Caribbean

Caribbean Musicality in the Work of Valerie Brathwaite

Influenced by the music and natural landscape of her childhood in San Fernando, the Caracas-based artist developed a unique, flowing sculptural style. Her work reflects the connection between landscapes and the shared memory of Trinidad and Venezuela, exploring organic forms and diverse materials in a process that resonates with the environment.

Courtesy of the artist and Henrique Faria, New York.

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by Nohora Arrietta Fernández

Thu 12 Dec, 2024

qwark, quark, chirp, chirp, chirp, chiiirp. Everything vibrates in the small garden next to the window of my room in Port of Spain, the capital of Trinidad and Tobago. Toads, crickets, cicadas, unidentified insects—a natural orchestra barely interrupted by the soca music blaring from cars speeding down Ariapita Avenue. Nights here, it’s all about insects and soca. In the morning, it’s the mournful vallenato of Farid Ortiz or Silvio Brito or the syrupy ballads of Alejandro Montaner. Could memories of this music fuel the internal movement of Brathwaite’s sculptures? Valerie Brathwaite, born in San Fernando, on Trinidad’s central plain, either in 1938 or 1940, has lived in Caracas since 1969. On her Instagram profile, she describes herself as a sculptor and DJ. “On Saturdays, my mother would sing along to the piano at gatherings with her friends. Music was very important in the family, so all three siblings had to learn to play instruments,” the artist tells me. “My older brother played the piano, my younger brother and I were learning—he, the violin; me, the piano. I was awful at it; that kind of music was not for me. Over time, I started collecting music and began sharing it as a DJ in the nineties.”

Courtesy of the artist and Henrique Faria, New York.

Active in the Venezuelan art scene since the sixties, Brathwaite is known for her distinct style: “undulating,” “voluptuous,” “fluid,” says curator Cecilia Fajardo-Hill—a style that “fits neither the history of modernist abstraction nor the conceptualist trends in seventies and eighties Venezuela.” Her elusiveness is visible in the many portraits, which show an inscrutable gaze and quiet profile. Brathwaite doesn’t like talking about her work, but lights up when reminiscing about her days in Trinidad: the music, “the mountains I could see from my balcony, the strong smell of curry when the neighbors cooked.”

At Arco Madrid 2024, Brathwaite exhibited small undulating forms suggesting volcanos, a blossoming flower, or hills. Of the mountains she once saw from her balcony, only a half-split plateau remains today, consumed by construction companies. From this low vantage point, San Fernando is a city crowded with steep, winding streets; the tallest houses reach three stories, each seeming to overlap the other as if the city were made of layers. In her Subacán series (2010) and Where Have All the Flowers Gone? Longtime Passing! (2020), painted wood and fabric create forms without beginning or end: wood could be fabric, and fabric could be wood, blending seamlessly.

Courtesy of the artist and Henrique Faria, New York.

As I cross the island with Trinidadian artists, they mention that the Indo descent presence has enriched the island’s color theory. I see the blues, greens, pinks, and pastel oranges of the Hanuman temple, and reminiscent of the beiges, oranges, pinks, and blues of the Soft Body Series come to my mind. Nevertheless, when it comes to color, “Caracas is beautiful,” Brathwaite says, “there’s so much green, so many plants, and very interesting architecture.”

Courtesy of the artist and Henrique Faria, New York.

The night is when lines, shapes, and colors start to take liberties that, by day, become volumes of wood and fabric [...] or plaster, metal, ceramic, cement, and whatever materials are necessary.”

From the low hill of San Fernando, you can glimpse Bocas del Dragón, the narrow see strip that separates Venezuela from Trinidad. “[Both countries share] a common history, which is why Venezuela was always a reference for me. I remember sitting with my parents and siblings during some vacations, watching the lights of Venezuela from Trinidad,” Brathwaite recalls. “I had to decide how to continue as independently as possible to remain an artist. Venezuela offered me those opportunities. […] Making friends was easy […], especially with artists and people in the art and culture scene, like Gego, Rudolph Stejskal, William Stone, Teresa Casanova, Lourdes Blanco, and Miguel Arroyo, Vladimir Sersa, José Sigala.”

Brathwaite arrived in a seventies Caracas that was electric and cosmopolitan, far from the seeming calm of Port of Spain. But don’t be fooled: just wander through the streets of Woodbrook, Belmont, or San Fernando, and you will find a city that surprises with its architecture and the overlapping sounds of soca, Bollywood, or Montaner’s ballads. With no clear way to describe Trinidad, one is left to simply witness it unfolding, drifting and elusive. “I sleep little and prefer to work at night; I draw a lot during the night,” the artist writes. “The night is when lines, shapes, and colors start to take liberties that, by day, become volumes of wood and fabric […] or plaster, metal, ceramic, cement, and whatever materials are necessary.”

Courtesy of the artist and Henrique Faria, New York.

Line turn into volume in her ceramics, and fabric or plaster hold their own longing for freedom. Brathwaite’s forms overflow; everything is expanding. Her pieces Subacán and Soft Body stretch across the floor or hang on the wall. The lines in her drawings on paper from the seventies are broad and open, spilling. This constant, musical movement draws attention to the process: what happens or could happen, once time is stretched. In Port of Spain, time slows to a halt around five in the afternoon and grows quiet on Sundays. Quiet? More like it hums softly. As I said earlier, here – and in Brathwaite’s sculptures – music is unceasing: a flower blooming, a volcano erupting, a hill crackling.

The author thanks Valerie and Kenderzon for their generosity in sharing their insights and the long list of friends who made this conversation possible.

Translation: Jess Oliveira