Every object has its own silence. Its own time. Its own memory.
When I come across them — at flea markets, forgotten drawers, or
accidental inheritances — I hear their whispers. Assembling an
assemblage is like piecing together an invisible puzzle: fragments
of other lives that, when joined, start telling a new story — mine,
yours, ours.
I didn’t start out as an artist. Before, I was immersed in codes and
numbers. But it was in the poetic chaos of Rio, among the
bohemian corners and antique markets, that my soul realized: I
was made of fragments. Art arrived as a reunion with lost time.
Today, my practice feels almost archaeological. I scour the world
with eyes hungry for history, and every piece I choose carries a
past — while revealing a present.
For me, assemblage is more than a technique: it’s a language of
affection and resistance. A way to express the inexpressible. By
combining the raw with the delicate, the forgotten with the
symbolic, I don’t just create a piece — I compose a memory.
Charles Barreto