Writer Tatjana Almuli sat down with Carolina Bianchi to discuss the tension between aversion and fascination, the use of the human body as an instrument for storytelling, and her creative process.
Trilogia Cadela Força - Capítulo II: The Brotherhood
Carolina Bianchi Y Cara de Cavalo
18–20 June, ITA
What is the strongest link between Goodnight Cinderella and Brotherhood as the first two chapters of the Cadela Força trilogy for you?
In the first chapter, there is a strong focus on what happens to the victims of (sexual) violence, rape, and femicide. In the second chapter, we look at where these forms of violence come from. History and present-day realities show that these forms of violence are inextricably linked to male power structures. I think ‘brotherhood’ is often seen as a fraternity among men - a strong system that protects and preserves their bonds. I find it fascinating how this structure fosters affection and solidarity while also enabling harmful behaviors. In the trilogy, I connect these themes in unexpected ways with art. I constantly return to the framework of art – especially theater – since it is my greatest field of interest. This chapter also explores the structures of theater itself. I talk a lot about the "brotherhood of art" – how brotherhood exists even within creative spaces and in love.
Did you gain new insights while researching these themes and creating the performance?
The deepest insights I’ve gained through this work are not just about brotherhood but also about myself. This is important because the show is not simply about pointing out how horrible brotherhood can be. Of course, there are terrible aspects – how brotherhood affects my body, my imagination, my anger, my frustration, my traumas, and how I process all of this alongside others. These are not things I take lightly, but at the same time, there’s something undeniably compelling about brotherhood.
In my writing, I reflect on my own desire to belong to something so strong, admirable, and fiercely protected. During this process, I also realized how this show is a continuation of the questions, enigmas, and thoughts I explored in the first chapter – except now, the focus shifts to what happens after trauma or rape. The survivor wakes up. She is not dead. She is alive and walking among us. What do we do with that? This show explores the displacement of the damaged body – what it means to exist in the aftermath. It also intersects with ideas of contemporary art and theater in ways that have opened up new creative layers for me as a writer, creator, and performer.
Can you share more about your creative process—from the first idea to writing and finally performing on stage.
In general, I’m drawn to the complexity of things —to questions that don’t have a single or black and white answer, to things that are tricky, unsettling, and provoke discomfort. And I think this subject carries enormous discomfort. For me, a creative process often begins with ambiguity. In this case, it was the tension between fascination and aversion surrounding the notion and codes of brotherhood. From there, I dive into research – I read and write obsessively. I'm a writer in the first place. Writing is everything to me. Even though writing can be painful, sometimes very painful, it remains the core of everything I do.
A crucial part of my work is the idea that writing is not just meant for the page; it is meant to be spoken, to come alive, to exist on stage. My words are written with the intention of being embodied, of being heard. That’s why theatre as a form, as a space, an instrument is also so important to me.
Speaking of instruments—as a performance artist, you also use your own body as a crucial instrument. And you push its limits. In Goodnight Cinderella, you take a ‘rape drug’ and pass out on stage to viscerally demonstrate the impact of such an act. That undoubtedly reaches the audience on a deeper level, conveying the urgency and weight of the issue. But I imagine it also takes a toll—both mentally and physically. How do you stay sane throughout the process of performing?
For me, it’s not really about staying sane. Earlier, we talked about writing, and I often make this comparison – especially when I teach writing workshops – between writing and making a pact with the devil. There’s a Danish author, Karen Blixen, who spoke a lot about this idea: that writing is like making a pact with the devil. And that deeply resonates with me. When I create these stories, I feel as though I’m making that kind of pact – with something powerful, mysterious, yet very real. I refer to it as a devilish presence. And when I step on stage, I carry that presence with me – in my body, in my words, in the energy I release. I simply cannot ask someone else to do this for me. This is something I must go through myself. You also don’t ask someone to bear your disease or carry your obsession. It’s yours, and you must find your own way through it.
With some of your artistic collaborators, you have already worked in Brazil, your home country. What is the link between your work in Brazil and in Amsterdam and Brussels, the cities you live and work in now?
I think my deepest connection to my background comes from the fact that I have been working with the same people for many years now. There is a layer of intimacy that it was important to share this with people that I already worked with, that I have already this intimacy of vocabulary of work. Living in Europe, I found something unexpected: people who were interested in presenting my work, supporting it, and helping me make it happen. From my second show onwards, I received that support, and it has been beautiful - something I deeply respect and am grateful for. I never fully felt like I belonged in Brazil —not entirely. There were many reasons for this, including the lack of institutional support for our work. It’s not that I felt fully rooted and connected while I was there and only now, being away, I struggle. Theater itself is always a struggle - especially as an immigrant. My transition to Europe and my studies here were very difficult. But the decision to keep working with the people who have shaped both my artistic journey, and my life has been essential. And still, I am constantly searching for a sense of home. The past few years have been incredibly nomadic— touring extensively with the first chapter of the trilogy. That kind of movement can be exhausting, but I also find it fascinating. It suits me. I love observing how audiences interact with the work, especially since it’s a two-and-a-half-hour performance entirely in Portuguese. Seeing how people engage with the language—whether they immerse themselves in it or remain at a distance—is always interesting to me.
What do you want to explore in the last chapter of the trilogy? Is there a specific question you want to examine or is it still taking shape?
I want to explore what ‘closure’ means in chapter three. I have many ideas, but for now, what feels strongest is the way I want to approach writing itself. Of course, I have to premiere this second chapter first, but when I talk about closure, I think it also has to do with language—how the words appear, how they take shape. For the final part of the trilogy, I feel an obsession with finding a different way to write, to bring the words into existence in a new form. That exploration of language feels central to the closure I’m searching for.