LA RADIO
FIASCHI E GRAFFITARI
N.B.: Il testo qui' di seguito necessiterebbe d'un bel po' di editing (correzioni) in quanto buttato giu' di corsa. ma... al momento non ne ho voglia dunque... leggetelo cosi' com'e', se vi va.
Questa volta da Los Angeles non torno con le tasche completamente vuote. Almeno questa volta tornero’ con un insegnamento. E’ successo che graffitari e romani hanno avuto ciascuno quel che si meritava e, adesso, tutto e' in una nuova prospettiva. Ed e' la prospettiva d'una nuova piu' democratica e meritocratica scala gerarchica che d'ora in avanti regolera' le relazioni del mondo (dell'arte). Ad uscire vincitori sono i graffitari e, neanche a dirlo, gli sconfitti gli altri, gli artisti di Roma. D'altronde Roma e' da anni in mano ai graffitari che dispongono dei suoi monumenti e delle sue piazze come meglio credono col benestare del suo popolo e dei suoi amministratori. Dunque era da aspettarsi un risultato del genere anche qui' a Los Angeles dove malgrado I taggari non abbiano vita facile, poiche' comunemente considerati vandali e imbrattatori e' stato loro riconosciuto uno status piu' alto rispetto a quello degli artisti di corte in trasferta.
Sto parlando di due mostre inaugurate ad un paio di giorni l’una dall’altra.
La prima e’ quella dei graffitari che ne celebra in pompa magna l'importanza creativa e si svolge negli immensi spazi d'un museo privato ma anche un po' pubblico ed e' stata curata ed allestita senza badare a spese e con un dispiego di energie co-operative e di intelligenza filologica tale da rendere degno d'attenzione o addirittura monumentale il piu' insignificante scarabbocchio. Ed infatti il risultato e' che esci dalla mostra portando con te un valigia di adrenalina ed informazioni sul mondo degli imbratta-muri che ti fa' riconsiderare la tua opinione su di loro (sempre che prima fosse negativa). E arrivi a chiederti: Che siano loro I veri protagonisti del nuovo rinascimento? Dopotutto l'arte contemporanea e' diventata talmente pretestuosa, effimera ed astrusa quasi imperscrutabile a meno, naturalmente, di volersi fidare delle parole di qualcuno piu' intelligente e colto di noi che ce la spieghi. Per esempio, perche' no?, un curatore o un critico. Al medesimo tempo I graffitari parlano chiaro e quindi sono piu' democratici. E poi, ad essere sinceri, in alcuni casi, migliorano l'aspetto delle nostre citta' stuprate dai costruttori corsari dal dopoguerra ad oggi, le rendono piu' gradevoli.
Al sorgere di questo dubbio che rimette in gioco le nostre poche certezze potrebbe venirci in soccorso per scioglierlo (a favore dei taggari e definitivamente) l’altra mostra in oggetto, che negli stessi giorni e' stata inaugurata in un meno (molto meno) prestiggioso istituto culturale della stessa citta' e soprattutto allestita con pochi mezzi, poche idee (ma confuse) e, soprattutto, molta presunzione. In mostra lavori mediocrissimi di una trentina d'artisti romani che forse, pero', non rappresentano degnamente la produzione dell'arte alta di oggi. Potrebbe darsi che non rispecchino la situazione reale. Forse proprio perche' romani portano dentro e lo manifestano nelle loro opere un complesso di inferiorita' ed un astio che hanno sviluppato nei confronti dei graffitari che nella stessa citta' in cui vivono godono di tanta piu' visibilita' e liberta’ espressiva di loro? Se si pensa a quanto poco facciano I musei e le gallerie romane questa ipotesi potrebbe esser presa in seria considerazione, ma la prima incongruenza risiede nel fatto che molti o forse addirittura tutti gli artisti in questa mostra hanno nel corso delle loro carriere dimostrato di valere almeno l’aggettivo “dignitoso” cioe’ di valere infinitamente di piu' della poca stima nei loro confronti con cui un qualunque visitatore lascia la mostra al penoso istituto italiano di cultura di los angeles. E cio' non perche' siano tutti artisti eccelsi (ma dignitosi si!) ma perche', al contrario l'immagine che “when in rome” (questo e’ il titolo della mostra) regala di loro non potrebbe essere piu' bassa. Per la scelta scriteriata dei lavori e soprattutto l'allestimento da terzo mondo (del quale aspiriamo a far farte da tempo. aspirazione oltremodo leggittima, verrebbe da dire) che, per decoro, non mi soffermero' a descrivere.
E si che l'evento, almeno cosi' s’evince dal pieghievolino che funge da catalogo (letteralmente un foglio A4 piegato in quattro) e’ stato voluto, ideato, sostenuto ed organizzato da una fondazione per l’arte con sede a roma per mostrare i nuovi gioielli dell'arte capitolina all’ignorante pubblico californiano. L'idea di fondo sara' stata "facciamogli vedere quanto siamo bravi". L'idea con cui si esce da quell'inferno di mostra e’ piu’ sul "mamma mia che schifo!"
