Alessandra Morelli

For our fathers, a "house", a "fountain", a tower familiar to them, a garment, their mantle, were something infinitely more than for us, infinitely more intimate; almost everything was a vessel, in which they tracked down and kept the human. [R.M. Rilke, Letter to W '. von Hulevicz, 1925]
There are a few lines on the table. A page through the pages, rewritten in pencil, which reads aloud, following the letters with your hands and with something that is very close to a painful sweetness. It seems to say, the sculptor, that the words of the poet, those words, are so close to him that he almost manages to name the prodigy of his inner drive. The poet sings the humility of being able to save the familiar aura of visible and close things.

The sculptor enlivens the ethics of the daily gesture that digs into the white stone the paths of an open and larch shrine.
The poet embraces the warmth of a continuous and readable prophecy in reality.
The sculptor reads, in the paths of matter, stories of archetypes, water deposits and pine needles, which speak, in transparency, of the always recognizable time of blooms and collapses. The poet saves the silent correspondence of the objects he is holding in his hands. The sculptor, a blind and pure instrument, finds, in the embracing rock, the reason of his existential viaticum, of his syncopated speech within a story in search of a genuine anthropophagy, in which the earthly being embraces, at the same time, the visible and the invisible. They look like the works of Giuliani, waiting rooms.

Vertical and immovable paintings that harbor soft consistency of wheat, rhythmical and tapered grooves, which extend from the bottom, like arboreal fruits. Paper gifts nestled or flat expanses. Thin cartilage boxes. Walls, sometimes. They are the place of an articulate and poignant time, of going and of returns, in which the body of man and the organism of the landscape agree, resounding within a song balanced between empty and full, between the need to "make room" and to "find space" to forgotten memories, to lack, to loss, above all, because these revelations, recomposed in the intellectual design, come back as "new blood", sublimated in the epidermal white of a rarefied matter and dull, translated into a thin plastic tension, smooth and porous, open, or crumpled and franted, pushed, in some cases, to the boundaries of the molecular thickness and of the final rupture. The pain itself, a supremely creative condition, seems to be educated and ennobled by the fibers of a refined structural lightness, which, if, apparently, can be traced back to an aesthetic stellar distance attempt, renounces the consistency and confident spiritual order, sort of candid asceticism, in its dark side, in the imploded angles and never touched by light, preserves, however, the earthly density of an opposition in the story, the tormented and irregular voice of a precariousness of the form, put in constant discussion by the the very limit of not knowing how to see beyond the visible, the abyss between us and God is full of the darkness of God.

Thus, corporal education generates sentimental education. Listening to a story already written in the filigree of the subject, the sculptor, "thing between things", ages the time of his regeneration, crossing, as a naked seed, the loss of a part of himself, does not reject destiny, but on the contrary, while working, he accepts it in his becoming stone, which is the becoming of the artist himself, the stone and the acquisition of eternity by the subject. In the essential, touches, at the tips of fingers, the presentiment of some Truth, in its "rotting", the sense of a living in the Whole, which unites the silent language of men and that of animals, roses, trees of Cherry tree. A magnificent solitude. That going with oneself, which alone generates the Beauty of the unexpected, the day will come when my hand will be far from me, and when I will order you to write, I will write words that I did not want. The time of the other explanation will expire, and there will not remain a word on the other, and every sense will dissolve like clouds and fall back like water.

Automatically translated with Google translator. Report inaccuracies to This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it.