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 ‘One day I was given the task to stand next to an art object by Hélio Oiticica and prevent visitors from touching it. This produced a lot of frustrated reactions, because many people know that Oiticica’s actual idea is the physical interaction with the work. After a while, I began to see my dialogue with the public as a form of interaction too, also provoked by the art object, but now focused on me and the rules I had to enforce on behalf of the museum.’

‘We were dressed in suits, neatly shaved and trimmed. During this performance, a friend approached me and asked me where the toilet was. I replied and only after she had already turned around did she realize who I was. As a result, we quickly understood the visual effect of putting on a suit and adjusting our behaviour. We saw the potential of this performative relationship.’

 ‘That first experience put us in touch with the basic ideas we explore to this day with the audience and the institute, such as presence, servitude, exhaustion, being (in)visible and the precarity of outsourcing. It also brought out feelings we had already experienced in our work as guides.’

‘From the second time, we started thinking about ‘performance’, ‘score’ and ‘documentation’ as part of the world of private security companies. So when we talk about our work, we use terms such as ‘service’ and ‘products’.’

‘We are a company that provides a service that is outsourced by other companies. That is why our website also shows the names and logos of the institutions or arts initiatives that have already hired us, along with their testimonials.’

‘We have become increasingly aware of this. We started small; in the beginning, we were happy just to get an invitation. Now we think about all the steps, including travel expenses, lunch break, our payment. We work throughout the entire opening hours of an exhibition, usually during several days, so we need fair compensation.’ Because of the precarious state of many Brazilian art institutions, this is not a given.

‘Antonio and I are pardo [“pardo” is a term that Brazilian law uses to refer to a part of the black population, TB]. Our personal experiences are basically no different from others, but society dictates that there are some differences. Our race affects workplace relationships. For example, I had intern-level jobs for a long time, while white middle-class colleagues already moved on to other opportunities. I don’t think this connection between entry-level jobs in cultural centres and our identity is arbitrary. It also reinforces that we want to be professionally active in this context. We are the first in our families who pursued higher education and chose a field of work that is not “ours”: contemporary art. We have to find our own way in it and understand how we, as artists, can contribute to this field.’ 

‘When we look at these colleagues, our higher education is already a huge social difference. Usually, security guards finish high school and those who continue their studies often quit because they have to earn money at the same time and this is too intensive. But when we talk to them, we find that we have a lot in common with them, such as the work routine, fatigue and the experience of having to deal with difficult or racist people… But it’s also the simple things: we take the same public transport to and from work, spend a lot of time in transit. All this has made me more aware of the people around me who do this kind of work, including my father and sister who have worked in the security sector. But “Amador e Jr” ultimately isn’t about the figure of the security guard. The guard is an icon, a way for us to talk about the contemporary art field and the conditions that define it – subjects that were absolutely not discussed during our studies.’

‘Imagine if we were white guys doing this performance; the work would have been completely different. What happens as soon as we put on those suits has a lot to do with our bodies, with people’s reactions to our skin colour. Some people think we are real security guards behaving strangely. It happened once that someone came up to me and said: “I’m going to report you, I know someone on the board”. It also happens that people want to know if we are the artists or if another artist has hired us. They ask if the work is our own idea and if we make the drawings ourselves. I think all these questions have to do with how people place us, because of our appearance.’

The guard is an icon, a way for us to talk about the contemporary art field and the conditions that define it – subjects that were absolutely not discussed during our studies.’

‘Definitely. The artists you mention have in common with us that we are all university graduates, which is the result of quotas, the policy of affirmative action that has opened the doors of universities to black and indigenous students over the past 15 years. This has changed the art circuit and led to a wider view and attention to racial issues. When you turn on the TV these days, you see black people and it’s really not because the TV network wants it that way! This comes from us, from our participation in society, the intellectual capital we accumulate, the positions of power we now hold as well. Society is waking up and it is embarrassing for institutions to continue functioning without our contributions. Art is part of this and ‘Amador e Jr’ contributes to this discussion.’

‘Many art institutions are slowly looking at themselves critically. Our performance brings certain relationships to the fore, but usually nothing changes afterwards. That’s also why we say it’s not about the security guard, but about the performativity of the institution and the audience. We don’t even make a hard claim, we present a situation and people can take it or leave it. Usually they find it funny and that’s it. Of course it’s often easier for art institutions to programme critical work such as ours than to make structural changes.’

‘I like “Round”!’

‘Are you crazy?! For this performance, we make a single round in the exhibition space and it takes us all day. We walk in slow-motion. Some people don’t even realize we’re moving. I enjoy “Cooler Box”, for which we sit on beach chairs with a styrofoam cooler between us and we drink and eat from it all day long.’

‘I thought “Cooler Box” was terrible! We sat in the full sun when we did that, you fell asleep, I got drunk. I felt broken at the end of the day. It first seems fun, but after a few hours… Some of our services we’d rather not repeat! “Vigilante” is also a tough one. For this action we keep our eyes closed. You don’t want to know the nonsense people spout at us. That makes it difficult to keep your eyes closed.’

‘I sometimes use meditation techniques. But you know, it’s really the other way around. I once did a yoga class where I had to hold my arms in the air for a long time. Most people barely managed, but I stand in a very crowded metro every day, where I hang on with my arm held up, one hour to get there and one hour back. What I’m trying to say: work and everything surrounding it has given us the best training: just try and stand in a gallery all day…

‘Our training doesn’t come from Eastern traditions, nor from Western Marina Abramovic-methods. If you look at the techniques of actors and other people working with their bodies, you can certainly see similarities with the situations we describe, but the alienation of labour prevents you from focusing on your body in the moment. Workers are like little Buddhas. The difference is that they don’t transcend.’