Eppure questa stessa fondazione s'era, soltanto un paio d'anni prima, prodigata con tutte le sue forze a che il pubblico romano uscisse da un'altra mostra con lo stupore in volto. Allora, pero', inversamente si portava sotto gli occhi dei poveri e provinciali romani l'arte con la a maiuscola, quella prodotta dalle giovani leve newyorkesi. E l'evento, neanche a dirlo, ebbe tutto un altro respiro. Spazi di livello museale (infatti del tutto simili a quello della mostra dei graffiti di cui sopra) organizzazione impeccabile. Senza badare a spese, in quel caso (al contrario di quanto avvenuto con questa di los angeles), non ci furono limitazioni in termini di dimensioni delle opere da far giungere da una sponda all'altra dell'atlantico (e, direi, giustamente, visti gli intenti a monte dell'operazione). Insomma fu una signora mostra di quelle mostre di cui si parla per molti mesi o anni. Anche in quel caso l'allestimento (come nel caso dei graffitari) aiuto' a dimenticare la pochezza artistica delle opere esposte.
Che alla fondazione (che e’ privata) non stia a cuore la questione puo’ anche starci. A loro va bene comunque in quanto si fanno una gran pubblicita’ (che infatti e’ l’unica cosa in cui sono stati investiti un po' soldini), e ne hanno un ritorno d'immagine (hanno pur sempre organizzato un'evento negli USA con alcuni nomi importanti dell'arte contemporanea europea). Quei soldini generosamente elargiti dalla provincia di roma (apprendiamo dal pieghievolino - e chissa' quanti. Mi piacerebbe tanto saperlo!) forse pero’ erano pochi, anzi dovevano essere davvero pochissimi dato che la prima preoccupazione degli organizzatori era il contenimento delle dimensioni dei lavori in mostra (i costi di spedizione da Roma a los Angeles sono alquanto esosi) e la seconda il contenimento di tutti gli altri costi. Ed infatti tutto l'evento e' stato avvolto in un'atmosfera a tinte grigioline e molto austera tanto che ci s’aspettava da un momento all’altro saltassero fuori il ragionier Fantozzi ed il geometra Filini con un bottiglione di gazzosa con su scritto champagna per festeggiare col resto della compagine italiana in trasferta. Invece devo dire che la festicciola del dopo istituto (per pochi intimi come la stessa inaugurazione) s’e’ rivelata veramente all’altezza della situazione. Ben due buoni bevande a ciascun artista e persino dei tacos da ritirare da una roulottina parcheggiata abusivamente sul marciapiedi del retrobottega (tutto molto zingarescamente chic, ma gl'italiani, si sa', sappiamo organizzare feste super chic) del bar Mandrake di culver city e poi via tutti a sballarsi in pista ai ritmi super cool selezionati dall’immancabile ipod. Devo dire che ci siamo divertiti anche troppo (alla fine ero un po' stanco). Poi, verso mezzanotte, le zucche si sono trasformate in bianchine e tutti a casa.
Allora sorge ovvia e spontanea la domanda delle domande dentro la propria testolina da mero fruitore di questi eventi d'arte molto alta, da chi non sa (non puo' sapere) come funzionano i meccanismi a certi livelli (anche se puo' sempre provare ad immaginarseli): perche' questa differenza di trattamento a discapito, ovviamente e come sempre, dei poveri italiani, cioe’ noi? Non sarebbe, forse meno inaccettabile che avvenisse il contrario (cioe' mostra fica per i romani e di merda per i newyorkesi) quando i quattrini buttati per screditare noi stessi con queste velleitarie attivita' di divulgazione di cultura sono sborsati da enti italiani?
Ma la provincia di Roma s’e’ sincerata della bonta’ del progetto prima di aderirvi? E poi, sempre dal famoso fuorviante pieghievole, s’apprende che oltre alla famosa fondazione romana ed all’istituto italiano di cultura sono parte del progetto anche l’hammer museum (che e’ un signor museo privato) e LaXart (una no profit molto attiva in citta’). Ma a che titolo?
La prima risposta che mi sono dato e’ stata che cosi' vanno le cose... che noi italiani cadiamo sempre male, siamo fatti cosi' aiutiamo gli altri e dagli altri riceviamo calci nel culo e persino noi stessi siamo talmente abituati a questo stato di cose che spesso e volentieri ce li diamo tra di noi. L'ho pensato Il giorno successivo quando facendo la spesa non ho potuto fare a meno di notare che, mentre tutti I prodotti spagnoli, francesi, greci o tedeschi in mostra nel reparto salueria portavano in bella mostra il marchio del hecho en espana, produit francais, ecc, l'etichette di quelli italiani recitavano made in usa cosicche' il parmesan (parmiggiano) era fatto a san francisco mentre il parma ham (prosciutto di parma) veniva dal winsconsin e la bresaola made in los angeles e il roman pecorino cheese era made in orange county. E gia' noi siamo quelli li'. Sempre a pecorino (non il formaggio questa volta) e sempre zitti a scannarci tra di noi.
Ho persino voluto provare a prendere sul serio le parole di uno dei curatori che alla mia domanda “perche’ fare una mostra cosi’ in uno spazio cosi’ piuttosto che, per esempio, in un museo?" (Dopotutto avrebbero avuto le spalle coperte da istituzioni pubbliche quali la provincia. Avrebbero persino potuto coinvolgere un museo romano come maxxi o macro”) m’ha risposto (non testuale): “...e’ che avremmo dovuto rinviare il tutto… sai I musei americani non sono come da noi… qui’ hanno programmazioni di anni…” E, soprattutto, curatori ed organizzatori seri, aggiungo io.
