№018 11022023

Artur Leão

Artur Leão (Porto). Visual Artist and Designer. He participated in the exhibitions “Do Not Touch Fresh Paint!” (2018) at Espaço MIRA; and “Playlist #25” (2018), a curatorial project by Nuno Ramalho at Café Candelabro. The project “Fendas Intemporais” was published in book format by Scopio Editions and selected to be exhibited at Aliados Metro Station in the context of the “Porto Photography Biennale, 2019” integrated in the research project “Visual Spaces of Change” and later at Galeria 1.º Andar FBAUP (2021). He is co-founder of the musical project "Benthik Zone” and integrates the creative direction team of Contrast | Fotografia no Ensino Superior.

Currently uses photography, drawing and poetry as privileged means of expression to document and rediscover the world. In his artistic practice, he favors approaches to classical mythology and the rural landscape of northern Portugal.

be with me in the sacred witchery
of almostness which May makes follow soon
on the sweet heels of passed afterday,
clothe thy soul’s coming merely

E.E. Cummings, Tulips & Chimneys

When the clearing destroyed the shadows a symbol of sacred childhood emerged. Between the grey water and the silver sky, where the unending curiosity of the spectator wandered, a striking wild spirit appeared, looking stronger than the cosmic pillar.

The odours of the river slowly rose up the valley until they reached the orifices of the small nostrils. As they entered, they started acting like small tentacles that cling to the pores, entrenching the aromas of the trail of decomposition.

A harsh voice, like an expanded wave coming from the infinite void, an unpredictable growl, made the ears shudder. Better would be to hear the sound of a tender morning melody composed with a harp, a cicada or even by a sparrow, but immediately the sound of a tree collapsing snatched her.

The fleshy foliage intertwined in the houses, seemed to swing in the clouds descending to the ground, in the shape of a staircase from a fantasy tale, with banisters adorned by celestial elders.

Time flew, like a fulminating speed of a bullet. It seemed that all matter was covered in a nostalgic cloak, and the yellow amber artificial light that talked with the spirit was startled and the badger fur now turned black and white. The setting was mystical, there was a sleepiness of death, a divine halo that was always welcome in the skin.

As when suffering from a migraine, the strands of coruscating light, high flames, seemed to release dust that shone like blurred, pixelated stars, standing out in the vast darkness.

Only once was one able to have a sense of belonging to this hypnogenic paradise.