MASCARATA _
2016
2016
For Dario by Aldredo, text by Alfredo Pirri - Artist
1257. The fairy tale is almost the canon of poetry. Anything poetic must be like a fairy tale. The poet loves fate.
1258. Everything must be wonderful, mysterious and inconsistent in a good fairy tale; all animated. Always diferently. All nature must be strangely mixed with the whole world of spirits; the universal era of anarchy, lawlessness, freedom, the state of nature, the period before the world. This prior period provides, we will say so, the scattered traits of the era that will come after the world as well as the state of nature is a curious image of the eternal kingdom…1
Every poetic thing must be fairy…
The fairy tale, poetry, and lastly the image are the fulfillment of an organized movement which is perhaps even planned, designed in advance. Designed by whom? By the artist, by the place, from the case, after meeting of all this? Perhaps the design existed before, invisibly or, taking the term from the ancient technique, in mezzotint that is latent, to be revealed with brown smoke (of ideas), with imagination that only takes us beyond where the original scheme of each image laid before us. It is up to us retracing that paved road of images making us jump like on an old wagon with iron wheels, rousing us and making us jump mixing our bowel with our hearts.
All nature must be mixed…
The compound is a product usually related to the rubber industry. The term indicates the state of a material of natural origin (i.e. rubber) to which various chemical elements are added that make it usable for a broad use. Once, the same term was used to call different products, both for food origins (some types of polenta) and artistic use (the mix of pigments, Venetian turpentine, egg yolk, tragacanth gum, oil flax etc. to achieve oil tempera). This makes us think the so-called mixing things up, cards, races, shapes, sexes, ups and downs etc. is firstly the result of something essentially natural. But I like to think of not mixing so much, and not only, in the spatial context of living Nature (as a set of living beings and inanimate objects), rather as a result of something liquid and spontaneous going freely and wherever is a bed ready to host him. Or like water that creates its bed with vehemence and even violence by mixing (in fact) everything on its path.
The scattered traits of the era that will come after the world…
At the edge of this road we will happen to see the scattered limbs of those who before us tried the path and was thrown out of the wagon and, perhaps, ended up under the wheels of other wagons. The world is this landscape of ruins, it is the guardian. The artist looks away, he cries watching that disaster and wiping his tears with dirty hands of grey, promising to himself to keep that in mind for later... later when? The poet loves fate… Further, where the flood flowing in its dug up bed and redone by nature and strength leads us. Beyond, even slightly and briefly, that space and time that are given to cross, mostly in the most beautiful and vigorous moments. Beyond, where fate has found for us a permanent abode.
… In the glow of youth lamps lit too late. The first one shows her breasts that kill the insects that are red2.
2. Taken from: Max Ernst di Paul Eluard
1258. Everything must be wonderful, mysterious and inconsistent in a good fairy tale; all animated. Always diferently. All nature must be strangely mixed with the whole world of spirits; the universal era of anarchy, lawlessness, freedom, the state of nature, the period before the world. This prior period provides, we will say so, the scattered traits of the era that will come after the world as well as the state of nature is a curious image of the eternal kingdom…1
Every poetic thing must be fairy…
The fairy tale, poetry, and lastly the image are the fulfillment of an organized movement which is perhaps even planned, designed in advance. Designed by whom? By the artist, by the place, from the case, after meeting of all this? Perhaps the design existed before, invisibly or, taking the term from the ancient technique, in mezzotint that is latent, to be revealed with brown smoke (of ideas), with imagination that only takes us beyond where the original scheme of each image laid before us. It is up to us retracing that paved road of images making us jump like on an old wagon with iron wheels, rousing us and making us jump mixing our bowel with our hearts.
All nature must be mixed…
The compound is a product usually related to the rubber industry. The term indicates the state of a material of natural origin (i.e. rubber) to which various chemical elements are added that make it usable for a broad use. Once, the same term was used to call different products, both for food origins (some types of polenta) and artistic use (the mix of pigments, Venetian turpentine, egg yolk, tragacanth gum, oil flax etc. to achieve oil tempera). This makes us think the so-called mixing things up, cards, races, shapes, sexes, ups and downs etc. is firstly the result of something essentially natural. But I like to think of not mixing so much, and not only, in the spatial context of living Nature (as a set of living beings and inanimate objects), rather as a result of something liquid and spontaneous going freely and wherever is a bed ready to host him. Or like water that creates its bed with vehemence and even violence by mixing (in fact) everything on its path.
The scattered traits of the era that will come after the world…
At the edge of this road we will happen to see the scattered limbs of those who before us tried the path and was thrown out of the wagon and, perhaps, ended up under the wheels of other wagons. The world is this landscape of ruins, it is the guardian. The artist looks away, he cries watching that disaster and wiping his tears with dirty hands of grey, promising to himself to keep that in mind for later... later when? The poet loves fate… Further, where the flood flowing in its dug up bed and redone by nature and strength leads us. Beyond, even slightly and briefly, that space and time that are given to cross, mostly in the most beautiful and vigorous moments. Beyond, where fate has found for us a permanent abode.
… In the glow of youth lamps lit too late. The first one shows her breasts that kill the insects that are red2.
—REFERENCES
1. Taken from: Novalis
“Frammenti” 1976 Rizzoli Editore, Milan2. Taken from: Max Ernst di Paul Eluard
translations by
Alessandra Di Sante
Alessandra Di Sante