a necklace and print edition by Inês Neto dos Santos

Necklace: Gold-plated, bronze cast fava bean from la Sala’s allotment, on a 50cm gold-plated chain, 2021
Packaged in plant-dyed linen and packaging designed by Mariana Sameiro and the artist. Printed at R-Dryer Studio in Brussels. Limited edition of 30.
For sale here.

Print: Gold and black riso print produced by Calipso Press, in Cali, Colombia, for la Sala in 2020
40x28cm (approx A3) print using rice and soy based inks on crush corn 250gr, paper made of corn residues.
This edition is the result of a series of conversations in Spring 2020 between artist Inês Neto dos Santos, Eva Parra from Calipso Press and la Sala.
for sale here.

Favas, fresh out of their pods, sold cosy in see-through plastic bags at the saturday market. Mum would cook them with chouriço (well, an onion first, and lots of olive oil, salt - what is a stew without them to start), juicy with a pinch of fresh tomato.

In a hopeful month between lockdowns, I made tiny statues to fava. Starting in wax, then clay, then bronze, small sculptures to be held and carried in our pockets – or around our necks – weighty reminders of the importance of regenerative, symbiotic care practices, of supported sustenance, of what actually really holds us together.

They’d cook slowly in the pressure cooker - the kitchen gadget most fascinating and horrifying to a young-year old me. A singing jet of white steam signalled their full tenderness, habemus fava! The beans were fresh but never shelled - what a waste - kept in their bitter, leathery coats. Providing the sufficient amount of bite as each forkful is deposited into the mouth, perfectly balancing the sweet, smoky fattiness of the cured pork. As a child, I despised this dish. From the strong, grassy smell to the bitter thickness of the beans’ coats - right through to the pressure cooker, I’m sure - it was the awfullest thing I could hear coming out of my mother’s mouth when I asked, expectantly: What’s for lunch? It was a grown-up taste, no doubt, as all other children I met at the time shared my disgust towards it. Aunts and uncles gathered, mopping up sauce off their plates, humming and aah-ing in tastebud ecstasy.

Photography by Lottie Hampson