
In 1986, we began a transformative two-and-a-half-year workshop at the Colônia Juliano Moreira women’s pavilion. Amidst institutional decay and raw humanity, we encountered Stella — her hypnotic voice embodying collective pain and inexplicable beauty that redefined artistic expression and human connection.
Keywords: psychiatric asylum artistic workshop; human encounter; collective pain; transformative experience; institutional space; Do Patrocínio, Stella
One morning in 1986, we were invited to develop a Workshop of Free Artistic Expression (Oficina de Livre Expressão Artística) at Colônia Juliano Moreira, in a women’s pavilion called Núcleo Teixeira Brandão. Feeling challenged, we set off on what would be one of the greatest inner journeys I have ever experienced.
That trek repeated itself every week for two and a half years, taking me to a place outside the world I inhabited. A place surrounded by voices and gazes, bodies and gestures, desires and fears.
The gate opens. The car door slams shut.
The smell coming from the refectory is mingled with that of faeces. The power of seduction comes from the unknown. So does the fear.
Each step further into that world raised a question that would remain unanswered. Each step deeper into that universe introduced us to a question without an answer.Beginning of page[p. 256] Every answer given bit the snake’s tail, and the perplexity grew a certain je ne sais quoi that made me dream of the impossible.
In dreams, I sometimes brought the people I met there into my home, though even in dreams I didn’t quite know what to do with them.
Perplexity, fascination.
It was in this viscous broth that we encountered Stella. There was no chance of escaping that gaze, that voice, that mantric speech, repeated where it was necessary to repeat a meaning, or wait for meaning.
There, everything was magnified by some majestic gesture, by the awesome presence of pain.
If I try to define the magnetic force that held me there, that might be it: the recognition of pain. The pain that issued from Stella’s words, from her voice, was not only hers; it was ours.
It was the magma of existence that convulsively gushed there with an inexplicable beauty.
It was so beautiful that it sometimes made us laugh, for nothing. It felt like reaching the summit of a very high mountain.
I suppose I’m expected to tell you how it all happened… and I can’t find the words to match that mountain.















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