The strong hour

the firmament

- are you smiling already?

shows a primordial pattern

 

just see,

- I tend to believe what you say

the stars in the strong hour

 

observation is an exercise

for steady hearts, eyes

need more solid bodies

 

over this tiny valley

(I’m reading in your diary)

the moon is slipping unnoticed,

only roots-equipped beings know

what is going on

and where

 

flames and ice

the transit of a celestial body

fuel

 

from this perspective

it isn’t worth the trouble

- a domestic injury, at most

 

So, let’s take this chain of events

(contemplation is a pastime for respectable mademoiselle)

some parsimony is preferable, I guess

 

metamorphosis is what I’m most afraid of:

memories lend themselves to misinterpretations

easy targets – they become

easy targets

- for moths

 

Interior – Varano de Melegari Castle, Parma – Italy

# 5

The Turkish collector

"The Flea market" part 3. Part 1 here. Part 2 here.

“An expensive illusion of immortality?”

Oh my God, no. I’m just a collector and as a collector I plumb the depth of life through art.

At that time, I was more than that. I was some sort of faithless mystic man. Someone who stands between coexisting contrasts: the plan and the act, the charm and the revulsion, the routine and the unknown.

The picture suited me and I bought it. I was still persuaded that key events could block the clock and beauty unveil the truth. I believed artworks needed the hand, other than the viewer’s eye, to get a motion. And it was not for passion or lust if I dared to touch the line of that pale back far beyond the frame; rather a way to ignite the sacred fire of inspiration.

Then, life taught me I was wrong and man is nothing more that a bright reflection the moment before diving into dark waters. And history lies heavy on his shoulders. How could art represent him without darker, more tangible and denser colors?

It had nothing to do with the photo. I got rid of it ‘cause I changed school of thought.

That’s it.

Bardi Castle – Inside view – Parma, Italy

MicroFICTION # 20

Léger’s human figure

"The Flea market" part 2. Part 1 here.

No, I didn’t break up with him for that photo.

For that photo, no, indeed. It was of a Machiavellian ambiguity; it lacked of passion or the renaissance features that hold the observer’s elbow while stepping into the frame, waiting for him to be accustomed to the lights and ready to be overwhelmed by the story.

Where was the symbolic bridge that links the inside to the outside world? And that mirror game, it gave it but a flat double-reading, like a playing-card.

The scene was factitious, accurate but cold and even the female body, mine in that case, tossed like that in the middle of the room couldn’t mitigate the unpleasant feeling of the imminent drama.

I pointed all this out and he took it badly.

The flame increased. “Human figure is not more important than a key or a bicycle” he said citing Léger. “It’s nonsense” I replied “Léger gave every single element of the scene a plastic value, making it part of the artwork, including the human figure!”

We argued still for some time, then the insolent whiteness of his shirt slipped into a taxi.

Yes, I broke up with him for that photo.

London – UK

MicroFICTION # 19

 

The flea market

She flung the door wide open, then went in and threw at me an old wooden frame, abruptly.  I recognized it at once. I took that shot myself at the beginning of my career and it caused – that’s what she used to say – the end of our affair.

It was still nice; a portrait of her, naked, the back turned. A natural geometry made it very interesting but, due to an unintentional mirror game, some details in the scene told more than expected. A piece of blue sky, something vivid but out of focus and the dark silhouette of a branch reminded of the joy of living, while the black dress on the unmade bed evoked nothing but the ghost of the woman who had once worn it. Though in evidence, she looked distant, elsewhere.

That’s why she left me.

So, I decided to get rid of that picture and sold it to a Turkish collector. I chose him impulsively. More than once, I imagined him standing still in the middle of a room in a flamboyant museum full of golden stucco, trying to follow the line of that pale back far beyond the frame and grab, finally, his expensive illusion of immortality.

When I asked her how she got it back, I received a bitter and illogical answer.

“What the hell!” I told myself “I can’t stand flea markets”.

