Flooded Lives: Amazonian Visual Culture and the Ruins of Hydropower in Brazil Open Access

Abstract

Despite hydropower often being referred to as clean energy, the building of hydroelectric dams is known to have a number of detrimental consequences, including the displacement of populations, the production of greenhouse gases, the flooding of terrestrial ecosystems, and the drastic disruption of aquatic ones. Acknowledging the local histories and traumatic events generated by Brazil’s Tucuruí Dam, which opened in 1984 in the Amazonian state of Pará, this article integrates a commonly overlooked Amazonian perspective into the ongoing discussion in the energy humanities. It analyzes Fernando Segtowick’s documentary Amazon Mirror (2020) and Paula Sampaio’s photography book The Lake of Forgetfulness (2013) as visual archives documenting life-forms disrupted by hydropower. Attuned to the nuances of the harm inflicted on those affected by the dam, both human and more-than-human, the film and the book reflect political and aesthetic commitments to the social, ecological, and collective memory of the world’s largest tropical rainforest, reframing understandings of the ethical implications of hydropower production.

Water and life can hardly be disentangled. However, as has been made evident by scholarship on the connection between hydropower and state formation,¹ when the management of waterways is driven by the goal of rampantly producing energy in the interests of national projects, industry, and the market, it risks becoming a catalyst for death and destruction. This form of governance, which I refer to as hydroauthoritarianism, is characterized by the top-down, technocratic use of state power through the administration and control of water resources, especially large-scale hydroelectric projects; shaping social and political relations; and reinforcing state sovereignty. In this manner, water can become a weapon capable of causing widespread devastation when unchecked developmentalism harnesses it to promote industrial growth and maximize economic profit. Building on these premises, this article considers intersections between Amazonian visual culture and energy regimes. It argues that Brazilian Amazonian contexts provide a compelling case study of how hydroauthoritarianism underlies cultural perceptions regarding energy production and consumption.² Discussing Fernando Segtowick’s documentary Amazon Mirror (2020) and Paula Sampaio’s book The Lake of Forgetfulness (2013), this article considers photography and film as mediums with the potential to reveal and challenge power asymmetries and oppressive dynamics frequently overlooked in discussions on energy, as well as in ethical debates regarding energy choices and responsibilities. These recent cultural products originating from the Brazilian Amazon not only highlight the long-term detrimental effects of hydroelectric dams (see fig. 1) but also the reciprocal relationship between energy and cultural values, with one invariably informing the other.

Development, Displacement, Depletion

Despite the persistence of stereotypes obscuring the Amazon’s complex and multifaceted realities, the region resists attempts to impose upon it a uniform image. Key among these stereotypes is that the Amazon possesses an abundance of water, which, while not untrue, conceals the reality of a progressively diminishing water supply as a result of deforestation and climate change.³ The perception of the Amazon as an enormous repository of resources has long fueled complacency and imaginaries that do not take potential scarcity into account. In particular, this perception relates to what Szeman refers to as “the fiction of surplus” in his critique of the notion that there will always be an endless supply of energy sources in order to maintain our present way of life.⁴ Turning our attention to cultural products that reflect on and address the consequences of environmental destruction drives us to reassess our faith in the fiction of surplus. Compounding these challenges is the historical neglect in public discourse concerning the impact of developmentalism on traditional communities within the Amazon, which commonly involves displacement, cultural disruption, and threats to their livelihoods. The region remains a target for resource exploitation.⁵

The Lake of Forgetfulness and Amazon Mirror offer a reevaluation of this systematic targeting. They imagine new ways of communicating the consequences of hydroauthoritarianism and shift the limits of the visible through a profound engagement with the socioenvironmental implications of the dam. These two works actively contest the colonial mindset ingrained within the Brazilian state’s narrative. They also present alternative perspectives in order to counter prevailing images of the Amazon as an empty territory, which have served to justify populating and integrating the region under military rule. Additionally, these cultural products consider the impact of the dam on local populations, both human and more-than-human, challenging the dominant power structures perpetuating developmentalism and the narratives that reinforce it.

