Respond to the community with today's recurrent buzzwords and we will enter a spiral of unintelligibility that will only perpetuate the status quo of oppression nowadays eminently disguised in nanosecond transactions.
Despite the centrality of the light, this is a dark rant. The ghostly soundtrack that spreads across the exhibition space is as dense and complex as reality.
Yes, in fact Filipe Marques is essentially a realist. A neo@neo-realist.

Seven cities. Seven beautifully sexed dogs.
Domain extension is fear made surrounding matter. Conceptual walls and ritualized existence.
Filipe Marques paints (literally) with meat. Then he elides in extreme whiteness the universal guilt thus exorcised.
Heroes-victim emerge in sanguine tones and Warholian memory. The splendor highlights the heroic nature of the victim who is not, after all: his gaze des/martyrs them.
The gaze saw life in the evidence of a relentless history of organized impunity.
In the documentary Meeting the man: James Baldwin in Paris, the author is irritated by the filmmakers' incomprehension of his radical alterity. He doesn't want to talk about himself. The work speaks for him.
The Party is over! He warns with the gravity and urgency that defined him. The sidewalks of London and Paris will one day be raised by the oppressed of this world.
No, James: the sidewalks are still there, fed on digital ignorance.
Imposing, the paintings contain light streets. The light of reason transformed into the banality of evil.
Filipe Marques knows that the feeling of belonging will be shattered more and more. Voices are multiplied and paradoxically limited.
Is the voice of a white westerner allowed in this context?
The assumption of this putative prohibition is as indigent as the premise that each and every racialized artist has to talk about their origins and socio-historical problems in a committed art. Can't be a conceptual artist? An abstract purist? Respond to the community with today's recurrent buzzwords and we will enter a spiral of unintelligibility that will only perpetuate the status quo of oppression nowadays eminently disguised in nanosecond transactions.
Despite the centrality of the light, this is a dark rant. The ghostly soundtrack that spreads across the exhibition space is as dense and complex as reality.
Yes, in fact Filipe Marques is essentially a realist. A neo@neo-realist.

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