The twisted and bent matter, the design of thought is arranged in a cross-section, like a relief, cinemascope of the exiled present. The objects, cold and shiny, furnish the basic steel floor, within the borders of the Country of Exilium. Just outside, in an already foreign land, the bodies act which, exposing themselves in the most intimate occupation, re-form epiphanies and parentheses of vital, human and social memory. But it is fiction, only the living –room of the show – of the memory, of the postponement, of the farewell gesture, and then of the return is real.
The images, above as in the sky, like serial paintings reject clips of the elsewhere just felt, felt, sought in the homeland in exile – Bucaresti, Costanta – of those who live in the distant one, Italy. But even there one is far away, alone, the man's gaze on the balcony does not recognize the crowd passing below. The gaze is in confinement, in yesterday's time.
Again “Me here or me not here”: this is the point, the real problem of those who live far away. Childhood is sung in an unknown language –Polish ? – and monkeys and tigers re-enter cages furnished with steel rocks. Words rest on the roughness of things, among these a sail that can only drown, die like a woman on the bottom of every sea.