Paula Sampaio, the photographer behind The Lake of Forgetfulness,⁶ was born in 1965 in Belo Horizonte, in the Brazilian state of Minas Gerais. She migrated to the Amazon with her family as a child and eventually settled in Belém in 1982. A professional photographer since 1987, she initially pursued photojournalism. Since then, Paula Sampaio’s photography has focused on the Amazon, documenting the daily lives of the migrants living alongside major highways opened in the last fifty years, particularly Transamazonia and Belém-Brasília, and the transformations brought about by their construction.

In 1994 Sampaio embarked on a photography project centered around Tucuruí communities. Her initial motivation was to address the social conditions of families who had been displaced from their land along the Transamazonia highway after the construction of the dam. However, for years she struggled to find the imagery she sought. She persisted in her search, and during one of her visits to Tucuruí she received assistance from agricultural scientist Edilene Portilho, whose work focuses on the region. Portilho’s parents have a personal connection to the socioenvironmental conflicts in the Amazon.⁷ Born and raised in the middle and lower Tocantins River regions of Pará, they moved from riverside villages to the city of Tucuruí when the dam was being constructed but returned to the area later. As Portilho’s parents were once again living by the lake, they invited Sampaio to visit them. During this visit, Sampaio encountered a fossilized yet strangely vibrant forest. It was a powerful experience that altered the course of her work, which, since 2011, has shifted its focus from purely human subjects to encompass other life-forms. Through stories of the lake’s human and more-than-human inhabitants, Sampaio created a comprehensive document encapsulating what she had witnessed and experienced.

Amazon Mirror explicitly draws inspiration from The Lake of Forgetfulness and the research conducted by Edilene Portilho as primary sources. Fernando Segtowick, its director, was born in Belém in 1971. A journalism graduate from the Federal University of Pará, he founded the audiovisual production company Marahu Filmes in 2015. Before studying journalism, Segtowick was a student of electrical engineering at the same university. His works, focused on the people of the Amazon, include shorts and series showcased in Brazil and internationally. Since 2019 Segtowick has coordinated the Marahu Lab, a training initiative for audiovisual professionals living in Northern Brazil.

Amazon Mirror marked his debut as a feature film director. It had its world premiere at the Panorama section of the Berlinale Film Festival in 2020 and has been selected for additional festivals in France, Italy, Ireland, the United States, Kosovo, and Colombia. The film prompts insights into the lived experiences of the inhabitants of the Caraipé River archipelago who persisted in residing in the hydropower station’s reservoir area nearly forty years after its construction. Amazon Mirror functions as a form of critique of the ongoing patterns of progress and development in the Amazon region. Its release in 2020 was timely, with Brazil witnessing a weakening of its environmental agencies during the administration of then president Jair Bolsonaro, resulting in a surge in environmental degradation. The film also appeared during a period of heightened global interest in the Amazon, particularly following the region’s devastating fires in 2019. It is important to acknowledge that the concerns highlighted in the film are not limited to Tucuruí, given that the dam is interlinked with various other developmentalist projects in the Amazon and has reverberations on a global scale.

The Lake of Forgetfulness and Amazon Mirror detail the significant disruptions caused by the dam. Fishing and Brazil nut production, which were once thriving but have suffered significant decline since the construction of the facility, are vividly presented. The film and the photography book reveal how the traditional means of subsistence that sustained multiple generations and nurtured a deep bond with the river have undergone dramatic transformations, resulting in the local residents’ struggle with being deprived of their traditions and financial independence. In both works these residents share testimonies of the challenges they face in their daily lives, such as the irony of living with very limited access to electricity despite residing adjacent to a major power source. The fact that they use generators, flashlights, and oil lamps as sources of lighting and power while residing next to a massive plant illustrates the paradox they confront. This underscores the disparity between the abundance of energy for industry and the lack of fundamental necessities for local communities.

