Shabono Yanomami
2019
charcoal and digital print
This work traces an arc between memory and matter, between an ancestral architecture and its ephemeral, fragile echo.
Above, the living structure: a shabono, the communal dwelling of the Yanomami people, breathes within the forest — a circle of shelter and encounter, a handmade horizon holding together the acts of daily life. It is a vessel for the human instinct to gather, to protect, to create a center in the middle of the vast unknown.
Below, the hand-drawn counterpart: a translation into charcoal and dust, where the same circular gesture becomes a ghost, a vibration of lines. Here, the structure is no longer a home but a memory of one — a fleeting imprint, as if left by wind, ash, or time itself.
In this pairing, we witness a meditation on presence and absence, on the permanence of form and the impermanence of meaning. The heavy lines, each slightly off, speak of hands that remember, of walls that are as much thresholds as they are barriers. The void at the center hums with silent energy, a space kept open for gathering, for loss, for hope.
This dialogue between the organic and the drawn invites us to consider: what is a home? A place, a shape, a memory, a gesture? How does architecture survive — in space, in bodies, or in the fragile act of drawing it once again?
Above, the living structure: a shabono, the communal dwelling of the Yanomami people, breathes within the forest — a circle of shelter and encounter, a handmade horizon holding together the acts of daily life. It is a vessel for the human instinct to gather, to protect, to create a center in the middle of the vast unknown.
Below, the hand-drawn counterpart: a translation into charcoal and dust, where the same circular gesture becomes a ghost, a vibration of lines. Here, the structure is no longer a home but a memory of one — a fleeting imprint, as if left by wind, ash, or time itself.
In this pairing, we witness a meditation on presence and absence, on the permanence of form and the impermanence of meaning. The heavy lines, each slightly off, speak of hands that remember, of walls that are as much thresholds as they are barriers. The void at the center hums with silent energy, a space kept open for gathering, for loss, for hope.
This dialogue between the organic and the drawn invites us to consider: what is a home? A place, a shape, a memory, a gesture? How does architecture survive — in space, in bodies, or in the fragile act of drawing it once again?