Cosi' quando un mio amico americano incredulo per quello che aveva appena visto all'istituto italiano di cultura, per telefono, m'ha detto un po' scherzando (ma forse non troppo) che per lui l'unica spiegazione era che gli organizzatori di quella "cosa" dovessero essere al soldo di qualche istituzione di qualche paese nostro concorrente…, li' per li' c'ho riso su, poi, pero' c'ho pensato tutta la notte. Quanto sarebbe stato meglio se quel fiasco dall’italia l’avessero portato pieno di vino!
Ps: notizia dal corriere della sera di oggi: Per conquistare la Cina Marco Polo diventa croato Zagabria ci scippa l'eroe del Milione!
Salute!
Sto parlando di due mostre inaugurate ad un paio di giorni l’una dall’altra.
La prima e’ quella dei graffitari che ne celebra in pompa magna l'importanza creativa e si svolge negli immensi spazi d'un museo privato ma anche un po' pubblico ed e' stata curata ed allestita senza badare a spese e con un dispiego di energie co-operative e di intelligenza filologica tale da rendere degno d'attenzione o addirittura monumentale il piu' insignificante scarabbocchio. Ed infatti il risultato e' che esci dalla mostra portando con te un valigia di adrenalina ed informazioni sul mondo degli imbratta-muri che ti fa' riconsiderare la tua opinione su di loro (sempre che prima fosse negativa). E arrivi a chiederti: Che siano loro I veri protagonisti del nuovo rinascimento? Dopotutto l'arte contemporanea e' diventata talmente pretestuosa, effimera ed astrusa quasi imperscrutabile a meno, naturalmente, di volersi fidare delle parole di qualcuno piu' intelligente e colto di noi che ce la spieghi. Per esempio, perche' no?, un curatore o un critico. Al medesimo tempo I graffitari parlano chiaro e quindi sono piu' democratici. E poi, ad essere sinceri, in alcuni casi, migliorano l'aspetto delle nostre citta' stuprate dai costruttori corsari dal dopoguerra ad oggi, le rendono piu' gradevoli.
Al sorgere di questo dubbio che rimette in gioco le nostre poche certezze potrebbe venirci in soccorso per scioglierlo (a favore dei taggari e definitivamente) l’altra mostra in oggetto, che negli stessi giorni e' stata inaugurata in un meno (molto meno) prestiggioso istituto culturale della stessa citta' e soprattutto allestita con pochi mezzi, poche idee (ma confuse) e, soprattutto, molta presunzione. In mostra lavori mediocrissimi di una trentina d'artisti romani che forse, pero', non rappresentano degnamente la produzione dell'arte alta di oggi. Potrebbe darsi che non rispecchino la situazione reale. Forse proprio perche' romani portano dentro e lo manifestano nelle loro opere un complesso di inferiorita' ed un astio che hanno sviluppato nei confronti dei graffitari che nella stessa citta' in cui vivono godono di tanta piu' visibilita' e liberta’ espressiva di loro? Se si pensa a quanto poco facciano I musei e le gallerie romane questa ipotesi potrebbe esser presa in seria considerazione, ma la prima incongruenza risiede nel fatto che molti o forse addirittura tutti gli artisti in questa mostra hanno nel corso delle loro carriere dimostrato di valere almeno l’aggettivo “dignitoso” cioe’ di valere infinitamente di piu' della poca stima nei loro confronti con cui un qualunque visitatore lascia la mostra al penoso istituto italiano di cultura di los angeles. E cio' non perche' siano tutti artisti eccelsi (ma dignitosi si!) ma perche', al contrario l'immagine che “when in rome” (questo e’ il titolo della mostra) regala di loro non potrebbe essere piu' bassa. Per la scelta scriteriata dei lavori e soprattutto l'allestimento da terzo mondo (del quale aspiriamo a far farte da tempo. aspirazione oltremodo leggittima, verrebbe da dire) che, per decoro, non mi soffermero' a descrivere.
E si che l'evento, almeno cosi' s’evince dal pieghievolino che funge da catalogo (letteralmente un foglio A4 piegato in quattro) e’ stato voluto, ideato, sostenuto ed organizzato da una fondazione per l’arte con sede a roma per mostrare i nuovi gioielli dell'arte capitolina all’ignorante pubblico californiano. L'idea di fondo sara' stata "facciamogli vedere quanto siamo bravi". L'idea con cui si esce da quell'inferno di mostra e’ piu’ sul "mamma mia che schifo!"
Eppure questa stessa fondazione s'era, soltanto un paio d'anni prima, prodigata con tutte le sue forze a che il pubblico romano uscisse da un'altra mostra con lo stupore in volto. Allora, pero', inversamente si portava sotto gli occhi dei poveri e provinciali romani l'arte con la a maiuscola, quella prodotta dalle giovani leve newyorkesi. E l'evento, neanche a dirlo, ebbe tutto un altro respiro. Spazi di livello museale (infatti del tutto simili a quello della mostra dei graffiti di cui sopra) organizzazione impeccabile. Senza badare a spese, in quel caso (al contrario di quanto avvenuto con questa di los angeles), non ci furono limitazioni in termini di dimensioni delle opere da far giungere da una sponda all'altra dell'atlantico (e, direi, giustamente, visti gli intenti a monte dell'operazione). Insomma fu una signora mostra di quelle mostre di cui si parla per molti mesi o anni. Anche in quel caso l'allestimento (come nel caso dei graffitari) aiuto' a dimenticare la pochezza artistica delle opere esposte.