Conquering the Land, Taming Water

Governmental discourse on the Amazon region revolved around continuous “discoveries” and “conquests” claimed by successive administrations during the twentieth century.⁸ A significant illustration of this rhetoric unfolded during President Getúlio Vargas’s visit to the states of Pará and Amazonas from October 6 to October 14, 1940. The quote presented in the opening of Amazon Mirror comes from a speech that Vargas, who served as the president of Brazil for two nonconsecutive terms,⁹ gave during this trip. This excerpt represents the government’s vision and aspirations for the Amazon region at the time: “Seeing the Amazon is a heartfelt desire of all Brazilians in their youth. Conquering the land, taming water, and subduing the forest were our tasks. And in this struggle, which has lasted for centuries, we are achieving victory after victory,”¹⁰ said Vargas in what became known as the Amazon River Speech, delivered at the Ideal Club in Manaus. Vargas sought to legitimize his Estado Novo (New State) regime among local populations by delivering this speech, emphasizing that the extensive and sparsely populated territory posed the greatest barrier to Amazonian progress and assimilation into the national economy. The Amazon River Speech pointed to the region’s promising future, highlighting its potential for economic growth, and inventiveness. The inclusion of this quotation in the opening of Amazon Mirror draws attention to how the justification for the construction of the Tucuruí Dam is related to an attempt to exert state control over the waters of the Amazon.

Alluding to the quote from Vargas that opens Amazon Mirror, researcher Carla Fabiano¹¹ highlighted the contrast between the megalomania embodied by the colossal dam and its destructive impact on surrounding life-forms. During a conversation held in the context of the Curitiba International Film Festival in 2020 while discussing the film with Segtowick and other members of the team, she drew attention to how the dam symbolizes the government’s grand ambitions and the historical legacies of authoritarian rule; importantly, as Fabiano emphasized, it materializes the desire to tame the Amazon.

Numerous scholars have examined stereotypical notions surrounding the Amazon, such as its framing as a “demographic void,”¹² aiming to comprehend how they have taken root in the collective imagination about the region,¹³ particularly among those lacking an understanding of its fundamental characteristics. Such assumptions continue to orient governmental and market interventions in the region to this day. Amazon Mirror exposes some of these stereotypes. For example, it includes part of a speech by former president Jair Bolsonaro on July 25, 2019, during a visit to Manaus,¹⁴ presenting rhetorical elements reminiscent of Vargas’s Amazon River Speech. In his statement Bolsonaro advocates for the economic exploitation of the Amazon, claiming that the region stands as the wealthiest on the planet and has the potential to serve as the “economic soul” propelling Brazil’s growth. Echoing the rhetoric of the “demographic void,” in a scene portrayed in Amazon Mirror lake residents listen to Bolsonaro’s words as he emphatically states,

Throughout the Bolsonaro administration, the Amazon experienced a surge in deforestation, a consequence of Bolsonaro’s policies. According to data that was gathered through satellite monitoring from the Amazon Environmental Research Institute (Imazon), deforestation in the Amazon reached its fifth consecutive annual record in 2022, marking the highest level of destruction in the past fifteen years. In fact, over the span of 2019 to 2022, during Jair Bolsonaro’s presidency, the deforested area reached 35,193 square kilometers, indicating an increase of nearly 150 percent compared to the preceding four years.¹⁶

