Wednesday 7 July 2021
Kandinsky
I will never understand the love some people have for Kandinsky. GPs tend to have one of his prints (clearly) in their waiting room. Does it calm down their patients? I am genuinely convinced it doesn't.
Sunday 16 February 2020
On the left, at the bottom of the passageway
In 2013 I decided to put all the pictures taken between 2002 and 2012 in a box and I abandoned it on a shelf, in the yellow, tiny, messy, room on the left, at the bottom of the passageway.
I opened that box last Sunday.
Some stories were inside. a lot of faces (some of them lost in that time) and blue, grey or cloudy, skies. They're stil talking of someone I used to be.
I opened that box last Sunday.
Some stories were inside. a lot of faces (some of them lost in that time) and blue, grey or cloudy, skies. They're stil talking of someone I used to be.
This is one of the pictures from that past.
Colleferro, 2010, view from the backyard. Holga 120 CFN and Kodak Portra 120.
Thursday 21 March 2019
hey you
hey you. i am back at the school. nothing changed much. the rooms smell the same, furniture is always spartan and clean, sheets are white, thick and rough, like if they went through too many washing mashing.
hey you, remember when we met? did you speak italian to me? or did you just say "hello"?
places still smell the same, like an old soviet city.
Zagreb, March 2019
Thursday 26 July 2018
A year of Summer
I feel a little bit confused. This text should go under the "confused words or thoughts" category, if there was one.
One of the sweetest memory of Summer spent in Italy I have, is that feeling of indulgence, belonging to very moment when the sun starts to go down.
Summer is an awfully long time, a the long-winded speech of a Catholic priest on the day of someone's funeral. Every breath takes hours to be taken, leaving your chest hurting.
Summer evenings are a history of healing, when the passions burnt rapidly during the day, find themselves meaningless in the warm air of the crepuscolo. Every evening is the "Sabato del villaggio", to say it in Leopardi's word - where the hope for the forthcoming day is replaced by the hope for the night. The hope that the evening first, and the night then, could bring some peace to our tired body.
I used to walk around in the house. The lights off (nobody feels the need to turn on the lights during summer evenings in Italy when your day has been so full of blinding light). I used to walk barefoot, meeting by chance mum, walking slowly, aching, complaining about the temperatures and about her heavy legs. She was kind. She still is. Happy when she had the opportunity to talk to me. Most of the time, she talked about everything coming to her mind. About nothing. I never hugged her enough. I've never understood how lucky I was living my youth while she was still young.
We used to have dinner late. The lights off, the table sometimes lit up by the blue lights of tv screen, which nobody ever watched.
I used to go outside, on the terrace. In the garden, sometimes. Walking around. The leafs were noisy in the light breeze of Summer evenings, the dogs were complaining loudly most of the time. There were few other noises. The cars were unfrequent and the voices of people having a walk were rapidly disappearing. They walked back and forward the streets of the small industrial city in the South of Rome where we lived: that was their activity all the Summer long.
Things were simple. Never boring. They were that way. Like the bruise made by the trees, the obscurity coming down on the mountains, the temperatures lowering and the warm embrace of the evening, so full of hope for nothing. For warm hugs. For the love expected to renew itself the following day. Standing still, in a present alike its past, we were waiting for the future.
One of the sweetest memory of Summer spent in Italy I have, is that feeling of indulgence, belonging to very moment when the sun starts to go down.
Summer is an awfully long time, a the long-winded speech of a Catholic priest on the day of someone's funeral. Every breath takes hours to be taken, leaving your chest hurting.
Summer evenings are a history of healing, when the passions burnt rapidly during the day, find themselves meaningless in the warm air of the crepuscolo. Every evening is the "Sabato del villaggio", to say it in Leopardi's word - where the hope for the forthcoming day is replaced by the hope for the night. The hope that the evening first, and the night then, could bring some peace to our tired body.