Che alla fondazione (che e’ privata) non stia a cuore la questione puo’ anche starci. A loro va bene comunque in quanto si fanno una gran pubblicita’ (che infatti e’ l’unica cosa in cui sono stati investiti un po' soldini), e ne hanno un ritorno d'immagine (hanno pur sempre organizzato un'evento negli USA con alcuni nomi importanti dell'arte contemporanea europea). Quei soldini generosamente elargiti dalla provincia di roma (apprendiamo dal pieghievolino - e chissa' quanti. Mi piacerebbe tanto saperlo!) forse pero’ erano pochi, anzi dovevano essere davvero pochissimi dato che la prima preoccupazione degli organizzatori era il contenimento delle dimensioni dei lavori in mostra (i costi di spedizione da Roma a los Angeles sono alquanto esosi) e la seconda il contenimento di tutti gli altri costi. Ed infatti tutto l'evento e' stato avvolto in un'atmosfera a tinte grigioline e molto austera tanto che ci s’aspettava da un momento all’altro saltassero fuori il ragionier Fantozzi ed il geometra Filini con un bottiglione di gazzosa con su scritto champagna per festeggiare col resto della compagine italiana in trasferta. Invece devo dire che la festicciola del dopo istituto (per pochi intimi come la stessa inaugurazione) s’e’ rivelata veramente all’altezza della situazione. Ben due buoni bevande a ciascun artista e persino dei tacos da ritirare da una roulottina parcheggiata abusivamente sul marciapiedi del retrobottega (tutto molto zingarescamente chic, ma gl'italiani, si sa', sappiamo organizzare feste super chic) del bar Mandrake di culver city e poi via tutti a sballarsi in pista ai ritmi super cool selezionati dall’immancabile ipod. Devo dire che ci siamo divertiti anche troppo (alla fine ero un po' stanco). Poi, verso mezzanotte, le zucche si sono trasformate in bianchine e tutti a casa.
Allora sorge ovvia e spontanea la domanda delle domande dentro la propria testolina da mero fruitore di questi eventi d'arte molto alta, da chi non sa (non puo' sapere) come funzionano i meccanismi a certi livelli (anche se puo' sempre provare ad immaginarseli): perche' questa differenza di trattamento a discapito, ovviamente e come sempre, dei poveri italiani, cioe’ noi? Non sarebbe, forse meno inaccettabile che avvenisse il contrario (cioe' mostra fica per i romani e di merda per i newyorkesi) quando i quattrini buttati per screditare noi stessi con queste velleitarie attivita' di divulgazione di cultura sono sborsati da enti italiani?
Ma la provincia di Roma s’e’ sincerata della bonta’ del progetto prima di aderirvi? E poi, sempre dal famoso fuorviante pieghievole, s’apprende che oltre alla famosa fondazione romana ed all’istituto italiano di cultura sono parte del progetto anche l’hammer museum (che e’ un signor museo privato) e LaXart (una no profit molto attiva in citta’). Ma a che titolo?
La prima risposta che mi sono dato e’ stata che cosi' vanno le cose... che noi italiani cadiamo sempre male, siamo fatti cosi' aiutiamo gli altri e dagli altri riceviamo calci nel culo e persino noi stessi siamo talmente abituati a questo stato di cose che spesso e volentieri ce li diamo tra di noi. L'ho pensato Il giorno successivo quando facendo la spesa non ho potuto fare a meno di notare che, mentre tutti I prodotti spagnoli, francesi, greci o tedeschi in mostra nel reparto salueria portavano in bella mostra il marchio del hecho en espana, produit francais, ecc, l'etichette di quelli italiani recitavano made in usa cosicche' il parmesan (parmiggiano) era fatto a san francisco mentre il parma ham (prosciutto di parma) veniva dal winsconsin e la bresaola made in los angeles e il roman pecorino cheese era made in orange county. E gia' noi siamo quelli li'. Sempre a pecorino (non il formaggio questa volta) e sempre zitti a scannarci tra di noi.
Ho persino voluto provare a prendere sul serio le parole di uno dei curatori che alla mia domanda “perche’ fare una mostra cosi’ in uno spazio cosi’ piuttosto che, per esempio, in un museo?" (Dopotutto avrebbero avuto le spalle coperte da istituzioni pubbliche quali la provincia. Avrebbero persino potuto coinvolgere un museo romano come maxxi o macro”) m’ha risposto (non testuale): “...e’ che avremmo dovuto rinviare il tutto… sai I musei americani non sono come da noi… qui’ hanno programmazioni di anni…” E, soprattutto, curatori ed organizzatori seri, aggiungo io.
Cosi' quando un mio amico americano incredulo per quello che aveva appena visto all'istituto italiano di cultura, per telefono, m'ha detto un po' scherzando (ma forse non troppo) che per lui l'unica spiegazione era che gli organizzatori di quella "cosa" dovessero essere al soldo di qualche istituzione di qualche paese nostro concorrente…, li' per li' c'ho riso su, poi, pero' c'ho pensato tutta la notte. Quanto sarebbe stato meglio se quel fiasco dall’italia l’avessero portato pieno di vino!
Ps: notizia dal corriere della sera di oggi: Per conquistare la Cina Marco Polo diventa croato Zagabria ci scippa l'eroe del Milione!
