Gira o Disco e Toca o Mesmo

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A man flees, dressed as Superman, yet his flight is neither triumphant nor free. He grips

a carnation as if it might still hold the promise of the revolution that named it, but the

bloom is wilting, its petals caught in the slipstream of his escape. Beneath him, a

skateboard—a curious vessel for an exile—propels him toward South Africa, where the

myths of liberation and oppression perform their own uneasy pas de deux.

The title, Gira o Disco e Toca o Mesmo, echoes through the work like a refrain. The

Portuguese saying—“turn the record, and it plays the same song”—suggests that

history, despite its revolutions, remains locked in a groove, its needle dragging over the

same familiar distortions. The Carnation Revolution promised an end to dictatorship,

yet here is its unlikely Superman, skating away from its aftermath. A change in scenery

does not always mean a change in fate. The record turns, but the hands that set it

spinning are still stained with blood.

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And what of the vessel that carries him? The skateboard, painstakingly handmade, is an

object of balance and motion, crafted with the same patience and skill as the work of

De Oliveira’s carpenter grandparents. It is an heirloom of sorts, a relic of hands that

once built permanence. But atop it sits a figure cut by machine—precise, efficient,

untouched by human labor. The man and his board speak to two different worlds: one

of tradition, of craftsmanship, of things made to last; the other of automation, of bodies

rendered by algorithms, of forms stripped of the imperfections that mark human touch.

The skills of the past have not been lost, but they have been displaced—usurped by the

very machine that now defines De Oliveira’s sculptural practice.

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In the echoes of William Pope.L’s Crawl performances, where the artist drags himself

through the streets with a skateboard strapped to his back, De Oliveira’s figure offers a

reversal: here, the board is ridden, not carried. The movement is not labored but urgent,

reckless, an attempt to outrun a history that refuses to loosen its grip. But like Pope.L’s

crawling figures, this Superman is burdened by symbols—his cape, his flower, his

misplaced heroism.

 

A revolution turned, and yet, the song remained the same.

The question lingers: does escape guarantee change? Or does the record spin only to

drop the needle where it always lands, replaying a history that has never washed its

hands of the past?