The Legacy of the Tucuruí Dam

The concession to operate the Tucuruí Dam, situated in the Tocantins River basin, was granted to the Brazilian energy company Eletronorte in 1974 with the aim of attracting aluminum industries to the Amazon region. The plant is located approximately 310 kilometers southeast of Belém, the capital of Pará, and was inaugurated in 1984. The primary objective of the dam was to provide energy to the Japanese-funded aluminum industry, which included Alumínio Brasileiro SA (Albrás) and Alumina do Norte do Brasil SA (Alunorte) in Barcarena, Pará, as well as the Aluminum Consortium of Maranhão (Alumar) of BHP Billiton and Alcoa. These corporations extracted bauxite from the Trombetas River, Paragominas, and Juruti localities in Pará and employed it as a raw material for aluminum production.¹⁷ Indeed, as journalist Lúcio Flávio Pinto states in an interview featured in Amazon Mirror, the Tucuruí Dam project was initially not aimed at serving Brazil; it aimed to serve Japan. There had been a sudden and significant increase in the price of oil, and Japan realized that it would be unable to resume aluminum production, which requires a substantial amount of electricity.

The construction of the dam led to significant environmental consequences, including changes in fauna, flora, soil, climate, and water, resulting in the deaths of animals and the emergence of diseases such as acute intoxication and skin cancer. The displacement it caused impacted approximately thirty-two thousand individuals, including quilombola¹⁸ communities, Indigenous groups (such as Asurini, Gavião, Suruí, Parakanã, Xikrin, Guajará, and Krikati), peasants, riverbank dwellers, and fishermen. Despite promises of employment and an improved quality of life, the resettled individuals faced a very different reality. This led to the formation of the Movement of People Expropriated by the Tucuruí Dam in 1981, which advocated their rights and presented their grievances to Eletronorte and government authorities.¹⁹

Since then, the Tucuruí Dam has been the object of numerous demonstrations and protests.²⁰ In 2005 and 2006, a socioenvironmental impact study was conducted to assess the damage caused to the Asurini community of Trocará. In 2009, the National Institute of Colonization and Agrarian Reform (INCRA) promised to regularize the lands on the islands formed by the dam lake, but this saw no progress. Court orders were issued in 2011 and 2013 demanding compensatory measures for the Asurini community, but appeals and delays by Eletronorte hindered their implementation. In 2013, affected individuals, along with the “Movement of People Affected by Dams” (MAB), staged protests to pressure the government to undertake a development plan for the region encompassing land regularization, public housing, fishing projects, improved transportation, infrastructure, and educational and health care facilities in rural areas.

In light of these ongoing struggles, it becomes imperative to critically evaluate the widely accepted assumption that hydroelectric plants inherently generate clean energy. The “clean energy” label associated with hydroelectric power is mainly attributed to its low carbon footprint and potential for reducing reliance on fossil fuels. However, it is important to note that the environmental impact of hydroelectric power extends beyond direct emissions, leading to the alteration of river ecosystems and the loss of biodiversity.²¹ A 2011 study by Salvador Pueyo and Philip M. Fearnside raised important questions about the environmental impact of hydroelectric power and urged a reevaluation of its status as a genuinely “clean” energy source. It revealed that the emissions of gases contributing to the “greenhouse effect” from hydroelectric dams are significantly higher than previously estimated, asserting that previous studies had underestimated these emissions by nearly 80 percent.²² The study highlighted that it releases methane particles into the atmosphere, a gas with a significantly higher global warming potential (GWP) than carbon dioxide (CO₂) over a shorter time frame. According to the study, the environmental conditions surrounding hydroelectric reservoirs, particularly in tropical climates, create an environment in which decaying organic matter produces methane gas instead of CO₂. These and other adverse impacts that have severely affected ecosystems and the means of subsistence of local communities in Tucuruí, both human and more-than-human, prompt a critical inquiry into the suitability of the term clean in this context. For whom does Tucuruí qualify as clean?

