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Rating: OSCILLATIONS, VIBRATED WIND AND SOUND IN CONSEQUENT TRAIL, BUT AMOEBA OF ITSELF AND RENDERED IMAGE I Am.
In a play of mirrors that are not there. In a play of slices that are. The demonstration that we can mirror ourselves anywhere. Just have the courage to look at our projection cast where the sky is forbidden. But where hand and foot, fed to artificial light, can attract attention to the point of becoming live characters and calmly derail into protagonists of an excessive language until it becomes forced, almost televisual, where only physical elimination counts, for "having been nominated" or for a change of wind that turns its back on its own flag, be it political or of recommendation.
A stool can speak. Or simply creak. Just like allowing anyone who climbs on it to transform it into the most perfect (or least imperfect) object of the scene. Or, even more simply, listening to its creak would speak of us, of our weight, our grace, our internal and therefore, inevitably, external harmony. (I was about to write "inevitably," but that would have been absolutely too heavy to write another repetition that ended in "ly"). I was at Lake Garda yesterday. And I made a mistake in one small but very important detail: the shoes. I left the leather ones at home, precisely those that, while I pass under the arch of Cisano at the same walking pace as when I got out of the car, twenty breaths (and five shadows eaten by the sun) earlier, serve as a metronome for the thoughts dressed in breath that I lead on a leash, dragging them beyond the horizon, until the sky’s suspended ceiling is there, two steps away, so unreachable in its fluid fullness.
How many ways are there to descend a staircase? How many ways are there to make the same staircase a sort of interactive limb? A piece of body borrowed to help the body itself see the world from a point different from before?
Then it ends up that a new game becomes repetitive and loses its magic if done too many times in too little time, like, for example, the discovery of the drill as a generator of fertile noise to create a sound. Then it ends up that just framing, in snatches, an eye that pierces the hair and a three-quarters posterior nape to understand where life is and where non-life is (a horrendous dress excessive even in colors, but that, with its nice cardboard tag still to be torn off, gives the impression of being alive and gives a bit of different vitality to the one wearing it). Let's say that in Dueville there is a group of people who for 5 euros, just to render in commonly used words uncommon languages, may have given many of the few spectators present the impression of having created a new sonic/visual communication.
For those who know AGF, Keith Fullerton Whitman, Vladislav Delay, Maurizio Bianchi and others, no, but places like Dueville, a void in the shape of a church with nothing around, need nothing more than this. After all, this is a land of artistically alien like Gi Gasparin. And it is no news that the worse the places are, the more unsolved music and art spring from the rocks. But not unexplainable.
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