The green leaf, the green fiber, reminds me that life always has an uncontrollable rhythm of juices. Then, on the right, a sky without birds, only with clouds.
Is there a paradise behind the birds?
Leaf scratches: veins.
Holes in the sheet: scars.
I’m sure, always sure, I don’t need questions: the scars speak. It is the words that are silent.
Three photos side by side in a triptych cinema/documentary. Eyes wander from side to side hoping you won’t miss a thing along the way.
Voice: “It is the foot that makes the earth.”
The leaf has veins like a man’s body and in the veins proper blood flows for the leaves.
A trip over the city. about cities.
“It is the foot that makes the earth.”
Black silhouettes walk in line. Let each of us guess which direction he is going, which fate is his.
The bodies are mixed.
Bodies separate, but fingers stay together…
I return to Ouidah, that extravagant place in Africa where there is still a fort built by the Portuguese at the beginning of the point of no return.
To me, silhouettes are slaves on their way to the sea as the boats that carry them into their bondage await them. The point of no return is a long straight path from Aweidah to the sea. On its shores are voodoo statues. Snakes on the ground.
Snakes for me shackles.
I know where the silhouettes go in their graduated stride. Walk to never again.
I feel what I see. Everyone will feel different things. I sat watching and ended up thinking. and feel. I want to see that again.
The hat that rolls down, pushed by the wind, flees from the girl chasing after him, is Chaplin. The girl gives up, and yet she smiles. The hat continues to lunge its head. He is also smiling. It’s a free hat now. The wind gave him freedom.
At the point of no return, the wind whistled through the acacia branches. No longer free. Nothing is left. It was just a wind whistling through the branches of acacia, as black and ink figures, men and women, set one foot in front of the other on the sea road carved from the Guinea Sea.
“It is the foot that makes the earth.”
It is the foot that makes the floor of all the silhouettes that pass in front of the thin lines of the broad leaf. It’s the sap.
There is no return to the earth.
It is the land of no return.
In Aweidah, the foot is no longer important. There was a limitation on every foot. Only one walked forward, straight, on its way to the sea, perhaps to death.
point of no return.
I see it again in front of me on the three screens I watch carefully.
Music sets the pace. Sometimes the sound of a piano is key by key. Others have a touch of the military career. And tango dance background as well.
Men antagonize each other in the street in black and white. Men are black and white, not the street. Or rather, the street as well.
They wore a suit, coat, ties, and hats. They pay each other. argue. There are no sounds. Music playing sounds only. Only Marcello Mastroianni is missing. Italian confusion. “Che casino!” What is this street? from which city? I don’t know. I have an eye room only for guys who push each other. They don’t hit each other. They just pay.
Suddenly it hurts. It’s the piano. The piano hurts.
Nani Moretti has a piano like this for her dead son. A dead child is a weight that life cannot bear.
The dead child is a crack. The foot is stuck, life goes on, the father of the dead child pauses in the eternity of the moment, as if it were a picture. father picture.
And the voice says: “Don’t wait for the time.”
Yes, it will pass anyway. Nobody can contradict him.
It is the foot that makes the incision. A dead son kills a father.
The journey of oblivion.
Then I who never forget.
Anna says: “We believe that we have made a play, something cinematic, capable of translating our time, and searching in the memory of what we have forgotten the most important thing about us: the essence of man throughout history, pointing out the mistakes and glories that we forget so many times for fear of being remembered.”
I never forget to remember
I never remember to forget.
The paper is like the palm of your hand. Risks with right angles, zigzag approx. I’ve never seen the palm of my hand through the sheet.
It is the hand that makes the gesture.
The dark room. People sit in a semicircle. Some are lying on giant pillows.
Climb up to Cais da Rocha in Conde de Óbidos. Soldiers go to war with the prospect of no return. Good vision: does life have a return? When we walk from Aweidah to the sea, to the rhythm of fetters, we know we will never go back and never will. A child crying in his mother’s lap. White handkerchiefs, the side of the boat full of men with a hole in their chests before they heard the sound of bullets. The boy is crying. How old are you today?
