ivi categoria: the book by
Every day the same, every day it hurts more. Is that all? For how long? Every day heavier, more invisible, deafening, dull. Will someone come today? I’ll disappear, I’ll be here forever. I’ll be part of it. In here. For how long, noise, silence? Light, dark? Will it be my tomb? Will I be my own tomb? There’s no one – I’m about to scream – I’m about to bleed – I’m about to. Will someone come today? For how long? In here………………
Impossible topographies and impossibility of a topography, in a book, a work, an artist. Pages are complicated, places multiply, frontiers move. Masks are in and clichés melt away. Words cram together and laughter is squandered. And the road home is lost forever, for whomever, par excellence, by fortune.
An event?! Post-structuralists, managers, PRs, teenagers…nowadays everyone talks about events. Epoch-making, destabilizing, dance events. But what is an event really? How is it born? Here’s a double baptism, of fantasy curators, and a true-life display. Signs, parallels, risks, shrewdness, the strange laws but most of all the poetry, that give life to an artistic event. With a few sparks of gossip.
Again that question. So vertigo, suspicion, invocation… and by the time a word of hope, a border of peace light up, it’s late. The question to the other, from the other, spring up again. Again feet sink into the snow, the eye gets lost in a shadow, the knife trembles imperceptibly. Again solitude takes form. It is the odyssey of an artwork, it is the tragedy of the first person, disseminated in chaos, etched in the dark.
Here’s a catalogue marking a decade (1992-2003) of works which destabilize the political and the symbolic: the contextualization of an inexhaustible decontextualization: the archive from an artist who short-circuits archives: the infinite of deconstruction. The self-destructing story of a self-destructing History.
Memories have their own music.
From a journal of travels, of photographs, notes, thoughts – by an artist-craftsman of experiences, of his spaces, affections, time – the rhythm of hands that collect, the voices of silences that mould, the sound of gazes that sink, the echo of memory that nourishes. And perhaps, silhouetted against the light, an old music box.