The Method is Part of the Work, and I Choose It Consciously
I felt like sharing something about my "method" of creating art, which perhaps not many people notice. Not because of anyone's "fault" or a failure on my part, but because there’s something about my work that isn’t just in the result itself, but it’s also in the means by which it is produced. This is not a new discussion in art studies, but my effort is to speak less to specialized audiences and more to people in general.
Getting straight to the point: I have never waited for ideal conditions or materials to bring an artistic idea to life. As far back as I can remember, I’ve adapted the tools and materials at hand to make things possible. To illustrate: if I didn’t have special pens and paper, I’d draw with ballpoint pens on scrap paper; if I didn’t have the right stapler for booklets, I’d invent a way to make them with a regular stapler. If I didn’t have a band to record my compositions, I’d program instruments on a computer, record guitar and vocals in a bathroom using a PC microphone and cardboard boxes, then edit the tracks and make a handmade CD of my songs. Similarly, when I lacked a team or the programming expertise to create a game, I used a "simple" game engine that I could learn and work with. In short, I work with whatever I have at hand.
For many years - decades, really - I’ve been aware of this: my method isn’t tied to style/technique A or B, or to drawing or painting, or to using this or that material. No, my approach is that "third-world" practice of squeezing blood from a stone. What defines my work is that I don’t rely on specific techniques, tools, or materials, but rather on doing things without money, adapting and often subverting materials and their intended uses.
I also know this is not unique to me; this is a common practice in the Global South. We cannot wait for ideal tools or equipment, which take ages or never arrive, so we use creativity to adapt and make things happen however we can.
My friend and fellow artist Luiz Souza best defined this "ethos" in his 2022 Manifesto of Anachronic Art. Of course, he delves much deeper, capturing and synthesizing much more of the spirit of our time, as self-cannibalizing capitalism becomes increasingly decadent and patched up with technological gadgets. In the Global South, we have always recycled the waste of the "metropoles" - both material and immaterial, especially from the imperialist cultural industry. We are scavengers of cultural trash that flows from the "metropoles" to us, the "colonies." Luiz’s work, mine, and that of other artists we know fall under anachronic art for many reasons. I highly recommend reading his manifesto to reflect more deeply on these issues (portuguese only, try a translator).
Thus, my approach - adapting and using materials to make works possible within my limits of time, physical ability, and financial resources - is an integral part of the work, not just the final result. Aware of this, I’ve long taken it upon myself to share this process as an example, especially for younger people or those from similar social classes. Without arrogance, I see this as a pedagogical task. I strive to do this without glorifying precarity; of course, when I have access to better materials and tools, I use them. And I wouldn’t turn down better financial conditions to enable my projects. But I can’t sit around waiting for that miracle - life moves on, and I need to create.
Sometimes, I even make a point of embracing the precariousness to highlight this pedagogical and independent aspect of my work. Why make booklets by hand if I could have them printed professionally? Why create musical instruments out of scrap when I could buy proper materials and tools for luthiery? Why make a game for 1980s computers when modern ones have no graphical or memory limitations? Well, one reason is to reduce costs, time, and production complexity. Another is to show that it’s possible - and desirable - to create autonomously without waiting for perfect conditions. I have no issue with my work achieving some "success" and earning decent money (which hasn’t happened yet), but I don’t care if my game or any other art of mine doesn’t conform to industry trends or isn’t considered a "professional" product by market standards.
This reminds me of something I’ve said before but want to repeat: the industry, especially the cultural industry, is very effective at creating "quality standards" that alienate lower-class people from artistic production. Don’t let this hold you back. Forget the industry’s standards - what theyr products may offer in production quality, which money can buy, they lose in creativity, authenticity and connection to real people, as they aim for imaginary "audiences."
To wrap up, since I currently focus primarily on game creation, it’s important to note that I make these retro, anachronic games in the style of 1980s and 1990s video games not so much out of nostalgia but out of this third-world ethos. I use a game engine like MPAGD to make games for ZX Spectrum and MSX, not because I’m nostalgic for something I didn’t live through (and I didn’t, despite my age; while I grew playing Atari 2600, I only discovered these 1980s 8-Bit computers and their games in the 2000s through the internet and emulators). Rather, I do this because it’s accessible: the "precarity" and memory limitations force a project scope that I can realistically achieve with limited time and resources.
Yes, I’m a nerd for old video games, and I love the challenge of making games within the graphical and processing constraints of those systems. But as an artist conscious of my method and how it’s inseparable from the final product, I’m also driven by aesthetic and ethical motivations in art. I "enjoy" using precarious materials, but not merely out of preference or ecological recycling concerns, as with my musical instruments. My motivations are rooted in social struggle, social class, our place in the world we must navigate, and the necessity of getting the most out of the least.
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