As always, the best words are written by Silvano Agosti. CLAUDIO LOLLI - PIAZZA, BELLA PIAZZA ''The First Question''
It’s May 28th, and the late awakening of nature offers the city a sky covered, devoid of sun. Alberto and Clem, a young couple, are gladly heading to the demonstration with those who, like them, want to bear witness to a rejection of a democracy that struggles to assert itself in choices of freedom. They are, like almost all those crowding the square, school teachers, and they feel the importance of their role in shaping the consciences of the young.
Soon, the speakers will take the stage to present their thoughts on the country's situation, troubled by inexplicable events, almost all of which remain unpunished and wrapped in the mystery of complicity too illustrious to be unveiled. Clem is holding their few-month-old son in her arms, playfully whispering to him the meaning of being there, together with Alberto, her young husband, for what she calls "the celebration of courage."
Then Clem looks up and notices the clouds gathering over the square. She approaches Alberto and hands him the baby. “It’s going to rain soon, take the child home.” Alberto, in turn, looks at the sky. There’s no doubt, he heads home. He doesn’t live far from the square, so he thinks his absence will be brief. With quick steps, he hopes to make it back in time for the start of the demonstration. Having entrusted the child to the grandmother, Alberto runs back toward the large square.
He pushes his way through the crowd that has now filled the surrounding streets. He catches a glimpse of his wife Clem, who, due to a light rain, has taken shelter under the archway of a portico. He is about to reach her. He gets within two steps of her, extends his hand, and a terrible roar sends him flying through the air. His body falls almost shattered to the ground. My dear Alberto and Clem are both dead. The child has survived.
Today he is 32 years old, the same age as the gigantic, unresolved lie that envelops the death of his father and mother in Brescia, on that May 28th of 1974. I had him pointed out to me, the son. He is there, sitting alone at the bar overlooking the square where the massacre took place, which killed, amidst high-level institutional silence, not only his father and mother but also that little bit of emerging democracy.
I thought about interviewing him, talking to him, but I can't convince myself that it’s right to pull him from his solitude and from that deep silence of his. What could the first question be? None. I walk away, thinking that Alberto and Clem would agree with my choice.
Silvano (2006)
BRESCIA, PIAZZA DELLA LOGGIA, 10:12 AM
It’s May 28th, and the late awakening of nature offers the city a sky covered, devoid of sun. Alberto and Clem, a young couple, are gladly heading to the demonstration with those who, like them, want to bear witness to a rejection of a democracy that struggles to assert itself in choices of freedom. They are, like almost all those crowding the square, school teachers, and they feel the importance of their role in shaping the consciences of the young.
Soon, the speakers will take the stage to present their thoughts on the country's situation, troubled by inexplicable events, almost all of which remain unpunished and wrapped in the mystery of complicity too illustrious to be unveiled. Clem is holding their few-month-old son in her arms, playfully whispering to him the meaning of being there, together with Alberto, her young husband, for what she calls "the celebration of courage."
Then Clem looks up and notices the clouds gathering over the square. She approaches Alberto and hands him the baby. “It’s going to rain soon, take the child home.” Alberto, in turn, looks at the sky. There’s no doubt, he heads home. He doesn’t live far from the square, so he thinks his absence will be brief. With quick steps, he hopes to make it back in time for the start of the demonstration. Having entrusted the child to the grandmother, Alberto runs back toward the large square.
He pushes his way through the crowd that has now filled the surrounding streets. He catches a glimpse of his wife Clem, who, due to a light rain, has taken shelter under the archway of a portico. He is about to reach her. He gets within two steps of her, extends his hand, and a terrible roar sends him flying through the air. His body falls almost shattered to the ground. My dear Alberto and Clem are both dead. The child has survived.
Today he is 32 years old, the same age as the gigantic, unresolved lie that envelops the death of his father and mother in Brescia, on that May 28th of 1974. I had him pointed out to me, the son. He is there, sitting alone at the bar overlooking the square where the massacre took place, which killed, amidst high-level institutional silence, not only his father and mother but also that little bit of emerging democracy.
I thought about interviewing him, talking to him, but I can't convince myself that it’s right to pull him from his solitude and from that deep silence of his. What could the first question be? None. I walk away, thinking that Alberto and Clem would agree with my choice.
Silvano (2006)
BRESCIA, PIAZZA DELLA LOGGIA, 10:12 AM
iside
28 may 19
DeRank ™: 10,29
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