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G.R.E.S., 2020
MulamböBrazil, 1995
Lives and works in Saquarema, Brazil
Artist talk with Mulambö
By Dandara Maia
10.06.2025
The monumental representation of a school of samba, which occupied an entire wall struck me as I entered the exhibition room of “Sweat” at the Haus der Kunst in Munich in 2022. The exhibition explored bodies the presence of bodies acting collectively with sweat representing liberation from the control of the human body. Together with my Brazilian friend, who was visiting the exhibition with me, I found myself drawn to the various characters of this expansive painting assemblage titled G.R.E.S. G.R.E.S. is the acronym for Gremio Recreativo Escola de Samba. Most of these samba associations in Rio de Janeiro have these as part of their names. Their story began in the 1920s when the carnival associations sought official recognition amid the repression of Black cultural expressions. The acronym emphasizes the recreational, pedagogical, and communal role these institutions play.
The work is a composition of varied-scale paintings on cardboard paper assembled as a collective tableau that demands the viewer’s close engagement. As we navigated through it, we gradually discovered the many characters that compose Mulambö’s fictitious School of Samba. We experienced GRES as reading a story. Each character connected us to home. We were both living in Germany for only a few years, but the work resonated with an element of our lives that we cherished so very deeply and that the relocation to Germany seized us from it. It was nostalgic.
A woman takes care of the association’s flag, one of the most sacred elements in a school of samba. During the parade, this flag is carried and shown to the audience by a dancing couple who must display it with grace and precision. It must never fold, never touch the ground. Devotion to a School of Samba is often expressed in a kiss laid on the flag.
A woman sits before her sewing machine. The number of costumes required for the parade is immense, in so, many are sewn in kitchens and living rooms of members of the community. My father once told me he watched his mother as a child sewing costumes for the School of Samba in his neighborhood.
A man dances. His gracious movements are stilled by the painter. He had his body sinuously moving to a samba song we can only imagine. Samba is music and dance. Elegance, controlled gestures, and sudden, surprising turns. A true dancer is a trickster, delighting in the unexpected.
Two people, neighbors talk across the window of a modest house. Its architecture is familiar across Rio’s suburban landscapes. A School of Samba can only emerge from a wave of communal life: conversations, quarrels, shared meals, laughter.
My conversation with Mulambo confirmed a feeling that I long carried. Engaging with his work takes on a different depth when one is familiar with the stories it tells. This does not prevent one from connecting with it, but I felt like one of the paintings on the wall. It echoed my own memories of growing up immersed in the parades, whether watching them on television or witnessing them or live. I even once took part, feeling the heat and rhythm from within the community group. Beyond my nostalgia, the carnival is a festivity that is only possible because of community and collective work, which is grounded in Brazilian ways of knowing, making, and being.
The work is a composition of varied-scale paintings on cardboard paper assembled as a collective tableau that demands the viewer’s close engagement. As we navigated through it, we gradually discovered the many characters that compose Mulambö’s fictitious School of Samba. We experienced GRES as reading a story. Each character connected us to home. We were both living in Germany for only a few years, but the work resonated with an element of our lives that we cherished so very deeply and that the relocation to Germany seized us from it. It was nostalgic.
A woman takes care of the association’s flag, one of the most sacred elements in a school of samba. During the parade, this flag is carried and shown to the audience by a dancing couple who must display it with grace and precision. It must never fold, never touch the ground. Devotion to a School of Samba is often expressed in a kiss laid on the flag.
A woman sits before her sewing machine. The number of costumes required for the parade is immense, in so, many are sewn in kitchens and living rooms of members of the community. My father once told me he watched his mother as a child sewing costumes for the School of Samba in his neighborhood.
A man dances. His gracious movements are stilled by the painter. He had his body sinuously moving to a samba song we can only imagine. Samba is music and dance. Elegance, controlled gestures, and sudden, surprising turns. A true dancer is a trickster, delighting in the unexpected.
Two people, neighbors talk across the window of a modest house. Its architecture is familiar across Rio’s suburban landscapes. A School of Samba can only emerge from a wave of communal life: conversations, quarrels, shared meals, laughter.
My conversation with Mulambo confirmed a feeling that I long carried. Engaging with his work takes on a different depth when one is familiar with the stories it tells. This does not prevent one from connecting with it, but I felt like one of the paintings on the wall. It echoed my own memories of growing up immersed in the parades, whether watching them on television or witnessing them or live. I even once took part, feeling the heat and rhythm from within the community group. Beyond my nostalgia, the carnival is a festivity that is only possible because of community and collective work, which is grounded in Brazilian ways of knowing, making, and being.
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