Against the light

MicroFICTION #18

Brunch chez Burlot

“International Exposition”

 

along the way

the glass temple welcomes

pictures, stories

 

light and shadow

join together

on a concrete wall

 

four square meters

a single room

to get rid of the blues

 

the air smells good, outside

(getting rid of the blues

is for wishful thinkers)

 

a fistful of steam

comes out of your pocket,

do you hide the remnants of fantasy, yet?

 

a stained petal

breaks the frail harmony

of your flower dress

 

the weight of the words

now falls on your lips,

- try again…

 

the weight of the words

now rests in your throat

- saying goodbye in a whisper…

 

the petal disappeared along with its stain,

there is nothing special

in those who stay

 

still on the platform

(sacred image in the circle of the sun)

watching the tail of the train

 

the empty rails.

Elliott Erwitt exhibition of photography – Arrangement

#4

Tie them strong

scraps of fabric

carefully sewn to the sky

(look twice, those aren’t clouds)

 

a secure knot,

some thread, the needle

a couple of painful stitches

 

in the tragedy of the names,

a map to cross the desert

of the memory

 

bent, still at work

the hand moves up and down,

commanding the tide

 

a whisper on the lips,

the thread trembles a while

then flutters away – not that far away

 

scraps of fabric, fragments of life,

tie them strong ‘cause time will try to rip them off

(like the rudest passer-by)

Giudecca Island, Venice – Italy

#3

Shadowless

sprout opens

the gathering night

 

the mysterious source uncovered

(inside: pure memory)

waiting, still

 

dark figures murmuring

about the weak nature of things,

- listening

 

travelling light is important

(only a shade of melancholy)

they say

 

shadowless fingers don’t intertwine,

hardly stay on the right side

the stars

 

if they’re just masks with empty eyes

(pointing the finger)

who can explain for all that sky

the reason?

Giudecca Island, Venice – Italy

# 2

Likeness

It was the first day of summer. Sitting on the garden wall, we were debating about dynamism.

“What makes space real” you asserted “are – undoubtedly – the objects!”. I couldn’t but disagree because, in my opinion, the only way to define space was through the movement. The idea of sequence imposed itself then, but it was strictly related to the inconsistency in the dissimilarity.

I clearly remember that the conversation got worst when we analyzed the concept of likeness, in other words “how different is what, at a first glance, looks similar?”.

In that moment someone took a snapshot. Here it is. Oh my God, we look so serious!

“Now, tell me. Don’t you find here that livid Hyperrealism of the mug shots?”

microFICTION # 16

Flemish interiors

I shouldn’t go to sleep after watching movies because when I close my eyes everything turns real, which includes the moon squeaking behind the window pane and the hair becoming needles that prick my fingertips.

So it was that a moon beam entered the room illuminating my soul while observing with a certain curiosity the faded tapestry. The scene – I must admit – was a bit dark and severe, just like those old Flemish interiors and made me feel uncomfortable.

“I like the way you manage the space, it’s effective” she said. “In truth” she added adjusting a crooked frame “I didn’t expect anything so tangible, rather a labyrinth of mirrors, you know..”.

I was on the point of claiming when I woke up. What was she talking about? My usual lack of beliefs concerning the future, perhaps?

microFICTION #15

Four golden coins

The tinkling of four golden coins grabbed everyone attention. That was the reward the foreigner threw across the table. Will that gang of idlers be brave enough to face off – that very night – the gods of the storm?

All eyes turned to the man who stood up to count them before bursting into laughter.

He grabbed hold of his hat and flung the door open giving voice to the angry wind of the night. Once on the doorstep, he hesitated and when the door got shut abruptly, he was still in. He came back to the candle light with no more hint of irony on his face. “You can’t even image what it is like in the eye of the storm” he said to the foreigner “how could you understand anything like the resentment of the sky, the eternal agitation of the sea, the aversion the wind has felt to the earth since the very first day? Oh no, you can’t. Go away. It’s not your business, it’s ours”.

“I see” the foreigner replied “but I cannot bear the idea of a place where there’s no room for me”.

The empty space

microFICTION #14