Salute!
In An Empty Glass
"IN AN EMPTY GLASS", Short true story for the Liverpool Biennial. (2007)
By Manfredi Beninati
In this story all things are from the ocean and hopefully I’ll be able to give you enough clues to understand why.
«... on second thought we all have some secrets to protect and cherish. Hiding a treasure, even if it's the fruit of criminal activities is not always a condemnable action, in my opinion.
For instance, I know a respectable family who has made their fortune from piracy. The father and the mother spent the first twenty years (or so) of their union looting ships and fishermen's villages until they had enough of it, by which time they had put away enough money and valuables to live in grand style for several generations.
Although their house proves their enormous wealth, they lead a simple life. They have chosen to live in a hut they built themselves in their garden. Everybody in town adores them. Their two kids are growing up quickly in the fantastic world of their parents' adventure stories that they listen to every evening. One evening after a dinner in the garden I was invited to join them in the hut for one of their story-telling sessions. The kids were enchanted and I was in shock. On my way back home I almost crashed several times for my eyes were impregnated with the scenes of ruthless violence they just had so accurately and nonchalantly been depicting. That night I had the weirdest dream. Nothing to do with pirates, though.
...
I was... well, I can't remember where I was, where the action took place. I only have a very vague feeling of the place, which I don't know how to describe. I'm not even sure whether it was a familiar environment or not, though I still clearly feel that otherworldly atmosphere. I was having a nap. Of this I am sure. On a sofa, maybe on a rug on the floor. This isn't too clear. Then I remember a sailboat, but I couldn't swear it was a real one. Maybe it was a toy boat on a table in the room somewhere. Maybe it was a picture of a boat on the wall. Or maybe there was no boat whatsoever and I was just under the influence of the pirate story! But this is not important. What's important is that I was somewhere and I was having a nap, or trying to. Ok, so... I was snoozing all happy, about to enter the orphic underworld, when... somebody switched the TV on and it was so loud that I almost... Hang on! Was there a TV set in the room? Maybe not. I'm not sure, but this dwarf almost gave me a heart attack... maybe he burst a balloon with his cigarette or something? Not sure! ... So, to sum it up briefly, I was almost asleep when a dwarf walked into the room and woke me up bursting a balloon. At this point the sky outside suddenly opened up and... Wait! I was not on a sofa, nor on a rug. Maybe I wasn't even in a room... maybe I was laying on the lawn outside? I remember being bitten by tiny insects and I was all wet when I got up, as if it had been raining a little! How could it be? Oh God! I'm lost!
Everything was a mess in that dream.
The following morning I was not sure I had a dream at all. In fact my head was in a complete mess. I could see images from two different stories all mixed up.
The story that I could decipher more clearly was the other one. It was set in a very large kitchen of an old apartment in a post Second World War Naples. I somehow knew it was Naples although I couldn't tell you how. Two women were getting breakfast ready for the rest of the family who, one after another, would show up and, yawning, ask for coffee. Then neighbours came to visit, which was very strange considering the early hour. It was only just dawn. A clock on the wall above the dirty cooker indicated it was 6 am. The visitors were two brothers who lived in the apartment below. One was very young and the other one so old that he could have easily been his grandfather. They were acting friendly like usual until the doorbell rang again and a horde of policemen invaded the apartment yelling and pushing people around. At this point the old brother accused the family of a homicide that had taken place the night before. The police, without any question, handcuffed all the members of the family and took them away. The two neighbours and the doorkeeper, left alone in the house, turned the kitchen upside down in search of evidence of the misdeed. It seemed they knew exactly where to look and what for. But they did not find anything. No trace of a corpse. Only at this point did they realize that no crime had happened and the older brother admitted that he had been a dream. "Incredible - he said - It looked so real!"
The three men looked disappointed at first, then laughed as a sign of relief and celebrated the end of the nightmare with a cup of ink-black Neapolitan coffee.
Which one of these two stories was the one I had just spent the night on? Was it the first one, of which I have a faint memory or the second one? And why was it so important for me to find out? I was so confused I couldn't bear the gravity of all this uncertainty. I was going nuts, so I sat down with a coffee in front of the window to try to calm down and got caught in the perfection of a flower in a vase... Here it is." - he showed me a small vase with one flower - "Please, Aimo, help me with this! What flower is it?"»
...
«Filippo had come to my nursery to show me the flower that was of a kind I had never seen before either. He begged me to help him to find out what kind of flower it was. It seemed as if it was a question of life or death. He didn't even remember or know how it had ended up in that vase in his kitchen. We went through all my botanical books (I have hundreds of them!) trying to find the match, but in vain. I asked him repeatedly if he was sure that that flower had something to do with the story he had told me and he kept answering he was. He was starting to look ill, sweating and shaking from the exhaustion. I asked him to tell me the story once again. Maybe we didn't pay attention to something important before. Even just a tiny detail could have been revealing. He started from the beginning "...I know a respectable family who have made their fortune out of piracy..." In the meantime I would examine every single one of his words ready to catch some obscured double or hidden meaning that could lead us to the solution of the case, but didn't really know what it was that I was supposed to be looking for. Then, suddenly, I realized that he had changed his story completely. He was now talking about an android playing the trumpet!! "An android... a robot? Playing a trumpet? What's this all about? Where does it come from? You didn't mention an android before!" "I didn't!" he said looking completely lost in madness.
