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"A FANTASTIC TALE" I get ready to build a work. I close my eyes and slip on a hollow path, which is sheltered by branches and leaves vaults. On my eyelids the light of the heath over there, golden and clear. I come to the threshold and I dive. Woods of trunks, labyrinths with black columns against the ink blue of the horizon; endless branches, crystalline explosion of green; ships with their trembling glitters floating in the black velvet. I pursue crazy lanes, up swirling peaks and deep down towards heavy-with-red rooms. In the glade carpets made by beech leaves, a white chair, sound of sax. I drink lights of leaves, of flushed lives, dances of angels and candles, wardrobes vibrant with childhood and wet paints, pencils and glasses, stacks of books and pendulums, clusters of flowers and piano chords, curly leaves and dust, sparkling merry-go-round rides and jingles. Forms quickly slink out, adventures made by paper, changing shapes; lightning of wire on horses and streetlights. Stop the acrobatic mind. The feverish hand is chasing the shifty splinters of the fantastic journey, trapping in the matter glimmers of over there. The work rises, precious crop of the remote wandering, fragile bud of that faded garden. From "A fantastic tale" - Tema Celeste n.55 - (November, 1995) Back