Visualizing Hydroauthoritarianism

The Lake of Forgetfulness and Amazon Mirror are remarkable examples of the disruptive role Amazonian visual cultures can play in the twenty-first century. The use of monochrome in both works communicates a feeling of bereavement and nostalgia. The absence of color also becomes a tool to capture the gravity of environmental loss and the personal and collective struggles to adapt oneself in the face of irreversible change. Engaging with the historical context of monochrome as a powerful medium in photojournalism, this emerges as a storytelling device that invites viewers to confront the harsh realities occurring in Tucuruí, challenging the conventional perceptions of the Amazon as either a lush, tropical paradise or a foreboding “Green Hell.”²³

Trees play an important role in both works. During the initial moments of Amazon Mirror, Segtowick expresses his desire to capture footage of a Brazil nut tree. After some time, the film presents images of multiple dead, dried-up, and fossilized Brazil nut trees, accompanied by several other tree trunks in a similar condition. A collection of trees is arranged in a dispersed manner along a section of the lake. This imagery serves to disrupt the seemingly peaceful atmosphere of the submerged worlds resulting from the construction of the dam (see fig. 2). There is indeed melancholy, if not mourning, associated with the annihilated beings, shattered visions, and interrupted stories caused by the Tucuruí Dam.

Sampaio’s work aims to listen to the forgotten stories of the graveyard of trees, which met their demise after the damming of the Tocantins River for the construction of the Tucuruí plant. Through her photographs, Sampaio seeks to shed light on the profound impact of the facility and the consequences of the regime that oversaw its creation. With this in mind, and to get a sense of how her perspective in The Lake of Forgetfulness inspires the film’s narrative, it is worth examining a fragment of the statement (also included as one of the epigraphs in the present article) that Sampaio recorded for Amazon Mirror: “What will happen with Belo Monte and Tapajós is there [in Tucuruí]. Yet nobody is paying attention to Tucuruí because people are focused on destruction. What I am trying to show is what happens after destruction, which is death.”²⁴

In other words, Sampaio highlights a matter frequently ignored in discussions surrounding the building of hydropower dams: that, while there is much focus on the visible destruction that occurs during dam construction (as in the cases of the Belo Monte and Tapajós Dams), the long-term implications and often irreversible consequences of prolonged dam operations for the ecosystem and nearby societies receive insufficient consideration. Although the construction of dams may garner substantial attention due to its immediate impact, Sampaio urges us to move beyond that initial state, highlighting the notion of “death” subsequent to destruction.

The Lake of Forgetfulness effectively captures the haunting effects of the dam. It evokes the sense of despair that pervades the flooded forest, with one of the book’s most striking pictures portraying a tree emerging from suffocating waters, with its branches extending upward in a plea for mercy from the sky (fig. 3). The image brings out more than just an anthropomorphized portrayal of hopelessness; it extends beyond human-centric concerns to present an arborization of human perspectives, calling attention to the fact that our energy regimes have implications exceeding our immediate anthropocentric considerations.

In a panel conversation with Mariano Klautau Filho and Alberto César Araújo at the Eleventh Diário Contemporâneo de Fotografia award ceremony, Sampaio was asked about the theme of silence in her work. Sampaio responded that this silence originates from the fact that the fossilized forest itself is the central subject of her work.²⁵ She further added that the trees that appear in her photographs communicate stories to her and that, although the forest does not have a voice, it screams. I read Sampaio’s commitment to attuning herself to these tree corpses as an instance of Jacques Rancière’s notion of the redistribution of the sensible—the political and aesthetic possibility to reconfigure what is said, done, seen, thought, and heard in a community.²⁶ I argue that while these tree corpses may not be animate, at least “not on our timescale,” they exude a presence that “keeps a time that helps us think.”²⁷ They become more than remnants of a bygone era; they manifest a different image of time, a time that challenges anthropocentric temporal scales. This argument resonates with how Lisa Blackmore challenges conventional notions of time by highlighting the ways rivers embody their own temporalities and function as contact zones between various epistemologies, expanding beyond human-centric frameworks.²⁸

The Lake of Forgetfulness, through its portrayal of the fossilized forest, extends Walter Benjamin’s concept of the photograph as the corpse of an experience²⁹ into the realm of environmental devastation. The fossilized trees, intertwined with a desolate expanse of water, become vessels of both decay and presence. They inhabit a space where linear and homogeneous time is fragmented, serving as a visual interruption in the relentless march of progress and developmentalism, and laying bare the traces that linger in the wake of disappearance. Sampaio’s work invites us to reflect on a world where remnants of life persist in what has succumbed to death.