A few months later, I was doing some pruning and trimming around the garden at the back of my nursery when I decided to move some of the flower plants by the pond to the greenhouse. Out of the blue I made a connection between a phlox I was about to pot and Filippo's flower. And realized that that flower in his kitchen was nothing else than the most common of our flowers, a floxia! So, how, why on earth could I not recognize it when he showed it to me, that day? This is a great mystery. Inexplicable. It made me reconsider the whole story, because this time I couldn't blame it on his insanity. It was me this time, who couldn't recognize something I see every single day. Can you find any plausible explanation? Imagine all of a sudden you don't recognize you own mother!"
"This I don't know, Aimo, but I dreamt of a dwarf playing the trumpet last night!"
"Oh, that's a weird dream, too!” But in Filippo's it was a robot playing a trumpet and a dwarf bursting a balloon!
"Yeah but the sense is the same! And anyway, it also has a hidden treasure! I was on a desert island. But earlier I was on the most luxurious liner cruising unexplored oceans and rivers, surrounded by beautiful people with whom I had a great time. Every now and then the captain would announce the vicinity of a new wild island inhabited by monstrous creatures or primordial examples of the human species and we would all run up to the deck to take a look. The ship would stop for a few minutes so that we could all take photos and make videos while a member of the crew gave us a notion of the place such as the local customs, what their economy was based on, what kind of natural resources could be extracted, and so on. The rest of the time we would sunbathe and eat delicious food.
I cannot tell you why... the ship was wrecked and I found myself on this island with the dwarf and his trumpet. And... the island was covered in floxias. And the dwarf got eaten by them!"»
...
The apparently nonsensical story cited above is from a diary I have found in a box in the attic when I moved into the house I still live in. I found it amusing from the very first time I read it and I have since been studying it trying to make a sense out of it. For a start I had never heard about a flower called floxia and after some research I had convinced myself that it was a fictional name. There isn't a single book (as far as I know) where a flower or a plant with this name is mentioned. But then, one day doing my shopping in the street market around the corner I stumbled upon a florist stall who sold floxiaes in pots. When I asked where those plants came from he laughed and then told me that it really is a very common plant in our area. So why isn't it listed on any of the botanical books I have consulted? Not even on the Internet? That still is a mystery to me.
Then, some time later, I made, again by chance, another discovery. The story of the dream in the kitchen in Naples derived (more or less) from a play by Eduardo De Filippo, a Neapolitan. So, does that mean that whoever wrote the diary was a Neapolitan too? De Filippo isn't too well known outside his native country, which makes this very likely. The case was becoming more intriguing by the minute. Examining the manuscript, I noticed that different people have written it. At least two different handwritings are distinguishable, which could indicate it was perhaps some sort of game. So I set my investigation in that direction, but still couldn't come to any conclusions. I was becoming more and more obsessed and frustrated until one day I found another piece of the puzzle, a small piece of paper hidden in a crack in the kitchen wall. It read like this:
In this story all things are from the ocean and hopefully I’ll be able to give you enough clues to understand why.
«... on second thought we all have some secrets to protect and cherish. Hiding a treasure, even if it's the fruit of criminal activities is not always a condemnable action, in my opinion.
For instance, I know a respectable family who has made their fortune from piracy. The father and the mother spent the first twenty years (or so) of their union looting ships and fishermen's villages until they had enough of it, by which time they had put away enough money and valuables to live in grand style for several generations.
Although their house proves their enormous wealth, they lead a simple life. They have chosen to live in a hut they built themselves in their garden. Everybody in town adores them. Their two kids are growing up quickly in the fantastic world of their parents' adventure stories that they listen to every evening. One evening after a dinner in the garden I was invited to join them in the hut for one of their story-telling sessions. The kids were enchanted and I was in shock. On my way back home I almost crashed several times for my eyes were impregnated with the scenes of ruthless violence they just had so accurately and nonchalantly been depicting. That night I had the weirdest dream. Nothing to do with pirates, though.
...
I was... well, I can't remember where I was, where the action took place. I only have a very vague feeling of the place, which I don't know how to describe. I'm not even sure whether it was a familiar environment or not, though I still clearly feel that otherworldly atmosphere. I was having a nap. Of this I am sure. On a sofa, maybe on a rug on the floor. This isn't too clear. Then I remember a sailboat, but I couldn't swear it was a real one. Maybe it was a toy boat on a table in the room somewhere. Maybe it was a picture of a boat on the wall. Or maybe there was no boat whatsoever and I was just under the influence of the pirate story! But this is not important. What's important is that I was somewhere and I was having a nap, or trying to. Ok, so... I was snoozing all happy, about to enter the orphic underworld, when... somebody switched the TV on and it was so loud that I almost... Hang on! Was there a TV set in the room? Maybe not. I'm not sure, but this dwarf almost gave me a heart attack... maybe he burst a balloon with his cigarette or something? Not sure! ... So, to sum it up briefly, I was almost asleep when a dwarf walked into the room and woke me up bursting a balloon. At this point the sky outside suddenly opened up and... Wait! I was not on a sofa, nor on a rug. Maybe I wasn't even in a room... maybe I was laying on the lawn outside? I remember being bitten by tiny insects and I was all wet when I got up, as if it had been raining a little! How could it be? Oh God! I'm lost!
