All Them Swines
João Maria Gusmão
Curated by Nuno Crespo
Opening on 17th Jan at 19:00
School of Arts Exhibition Hall
Free entrance
In this exhibition, a work by João Maria Gusmão stands out: All Them Swines, inspired by another, the animated version of the masterpiece by the English writer George Orwell. The work comments on the prevalence of the porcine authority within the human kingdom.
Although the deeper intentions of the writer's wit remain unclear, everything suggests it is a metaphor.
Orwell implies that Stalin was an ugly and wicked pig, and that those who joined the Marxist revolutionary movement in the land of the Czars are animals. We couldn't disagree more. Stalin, like other pigs of the twentieth century, was not only wicked, but also a prince of darkness. Whether he was ugly or not depends; I like mustaches.
In the meantime, more than seventy years have passed since this great opus. The fall of the Berlin Wall ended the KGB, but it did not destroy the intelligence agencies of the other empires. In light of today’s world, Aurélio’s work still leaves a subtle impression that we live in an agricultural exploitation controlled by a historical destiny shaped by deeply extractivist, perverse designs.
Reading this prose evokes genuine sympathy for those who are unduly exploited, and solemn solidarity with the revolt against the eager overseers of profit, who do everything to make the hens lay more eggs, the cows give more milk, and to have more bacon, chops, and sausages from the bodies of the good pigs. It seems, in fact, that two of the great hallmarks of modern times, the dignity of labor and the right to leisure, seemingly irreconcilable, crystallize in the image of delight for the owners of it all. A farm with an evil, ugly, and enslaving pig produces much so that it may eternally enjoy its vacations.
It is perfidious, the master of the animal farm who first tamed the dog to then subjugate the sheep: he taught the first to bark and bite, and the second to do as they were told. Returning to the exhibition. Originally, the film, due to this informed context, is for children.
Fun and educational, it was probably commissioned by the Central Intelligence Agency of the United States of America and widely distributed during the Cold War to reinforce the idea that the peoples under the corrupting influence of the Soviet Union could revolt against their oppressor. Ladies and gentlemen! The cartoon is propaganda!
What Gusmão does is a chop-suey of this film, splitting it into three and projecting these fragments one on top of the other, revealing a non-diegetic subtext above the work. It is evident that, without understanding the story’s thread, one can observe all sorts of attacks and atrocities against the peace and bucolic sanctity of rural life. The dog bites the cat and the man, the man strikes the horse and fires mortars, the donkey kicks the pig and lands a blow on the crowd, there’s dynamite and explosions, blood pours, feathers fly, hands and arms, kicks and punches; money from profit and rape is counted, and while some work, others distribute slaps, which is also fine work. The pig Stalin is the devil, but all the other animals—men, pigs, dogs, ducks, birds, etc.—are demons and little devils from hell. Brutality and injustice, now and forever, past, present, and future, until the end of time. When history is perceived simultaneously, it seems as though it has always been this way. No propaganda, just a generic observation of the general history of violence.
I said.
João Maria Gusmão, December 2024
