RadioSpia

Is it possible to insufflate life into the dead heart of an ancient engine, reanimating it for a short miracle of time, not letting death be forgotten in the process, but rather demanding it to stay in the background as an alert sentry sharing in such resurrection? Who would ever expect oxygen to be forced into inert lungs gone sclerotic so that illusion of breath may be recreated, without usurping them from the disease dwelling there? How can you draw water from a tap dried out by time, without its patina of rusty thirst being lifted up? How would you inoculate sound into the empty riverbeds of a stone ghost, held together by mere absence and random echoes, a solitary net woven with recesses someone would call “a place” so long ago, without dissolving the silent fog of forgetfulness? Is it really possible, in about six minutes and half, to switch on a lifeless body again, so long as death never moves away? It is, indeed.

By means of a knowing juggling with well balanced wakes of images built-up as speeches, picture sections as phrases and shot particles as monosyllables. Of course, it’s possible to joust between life and death, through black and white hues saturation grinding old writing desks, the use of which is none but guarding dreadful hallways only made of light and dark. It may be possible, by measuring out blinding gray and pearly-like whiteness of sea reverberations, massive battlements and towers cathedrals, solids and voids in a turned to stone hamlet, only inhabited by itself, just as walls with crosses in place of eyes and crosses with eyes full of compassion being mocked by the Nothing around and the secret life swarming beneath. Possible, through the greedy and swift assault carried out by luscious colour, dense with fake brightness, invading worn out roofs, oceans of weed running wild, walls weeping salty coral flakes of plaster; a cruel colour lashing exposed vein-like branches slithering up along the partitions, turning the moss covering sink rims into acid green.

Possible, by flooding as much the bare and neat surfaces of Piranesian architectures with bright slate as the irregular ones along narrow neglected paths with liquid flare.
But this imaginary whole of wincing chromatism knows its own way towards respectful composition, letting only the seagulls heir the voices as well as the insects retrace the steps of this non-place.
In the end, colour must withdraw, resuming its credible dress, to faraway corners of real world apart. It leaves just one shade behind, the only one to be returned to ashes. (Miriam Ravazzone – librarian)