Everything was a mess in that dream.
The following morning I was not sure I had a dream at all. In fact my head was in a complete mess. I could see images from two different stories all mixed up.
The story that I could decipher more clearly was the other one. It was set in a very large kitchen of an old apartment in a post Second World War Naples. I somehow knew it was Naples although I couldn't tell you how. Two women were getting breakfast ready for the rest of the family who, one after another, would show up and, yawning, ask for coffee. Then neighbours came to visit, which was very strange considering the early hour. It was only just dawn. A clock on the wall above the dirty cooker indicated it was 6 am. The visitors were two brothers who lived in the apartment below. One was very young and the other one so old that he could have easily been his grandfather. They were acting friendly like usual until the doorbell rang again and a horde of policemen invaded the apartment yelling and pushing people around. At this point the old brother accused the family of a homicide that had taken place the night before. The police, without any question, handcuffed all the members of the family and took them away. The two neighbours and the doorkeeper, left alone in the house, turned the kitchen upside down in search of evidence of the misdeed. It seemed they knew exactly where to look and what for. But they did not find anything. No trace of a corpse. Only at this point did they realize that no crime had happened and the older brother admitted that he had been a dream. "Incredible - he said - It looked so real!"
The three men looked disappointed at first, then laughed as a sign of relief and celebrated the end of the nightmare with a cup of ink-black Neapolitan coffee.
Which one of these two stories was the one I had just spent the night on? Was it the first one, of which I have a faint memory or the second one? And why was it so important for me to find out? I was so confused I couldn't bear the gravity of all this uncertainty. I was going nuts, so I sat down with a coffee in front of the window to try to calm down and got caught in the perfection of a flower in a vase... Here it is." - he showed me a small vase with one flower - "Please, Aimo, help me with this! What flower is it?"»
...
«Filippo had come to my nursery to show me the flower that was of a kind I had never seen before either. He begged me to help him to find out what kind of flower it was. It seemed as if it was a question of life or death. He didn't even remember or know how it had ended up in that vase in his kitchen. We went through all my botanical books (I have hundreds of them!) trying to find the match, but in vain. I asked him repeatedly if he was sure that that flower had something to do with the story he had told me and he kept answering he was. He was starting to look ill, sweating and shaking from the exhaustion. I asked him to tell me the story once again. Maybe we didn't pay attention to something important before. Even just a tiny detail could have been revealing. He started from the beginning "...I know a respectable family who have made their fortune out of piracy..." In the meantime I would examine every single one of his words ready to catch some obscured double or hidden meaning that could lead us to the solution of the case, but didn't really know what it was that I was supposed to be looking for. Then, suddenly, I realized that he had changed his story completely. He was now talking about an android playing the trumpet!! "An android... a robot? Playing a trumpet? What's this all about? Where does it come from? You didn't mention an android before!" "I didn't!" he said looking completely lost in madness.
A few months later, I was doing some pruning and trimming around the garden at the back of my nursery when I decided to move some of the flower plants by the pond to the greenhouse. Out of the blue I made a connection between a phlox I was about to pot and Filippo's flower. And realized that that flower in his kitchen was nothing else than the most common of our flowers, a floxia! So, how, why on earth could I not recognize it when he showed it to me, that day? This is a great mystery. Inexplicable. It made me reconsider the whole story, because this time I couldn't blame it on his insanity. It was me this time, who couldn't recognize something I see every single day. Can you find any plausible explanation? Imagine all of a sudden you don't recognize you own mother!"
"This I don't know, Aimo, but I dreamt of a dwarf playing the trumpet last night!"
"Oh, that's a weird dream, too!” But in Filippo's it was a robot playing a trumpet and a dwarf bursting a balloon!
"Yeah but the sense is the same! And anyway, it also has a hidden treasure! I was on a desert island. But earlier I was on the most luxurious liner cruising unexplored oceans and rivers, surrounded by beautiful people with whom I had a great time. Every now and then the captain would announce the vicinity of a new wild island inhabited by monstrous creatures or primordial examples of the human species and we would all run up to the deck to take a look. The ship would stop for a few minutes so that we could all take photos and make videos while a member of the crew gave us a notion of the place such as the local customs, what their economy was based on, what kind of natural resources could be extracted, and so on. The rest of the time we would sunbathe and eat delicious food.
I cannot tell you why... the ship was wrecked and I found myself on this island with the dwarf and his trumpet. And... the island was covered in floxias. And the dwarf got eaten by them!"»
...
The apparently nonsensical story cited above is from a diary I have found in a box in the attic when I moved into the house I still live in. I found it amusing from the very first time I read it and I have since been studying it trying to make a sense out of it. For a start I had never heard about a flower called floxia and after some research I had convinced myself that it was a fictional name. There isn't a single book (as far as I know) where a flower or a plant with this name is mentioned. But then, one day doing my shopping in the street market around the corner I stumbled upon a florist stall who sold floxiaes in pots. When I asked where those plants came from he laughed and then told me that it really is a very common plant in our area. So why isn't it listed on any of the botanical books I have consulted? Not even on the Internet? That still is a mystery to me.