What also interests me here echoes Alyne Costa’s analysis of Amazon Mirror, in which she argues that the film positions audiences to reckon with the Tucuruí Dam as a Narcissus made of concrete.³⁰ Costa emphasizes how the aerial shot of the hydroelectric plant, as depicted in the film, captures the reflection of an immense Narcissus with a “concrete face,” leaning over as if enamored with his own image. This visual metaphor parallels Narcissus, where, in Ovid’s rendition of the myth, his intoxication with self-admiration leads to his neglect of what is essential for his survival, ultimately resulting in his demise. This neglect is also present in the anthropocentric-statist narcissism associated with the Tucuruí Dam. In this context, forgetting also becomes a product of this anthropocentric-statist narcissism, leading society to overlook the interdependence of beings and processes. Costa’s analysis, citing Davi Kopenawa’s reference to white people as those whose thoughts are “full of forgetting,”³¹ underscores the gravity of this collective oversight. She sees Amazon Mirror as critically examining the human exceptionalism embedded in the Tucuruí project, urging viewers to confront the imperative of no longer neglecting the modes and life-forms overshadowed by anthropocentric projects. Costa’s analysis therefore resists the systematic forgetting propagated by anthropocentric-statist narcissism—and, in this particular case, by hydroauthoritarianism.

Photography plays a pivotal role in deploying ways of seeing that underlie the consolidation of particular forms of state power, as Andermann emphasizes.³² This visual form of the state embodies a distinct optic, a specific way of portraying modernizing initiatives as manifestations of nationalist teleology. If, as he demonstrates, the politics of representation is inherently intertwined with the functioning of the state, Sampaio’s redirecting of our gaze toward the fossilized trees (fig. 4) offers a lens through which to locate photography against the state³³ and, by extension, against the anthropos, placing Narcissus in front of a mirror that does not seek the reflection of his image but aims to reveal other reflections in which we can see something of the other otherwise.³⁴ As Sampaio expressed in the conversation with Klautau Filho and Araújo, she has never photographed anything she has not first heard; listening is an essential process in her photographic practice. Through this approach, she prompts us to engage with this death-world from the fossilized forest’s perspective, allowing the stories submerged within this graveyard of trees to unfold. Perhaps by joining her in listening attentively to the ghosts that still linger forty years after the opening of the Tucuruí Dam, we will also be able to perceive something about ourselves otherwise.

The placement of Sampaio’s photographs alongside firsthand accounts from impacted individuals amplifies the societal impact of these consequences. The accounts were collected in the lake region, in the reservoir basin, where over six thousand families currently reside, abandoned by the government, and rendered invisible. The flooded forest (fig. 5) was the focus of the project, but the engagement of the population is clear in Sampaio’s collection of testimonies that also make up the book. Here are some examples:

Domingos, Jurandir, and Francisco share testimonials that illustrate the profound effects of the hydroelectric dam on their communities. Domingos paints a stark picture of loss and crisis resulting from the dam’s construction, highlighting the transformation of their once prosperous region into a state of distress. This shift led to the necessity of relocating families due to deteriorating living conditions, symbolized by the river’s drying up—a tangible representation of the environmental changes brought about. Jurandir’s narrative amplifies the struggles faced by those living around the dam-formed lake, ranging from malaria epidemics to government neglect and the hardships endured by fishermen. Francisco shifts the focus to express skepticism about positive change and highlight pervasive greed. He reflects a lack of faith in authorities that have contributed to their situation. Building upon these personal accounts, the collective narratives of Francisco, Jurandir, and Domingos point toward a form of world-ending. This prompts crucial questions about who the Tucuruí Dam is truly “clean” for and whose worlds were annihilated when the dam was established. Paula Sampaio’s intention to acknowledge the aftermath of destruction becomes particularly relevant in this context. The gradual loss of public attention over the decades does not diminish the persistent process of destruction occurring in Tucuruí across different timescales.