It’s not the bullet that kills. it is time.
Whenever I see old pictures on screens, I look at people and suddenly ask myself: How many of them are still alive?
It is not the hand that makes the gesture. That’s life.
Soldiers go to war.
No, it’s not war that makes men either. War corrupts men.
Anna says: “We opened the Journey to Oblivion after four years of artistic creation, in the best possible location and in the excellent company of the artists that MAAT has shown. It can only be because we have such a short memory that we repeat mistakes like that infamous war on our doorstep. These and other hidden wars that fill the news … »
No, it’s not the gesture that makes the war, it’s the men.
The men are leaning on the side of the ship. Gesture now goodbye. The boy cries in his mother’s lap.
You probably don’t even know what’s going on. The collective grief is spreading everywhere. Like cancer. in silence. in hiccups. Never believe when they tell you that grief is divided. Every time we share grief with someone, someone gets a piece of it. In other words, it multiplies.
Pregnant woman hesitates. Cross the road or not? Belly hope. But afraid to ride. A fear of the past. Pregnant woman practicing the step and resisting. I don’t know if it was her or the camera. got involved in the movement. pending intent. Intent to cross the road with the child inside. alive child.
It is not the feet that make the way.
It is not the belly that makes hope.
Is hope on this side or on this side of the street?
It is not the street that makes the foot.
Now I learned that love is an owl. An owl and another owl and another owl and another. First a path, then the other way around. Lonely first. Then a sky full of owls that cross like planes.
The plane takes off from any airport.
Pictures. Postcards. London and Paris. New York and Moscow. Suburbs unrecognizable, like all suburbs, our suburbs from within, places where there are remnants of an ancient existence mixed up somewhere in a nameless memory yard or whatever lives.
The verse by Mia Couto has an English translation: it is called Largo Horizonte.
Don’t wait for the road
It is the foot that makes the earth.
Do not wait for the time:
Love is what invents the lover.
may fall, desert,
In the dust of despair:
The dream will come back to you
Which, silent, reshapes our soul.
You don’t want infinity.
Just be someone else
Those others who, without knowing it,
Don’t wait for the road
It is the foot that makes the earth.”
I confess: the pregnant woman preferred to cross the street. I don’t know why, I felt safer on the other side.
It is not the pregnant woman who leads the way.
I’m on the other side waiting for you. But I already knew that I would wait in vain. She raises her shoulder a little, she has a red dress and a belly and is about eight months old. Now how old are you, I will wait.
I will keep waiting forever. Tomorrow or the day after I’m back in the dark room where poems, pictures, and music mingle to make sure the pregnant woman didn’t cross the road. It bothered me not knowing if he had crossed or not. It bothered me not to know the news of the crossing.
Crossing is necessary. Living is not necessary.
Old photos of people without days. Mothers with babies in their arms. The characteristic of seriousness is for those who want to see themselves trapped in frames. Is this how you get to eternity?
“I hope that our journey through oblivion will open the way for the creation of a new memory in the future: to build a tomorrow that we will be proud to leave for future generations,” Anna says. As Mia used to say, yesterday, the history we learn in schools is full of stories about wars and military conquests.
We forget everything we did out of solidarity. It was mutual assistance that saved us from the vicissitudes of human existence. Being the fragile species that we are, we have been saved thousands of years by our ability to do incredibly generous acts. We, the three authors, nurtured the dream of creating a work that would also make for an epic of love and life, despite all the scoldings of human history. I hope they see us that way.”
I don’t know what I saw. I know what I thought.
Little Chinese girl surrounded by candles Fatima.
The sky with the clouds slowly passing by is not from oblivion, it is a memory.
Children with smeared faces in paintings of poor clowns. Laughing, smiling, surprised, confused.
The clown is not laughing.
They are the boys.