Then, some time later, I made, again by chance, another discovery. The story of the dream in the kitchen in Naples derived (more or less) from a play by Eduardo De Filippo, a Neapolitan. So, does that mean that whoever wrote the diary was a Neapolitan too? De Filippo isn't too well known outside his native country, which makes this very likely. The case was becoming more intriguing by the minute. Examining the manuscript, I noticed that different people have written it. At least two different handwritings are distinguishable, which could indicate it was perhaps some sort of game. So I set my investigation in that direction, but still couldn't come to any conclusions. I was becoming more and more obsessed and frustrated until one day I found another piece of the puzzle, a small piece of paper hidden in a crack in the kitchen wall. It read like this:
«The sand castle story is equally important (if not more). No one has mentioned it so far but I suggest you keep it into the right consideration, dr. Simoni. Remember the sand castle we made in your surgery? The idea occurred to us on the beach the day before. It was the five of us doing nothing else than eating and sunbathing. Each of us in our own world. A pirate ship sailed by, not far from the shore. Then another big boat approached it and they started cannonading against each other until they both sunk. It was the most spectacular thing I have witnessed in my life! ...»
This was actually the only legible part of that piece of paper as the dampness in the wall had turned the rest into a big stain of ink and mould.I always feel like I have to justify myself for something. Now that I've forgotten all that, I spend my evenings watching tropical sunsets from my garden and some times in my garden.
Six of Swords
Under a grey sky, a ferryman steers his small boat toward a distant landscape. On board a woman, completely shrouded, sits, hunched over, next to a small child. Six Swords are stuck into the boat, pointing down, however there is no leak. The guide stands behind them with a large oar, stirring up the still water as he slowly moves the boat nearer to that far-off shore, seen colorless out in the horizon.
The boat is central to the card's meaning – it is going somewhere, it is going away from where you are now. There is finality in this journey as not a single passenger even hints at turning around – the future is not yet visible but the past is definitively over. The swords are not affecting the boat even though they are stuck in the base – this is a metaphor for taking what you have learned with you as you go through life. This might not necessarily be a positive development as these Swords can represent past hurts you are carrying with you. This is a somber and serious card, but not an inherently negative one. The transition through which you are going is something to be taken seriously. A candid personal inventory is something that can assure this journey will have a positive impact.
Far out! ...
x
M.F.K.
I T O P I N O N A V E V A N O N I P O T I
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al gas
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Michelangelo Florio Crollalanza...
Did you know about the Crollalanza theory (quite clearly explained by Vittorio in the text below)? Well, I've only very recently learnt about it but I kind of knew it already. I had known it for a long time before reading about him although I didn't have any specific informations on who this character that kept showing up in my dreams since an early age actually was or where to place him in terms of time. All I knew was that he would wear funny cloths and speak a funny italian with strong Messina accent. Also he had a very theatrical way of acting. He would come and seat next to my bed and talk to me about things that I didn't have a clue about. Moreover he seemed not to mind the fact that I wasn't really paying attention as I was asleep and actually bothered by his presence. He would break into the story that I was trying to develope on my pillow and impose his variations to it and that was not nice of him. I've always prefered doing things on my own never really trusting the others especially if adults and he was one and even old, bold and wrinkly. ...
I'M TIRED NOW SO I'LL CONTINUE MY STORY LATER. MEANWHILE YOU CAN READ VITTORIO'S TEXT BELOW...
I'm back!
... One morning, for instance, he completely ruined my whole life! The situation was the following:
The sky was blue, but a very dark blue, almost black. It was a night. All very dark except for the sun that was already starting to show up from behind the far mountains. It was dusk. Dawn actually, not dusk but dawn. Sorry.
I was....
I'LL BE BACK... i FEEL SO VERY LAZY TODAY!
I'M TIRED NOW SO I'LL CONTINUE MY STORY LATER. MEANWHILE YOU CAN READ VITTORIO'S TEXT BELOW...
I'm back!
... One morning, for instance, he completely ruined my whole life! The situation was the following:
The sky was blue, but a very dark blue, almost black. It was a night. All very dark except for the sun that was already starting to show up from behind the far mountains. It was dusk. Dawn actually, not dusk but dawn. Sorry.
I was....
I'LL BE BACK... i FEEL SO VERY LAZY TODAY!
Dicembre 2039
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Beside producing work for public exhibition i have, since the very beginning of my artistic carreer, been also making things for myself, paintings and sculptures or projects of other nature not meant to ever be shown anywhere else than my house or studio. Works that i'd regard as maybe a bit too intimate and personal to deserve people's interest, nevertheless ... The drawings and sculptures in "Dicembre 2039" belong to this typology of work. The show consists of a series of 5 very large scale drawings and a few small sculptures derived from them (tridimensionally depicting objects and things in the drawings). When I first started this "private project" back in 2003 the basic idea was to dedicate an intricate drawing to the inner world of each member of my closest family as immagined from my point of view. That meant that each one of us (i'm one of my closest family's members!) would have to have their own drawing and that it should have been of large dimensions so to allow all the corners of their personalities to be shown. The main subjects came from family photo albi while the rest of the things surrounding them came mostly from old sculptural works of mine. The sculptures in the show, though, aren't the original ones (that got lost or destroied over the years) but rather copies of the drawn copies.
Some of the drawings got seriously damaged, over the years, too, so the five in the show are the only remaining ones.
There is so much more to be told about the works in this show and it would take me so long to write the whole odyssey they have been through that I'll stop here for now.
manfredi
Max Wigram Gallery
London
24 november - 22 december 2010
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the picture below has nothing to do with the above text, of course...
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