- 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

“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

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

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

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

He used black to fill in the eyes with irony and yellow to enhance the nature of a face; a shade of red to instill a sense of ambiguous turbulence. Finally, some white to mitigate the strength of the ensemble.

His work was a sort of popular census, something that he did obstinately and shamelessly.

“No, it doesn’t work”. He burst out one day. “What ’m looking for is the spark of a more genuine humanity”.

Then he fell silent, grabbed a knife and began removing the seeds from a big slice of watermelon.

(genuine humanity) London – UK

MicroFICTION #17

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

The consequence of this is that peacocks are peaceable birds“.

Bertrand Russel

Rose & Light blue marble papers, peacock tail effect (click on the picture to visit the website, otherwise enjoy the colors of these amazing hand decorated papers)

# 1

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

“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