Tonight I imagined to mount
an art installation. A dream denied, for time and space. A fragmented film
waiting to turn into a few documentary from my folder of watercolour. Who knows
how or when.
And then I start, this white
room of 4 m in height and 200 wide, designing content and slides for all that
may not be material.
I want to
rolls of china Chinese on the ground that illustrate my considerations on
landscape, webs of meaning to guide me out of the blindness of days advance,
learn to move with creativity where it no longer seems to dwell.
Where I put the observer’s
perspective in these geographies of abstract art that recall more Klee and
Pollock of external reality? It would take a butterfly to inspire the right
spot on a bird’s eye view of an inner life.
But I found. I’ll write a
spiral of letters to give directions, a legend on the room of my being,
sometimes in black and white, sometimes with colors. The negative of a
photograph that alarm clock not scatterò ever.
You can not write with
light, the beauty of what lurks in your inner silence. But I can photograph the
bonsai of quartz of the virtues of my secret garden. A disheveled by illusions,
but refined to the thousand perfumes.
The Centre of these
geographical canvas of nothingness, where everything is still possible in the
mist of the morning’s first light, even dreams not yet imagined