It becomes clear that the world-ending implications of hydroelectric dams disproportionately affect river dwellers, Indigenous peoples, animals, plants, and other local populations impacted by these projects. The fact that they carry the heaviest burdens highlights the intersecting factors of race, class, epistemology, and geographic location shaping perceptions of “ends of the world.”³⁸ By acknowledging these unequal dynamics, we confront the inherent power asymmetries embedded in our energy regimes. Importantly, while hydroelectric dams may be commonly positioned as a clean energy solution, it is important to examine who bears the brunt of their consequences.

New Beginnings

In conclusion, resorting to hydroauthoritarianism as a heuristic tool reveals the necropolitical side of energy management when driven by developmental greed. Considered through the prism of the energy humanities, the ethical and aesthetic discussions elicited by The Lake of Forgetfulness and Amazon Mirror expose the impact that hydroauthoritarianism exerts on the creation of socioenvironmental crises. By focusing on the Tucuruí Dam, a project emblematic of hydroauthoritarianism, these works allow us to challenge the prevailing narratives that frame hydropower as a clean and sustainable energy source. Considered through an approach that combines visual culture, environmental ethics, and political analysis, they underscore the importance of considering the long-term socioenvironmental impacts of large-scale hydroelectric projects. They also bring to the fore the often-overlooked experiences of Amazonian communities and ecosystems, emphasizing the need for a more layered understanding of energy production and its consequences.

This perspective not only enriches the discourse within the energy humanities but also broadens the scope of environmental humanities by integrating visual and cultural studies into the examination of ecological and social justice issues. By highlighting the role of Amazonian visual culture in critiquing and resisting the dominant paradigms of developmentalism and state-driven energy policies, they illustrate how cultural artifacts may function as forms of environmental testimony that challenge the power asymmetries inherent in hydroauthoritarian practices. Cultural artifacts may offer alternative ways of seeing and understanding the Amazon, not as an endless resource to be exploited but as a complex and vulnerable ecosystem with deep cultural and historical significance. The analysis articulated in this article therefore advocates for the inclusion of local perspectives in the global dialogue on energy and environmental ethics, positioning Amazonian visual culture as a critical site for rethinking the implications of our energy choices. The contribution of such an approach to the broader field of environmental humanities lies in its reexamination of the ethical and cultural dimensions of hydropower, particularly in the Brazilian Amazon.

In line with this perspective, works such as The Lake of Forgetfulness and Amazon Mirror confront the anthropocentric-statist narcissism underlying developmentalism, urging us to acknowledge the interconnectedness of all life-forms and to chart a course toward a more livable future. Moreover, they consider the potential for transformation that persists in the ruins of devastated scenarios. In Amazon Mirror, there are also vibrant evenings filled with tecnobrega,³⁹ afternoons enlivened by soccer, and lives that continue their course with resilience. In addition, many of the accounts of residents included in The Lake of Forgetfulness highlight the adaptive strategies of individuals and communities in the face of the changes brought about by the construction of the Tucuruí Dam. The ability to recognize the stories that endure where a hasty glance reveals only devastation paves the way for unforeseen political opportunities. In this sense, Sampaio and Segtowick invite us to reimagine the human and more-than-human trajectories that resist in spite of destruction. Indeed, if a mirror does not reflect our own image, it does not necessarily mean that there is nothing to perceive.⁴⁰

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank the reviewers and editors for their generous and helpful comments. This article resulted from research supported by Duke University’s Amazon Lab and the University of London’s Environmental Humanities Research Hub, based at the School of Advanced Study.

Notes

References