February 16 - March 18, 2017
Voices that are blended, in a terse and rambling timbre, with incorruptible fragments of existence and, most of all, a great deal of apparent motionless calm.
Too marked a malaise that verges on black, taming the night and the great, dark clouds, swollen with rain. With glacial purity, the light isolates torpors and fatigues while the pulse grows so faint that it becomes a shadow. Sharp effects of light and shade, or rather, giving the figure a hieratic character in a private geography of affections under the cover of darkness and with the alibi of profundity.
Lingering on the forms while from far away comes the dirge of Beatrice Cenci in the act of being led to her execution.
I’m worried, something is about to happen but I don’t know what.
My dear, read me the newspaper. I don’t understand anything: what is going on? Listen, there’s a void of silence, an almost human noise that starts off shrill and ends up dull.
“Is this the moon or the sun?”
“It’s the moon, never seen the red moon?”
“Mum, if the light goes away, will you go blind?” asks a child.
I’ve the impression that it all stems from a fruitful error generated by the illusion of the senses, from what pertains to the illegible, from that contact between feelings and things that is striking for its material density, in its essential brutality, in relief and rank. It comes back incessantly, haunted and obsessed.
Madame has renounced the cohesion of the flesh, has broken up her body in the nerves of the senses. Her illuminated face is crowned with a head of hair like flames. Enclosed in her non-identity, she wears dragon’s-blood-red dresses that gird her body without organs. She doesn’t walk but floats erratically in the empty air. Deaf, blind and alone, and above all, lost in her dream.
Out of what tragedy has she emerged? Out of what loves? Out of what incest? The current propels her, lifting her and carrying her toward other destinies. And then the platinum blond my dear, with purple highlights, sun and flesh, as unique and unpredictable as any act in life. KRIS, like in an imperfect ellipse, mute and shut up in a silent otherness.
“It’s in the sky, the cataclysm is in the sky, the moon is falling, I tell you the moon is falling. Look: it’s coming unstuck, it’s falling.”
“Let it fall!”
My dear, read me the newspaper. I don’t understand anything: what is going on?
“Spider house spider, radiant with sunlight. A dark- haired dawn, a poisonous air that smothers the mind like a wig.”
“Well... since then I’m no longer a lunar creature in a lunar life. Do you understand me?”
Jack contemplates once again his miserable fate, then without hesitation, nor any sign of emotion, pulls out a revolver from his pocket and shoots himself in the head. Unknown passersby cover his face with a newspaper.
Milan, February 16, 2017
Text by Rita Selvaggio
Translation by Huw Evans