I used to walk around in the house. The lights off (nobody feels the need to turn on the lights during summer evenings in Italy when your day has been so full of blinding light). I used to walk barefoot, meeting by chance mum, walking slowly, aching, complaining about the temperatures and about her heavy legs. She was kind. She still is. Happy when she had the opportunity to talk to me. Most of the time, she talked about everything coming to her mind. About nothing. I never hugged her enough. I've never understood how lucky I was living my youth while she was still young.
We used to have dinner late. The lights off, the table sometimes lit up by the blue lights of tv screen, which nobody ever watched.
I used to go outside, on the terrace. In the garden, sometimes. Walking around. The leafs were noisy in the light breeze of Summer evenings, the dogs were complaining loudly most of the time. There were few other noises. The cars were unfrequent and the voices of people having a walk were rapidly disappearing. They walked back and forward the streets of the small industrial city in the South of Rome where we lived: that was their activity all the Summer long.
Things were simple. Never boring. They were that way. Like the bruise made by the trees, the obscurity coming down on the mountains, the temperatures lowering and the warm embrace of the evening, so full of hope for nothing. For warm hugs. For the love expected to renew itself the following day. Standing still, in a present alike its past, we were waiting for the future.
Saturday 12 August 2017
La boîte à photos
À Rome, finalement. Rapidement. Après un long voyage, après une heure de retard et un avion trop bruyant pour pouvoir même réfléchir. Ce pays est pour moi la redécouverte du ciel bleu, des bruits des oiseaux déjà réveillés au petit matin, de l'envie d'écrire, de l'envie de prendre des photos. Je redécouvre la maison de mes parents (qui fut la maison de mes grandparents), trop grande, trop ensoleillé malgré les beaux marbres sombres, très à la mode pendant les années 60. Parfois, quand je suis ici, c'est l'idée d'être parti sans avoir rangé, sans avoir tout avoué, avec trop de choses pas dites, qui domine mes pensées.
J'ai oublié des pellicules dans des anciens appareils argentiques (oui, j'en ai beaucoup). Elles sont périmées. Quelle histoire de nous elles racontent ? Les photos développées dans la petite boîte marron parlent de balades romaines et de fêtes d'anniversaire. A. à 23, le 3 décembre, avec Gionata et moi. Un rare souvenir de ma jeunesse. C'est ma faute : je fuis les photos. La vie n'a pas été toujours généreuse avec A. Elle a été forte, elle vit loin maintenant. La crise économique et sociale de l'Italie a dévoré nos espoirs, notre soif d'avenir, notre confiance dans la justice. Enfants bien éduqués et malheureux d'un pays qui meurt.
F. m'attend à la gare aujourd'hui. Elle part pour les vacances. Je l'embrasserai rapidement, en essayant de ne pas remarquer les larmes aux yeux qu'elle a toujours quand elle me voit. Je me rappelle du premier jour où je l'ai vue, pendant un cours d'anatomie, il y a 11 ans. J'ai été amoureux d'elle depuis le début. Une chose de plus que je n'ai jamais avouée.
J'ai oublié des pellicules dans des anciens appareils argentiques (oui, j'en ai beaucoup). Elles sont périmées. Quelle histoire de nous elles racontent ? Les photos développées dans la petite boîte marron parlent de balades romaines et de fêtes d'anniversaire. A. à 23, le 3 décembre, avec Gionata et moi. Un rare souvenir de ma jeunesse. C'est ma faute : je fuis les photos. La vie n'a pas été toujours généreuse avec A. Elle a été forte, elle vit loin maintenant. La crise économique et sociale de l'Italie a dévoré nos espoirs, notre soif d'avenir, notre confiance dans la justice. Enfants bien éduqués et malheureux d'un pays qui meurt.
F. m'attend à la gare aujourd'hui. Elle part pour les vacances. Je l'embrasserai rapidement, en essayant de ne pas remarquer les larmes aux yeux qu'elle a toujours quand elle me voit. Je me rappelle du premier jour où je l'ai vue, pendant un cours d'anatomie, il y a 11 ans. J'ai été amoureux d'elle depuis le début. Une chose de plus que je n'ai jamais avouée.
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