Paulo Bruscky is anthropotechnophagical. He devours and crunches whatever is in front of him: newspapers, scientific exams, documents, street signs. Wherever there is communication, he moves forward. Ironic, surprising, corrosive.
When we look at his works, we seem like inhabitants of a 2.0 version of that any given little town Carlos Drummond de Andrade used to tell us about. In Drummond’s town, everything moved slowly, in the midst of homes, in the midst of banana trees, and women in the midst of orange trees. Everything was so slow and repetitive that even the windows, also slowly, looked at us. It was indeed a very dull life.
Through the fissures of Bruscky’s works, we face a different landscape; the landscape of a global village that intends to be very powerful, modern, and daring. Everything moves fast in it. Classified ads, clinical reports, critical verdicts, politician’s fallacies, everything is always far beyond the midst and quickly passes by windows, which don’t even look at us. It is indeed the portrait of any given little village. And the village is not dull. It is actually pretty cocky. More than that, it is badonkadonk, just as the one also sung by Drummond, so funny…
Bruscky does not educate us through the stone, as his fellow countryman João Cabral de Melo Neto wanted. He liquefies all certainties; he mocks the boredom of labels, of canons, of media, in order to make art.
And enough of this yakety-yak. It is hors concours, life, casting out nines, and that is that.