work
LIN I
| category | Other |
| subject | Landscape, Abstract, Architecture |
| tags | Città, Milano IT, Mappa |
| base | 100 cm |
| height | 100 cm |
| depth | 0 cm |
| year | 2018 |
on windy days
the slumbering objects of the city
claim in the folds of turbulence
the echoes of keeping their own silence
and come playfully alive
There were times, not too long ago, when I used to imagine an endless table, on which were placed a myriad of maps, atlases, scrolls and tapestries, of all shapes and sizes, inlaid or not, decorated or not. Sometimes, I happened to consult some of them, as if it were a lottery draw, sometimes I thought about the peculiarity of such an exercise, as ambitious as it was useless in its totalitarian understanding. As a matter of fact, I was not in the habit of renouncing such sentimental conduct so lightly. In fact, one day, I thought about the possibility of reading each one of those moments, acknowledging to God* the responsibility of those traces, of those mysterious and indeterminate paths, imagining in each written and dreamed word the ultimate value of the stars. Accessing a discourse of this kind, reminds me of an infinite vastness, an infinite wealth of light, the perception of a fluctuating unity in which the things of the world dance in harmony, in an immense peace, which becomes impenetrable to the play of passions. A place, where purpose and will are consumed like blazing drops in the sky, a place, where it is permissible to forget the setting of ancient stars.
Ink on paper
the slumbering objects of the city
claim in the folds of turbulence
the echoes of keeping their own silence
and come playfully alive
There were times, not too long ago, when I used to imagine an endless table, on which were placed a myriad of maps, atlases, scrolls and tapestries, of all shapes and sizes, inlaid or not, decorated or not. Sometimes, I happened to consult some of them, as if it were a lottery draw, sometimes I thought about the peculiarity of such an exercise, as ambitious as it was useless in its totalitarian understanding. As a matter of fact, I was not in the habit of renouncing such sentimental conduct so lightly. In fact, one day, I thought about the possibility of reading each one of those moments, acknowledging to God* the responsibility of those traces, of those mysterious and indeterminate paths, imagining in each written and dreamed word the ultimate value of the stars. Accessing a discourse of this kind, reminds me of an infinite vastness, an infinite wealth of light, the perception of a fluctuating unity in which the things of the world dance in harmony, in an immense peace, which becomes impenetrable to the play of passions. A place, where purpose and will are consumed like blazing drops in the sky, a place, where it is permissible to forget the setting of ancient stars.
Ink on paper
