GOLFO MISTICO
ENRICO TEALDI

OPENING 2 APRILE 2014

STILL HERE

Giorgio Falco

Homes, objects, humans, rare trees and animals, the whole world survived. We had confidence in the seduction of politics, military marks, commodities, jingles, the language of billboards.

We were spectators, now we go out silent, we head off demure and dispersed, scattered and recomposed to the maximum in a duo, which sometimes becomes a couple or maybe twice.

The roots support us, elevate the earthly matter on which we carry on, in the continuous luminous crossing. We advance surrounded by sandy light, the sand has been sifted in vain, remains clinging to the enveloping light. The world is a huge beach, we wear swimwear, they are not just garments, tinsels, we were born like that, we never look like shipwreckers or fugitives, but not even tourists, we make small movements, maybe we want to immerse ourselves in a hypothetical sea , here invisible.

The land, even the most flat and level, becomes bounded, dizzy, and after every step we can decide to stop, stand in a sort of panoramic viewpoint.

If we turn to fix the footprints on the sand, we do not recognize our footsteps, we come from a mysterious elsewhere, and the crossing of color - the mere insistence of brown shades, the degradation of gray, beige - is the place of fading.

We sit down with our back on the path done. We are willing to stay in this position, if necessary forever, free from any expectation, strong backs, careless of past experience, disinterested in the future. We fix something surrounded by the glory of light, we are about to say a word, or we have just interrupted the sentence, we are in balance, on the invisible view, on the waste.

Sometimes, instead, we decide to stand up, supported by mysterious wires born out of the scene, arteries that bounce us into a slightly shifted center, and so we have to put our feet, archor us to the ground, cling to these subtle signs so as not to erode us from the light, from the optical phenomenon, which, however, compose us. These never-anxious gestures are unconnected with the urgency of survival, from the hierarchy, are simple ordinary actions that happen silently as in dreams, rites disconnected from every production process, only natural cyclicity, time scanning, out of it, from every widowhood: everything is quiet, the carousel's tent in a state of quiet, red plastic stacked chairs.

But dreams also pass, in the state of drowsiness of morning awakening, when the uncertain wake cradles the vision. We open our eyes again, the world appears to us as in a photo vignetting. Let's move the palm of the hand on the mirror. The black is swept away to isolate and disclose the image, that however always seems blurry, leaving a fringed alone around it, an eye, an eyelid on which long ruffled eyelashes fall, rhizomes that are perhaps flaws, cutaneous ending, traces of the palm that revealed the surface. We wash our hands and face with a little fresh water, in front of the mirror: we, the home where we were born, the creaking of the partitions, the wooden hut is an extension of a frame, the photo album in which we are finished also by alive, strange appearance. Yet it looks a bit clearer now. As in the photograph by Luigi Ghirri, which portrays an open gate. The brick supports have the pride of two cypresses. This time, compared to Ghirri's image, Enrico Tealdi allows us to put on a pair of glasses, which is right on the brick pillars, transformed into a nose. Behind that lightweight frame, lenses and invisible eyes became face. So let's look at those who look at us, self-portrayal of ourselves, memory of the world. From this provisional landing we can restart.