Who will you meet?
Running parallel to my course is an external, extended line, which coincides with my existence in accordance with my gaze. This line assumes a sense and opens to twists depending on how fast and in what direction I move.
When I first stepped into Cittadellarte I perceived this sense clearly and determinately. I saw myself reflected not on the Mirror Paintings, but on the gaze of the artist who had questioned himself before me.
The human being who shakes things up to find the code.
Who will you meet?
The shipwreck explodes. It divides. The people separate to reverse to the minimum term: the individual.
The shipwreck is definitely dramatic. Swimming in the eye of the hurricane, relying partly on one’s own strengths, partly on the benevolence of fate to find a new system, or rather the original system (the ship reveals itself to be a superstructure).
This new paradise is Earth, the desert island we land on.
Who will you meet in this emptiness?
Who will escort you? Who will make your tools? Who will produce your food?
Who will you meet in the distance?
The emptiness lying in excessive fullness. A saturation of senses, a conditioning by asphyxia.
The alternative is an inverse emptiness, an interior darkness.
These questions reflect a single ego. Meeting ourselves, going back to our own darkness and feeling the damp walls of our own emptiness. What we are not. What is missing.
Looking at ourselves in the mirror in a solitude without reflections, without interferences by the ship radio.
The first necessary meeting is therefore with ourselves. All of us, or almost, have looked at ourselves in the eyes.
Integrating the darkness. And when our demons have been freed, we will have to look into their eyes too, understand them and listen to their reasons. They will then be muted again, but they will be valid allies, wise advisors that will remind us that they are nonetheless alert, aware on a daily basis.
Let’s now go back to the island, to its fruits, to its possibilities. The individual that has looked at their own darkness can now work on the emptiness. The distance from what they knew. The new world becomes ancient, the ancient world is now the new one. Forged by an evolutionary attitude, the new individual will place themselves on Earth with a wide, open gaze. They will therefore meet the other, what is outside themselves. They will recognise that it deserves to exist in spite of the diversity. Going back to make sacred. Each living being is therefore the other and, as such, a companion in this experience.
The shipwreck lets buildings fall, uncovers their foundations, exposing them to the extreme weather. When reality unveils its illusory nature we have the opportunity to rethink it. The emptiness contained in these buildings becomes obvious. A clean slate.
Each being, each human, animal, vegetable, mineral carries within itself an element of a universal plan with a modality that cannot be supremacy , but only collaboration. Seeing therefore the emptiness again while making it sacred, making it soar. Destructuring what appears to be solid, historicised. Seeping into the cracks to reach the roots and then free them, know them, help them rise instead of compressing them in cement blocks.
That is how much personal power a single human is allowed to have
That much is their ill-fated obtuseness in amassing tangles, in inheriting unawareness.
As inclination is taught – beauty
We provide with emptiness – we contaminate with chaos.
What has been dissolved – will have to be. Or the bundle will grow, until it colonises worlds
Invalidating other positions, covering the rest.
A child inherits the responsibility to dissolve – the tangles of their tree,
If they avoid them, they will fall into their traps, stumble in the growing tangles.
Inheriting a line – implies knowledge – experience – responsibility.
A resolved line – turns into a path – aware.
An unravelling line is a forest. Made of paths already traced and to be traced.
An unravelling line – means holding our perception in our hands – telling our tangles
Like a rosary to be transformed.
An intertwined, confused, tight line is a condemnation. A psychogenetic curse we carry in our breast pocket. A trinket we turn between our fingers, instilling it with life by forgetting about it.
A line that is not a line anymore always yearns for a new order – to the extremes
And if no intent frays the nebula – it will keep tightening. Clumping.
All that does not get dissolved – will tend to compress – will attract fire
A line of chaos will search for scissors – cutting in order to give back.
A non-line will try to implode – will wink to defeat
To go back to having a head and a tail.
Will you meet? Or would you rather form a herd?
Will you be who has been seen or who is seen? Will you fall into the mirror without reaching the bottom
Or will you remain on the placid surface, floating on the shadow
Of your well-defined cheekbones?
The moment you take control of your line
You will begin weaving yourself at last
And you will build starting – from foundations you have laid yourself
And not from a base you have been assigned – with full and empty spaces already defined
A house populated by ghosts
And directions engraved, trickled on your skin – burning it.
I want to explore the cold
To then know and be the sun,
I want to bloom
as a pervasive plant
and not to stop at the railings
or at some wall.
May my roots dig the earth – for as long as they can
To nourish the branches I will choose.
Who will you meet following the track already beaten? What will happen?
Who will you meet entering the emptiness? What will you become?
Starting unravelling our own bundle – in a sense
Means leaving the road that has been pointed out to us
Solving enigmas that have been assigned but do not belong to us
But which if left in the shadow – will influence our choices
They will cling to us like parasites – forcing us to be
What we would not want to be. We will then be an incarnation of the past,
we will carry the bundle – like a torch in the fog – to who elevating their conscience –
will decide to untangle it – or break it.
Each tree touches and chews the same earth,
all the roots
at the end of each branch there is a piece of fruit,
the individual – containing multitudes
and the seeds will be the trees,
the new air.
Who will you meet?
If you move, a priest. If you stay, engrossed in things.
Who will you meet in the dark?
Will the eyes be ready?
And what if you saw only the cover you lay
at each move,
and this were your brain?
Art is cold
But it gives warmth
Poetry understands that.
I could ask myself endlessly, who will you meet?
The answer would be plain, small, continuous.
Each of us is a world of their own, a magnet with the Earth. Each of us wanders around, coming across each other. It is us who set up the deception, deresponsibilising. Each time we avert our gaze from the road we are treading, we pretend, we move a weight like a pawn to an open space and we simply carry on. We assume that it does not concern us, that it is too late to choose and that the comfort we have received by right in this pantheon is not tradable. This way, we sensitise accordingly, adapting to the format proposed by the media community, setting ourselves on the standard that will allow us not to appear inhuman yet without renouncing the fruits of inhumanity. The opinion attacks the single individual, the event.
Death is fair if it delights me. It is fair if it is ashamed of this and hides. Death is fair if it is collective and not a rich man’s sport.
It is fair to differentiate if profits will be accrued and I will have something better compared to who says that it is fair to accept a compromise.
It is not necessary, but we enjoy it. It is not essential but we want it, wealth in being able to spit.
Wealth in forgetting how to make things, how they are made, how they work.
Children need dirt to grow, boredom to wish and invent. Wealth creates fullness and fullness suffocates. Emptiness is necessary to move towards. Without a space, wealth is not a condition of prosperity to rejoice in anymore, it becomes lack of research.
Fullness becomes emptiness and emptiness the fullness humans are hungry for.
It has come full circle, with an ode to insatiability, a praise to fear and its consequences.
What we learn as normal is nothing other than starting to see over the cover.
What we believe to be fair is what can be tolerated. Safe from the eye, which also always needs to be pleased.
The only possible move is to go back to the root, to shake knowledge off of us.