The superb modesty of the armour

Thursday 21st April 2005, 2.32 p.m
Below the incandescent stars
below the incandescent fruit,
the strange experience of beauty;
its existence is too much;
it tears one to pieces
and each fresh wave of consciousness
is poison."

(Marianne Moore)

Not many people know the theory of barriers, a game that consists in building defences lasting against external attacks for a limited while. It's a two players game. You can choose to stay outside and be the attacker, in this case you must find the way to pass the barrier. Otherwise you choose to stay inside and be the constructor of the barriers. In this case, you mustn't let me in.

"Protect me from ravagement
I'm ten years old
I don't know what to do"

Anyone who doesn't know the wood in that house, he doesn't recognize her. Yet she strips whenever she wants or when she's fed up with the draughts doors and windows do not stop. Anyone who doesn't know the hole in that house he doesn't recognize her. Yet she spends all days to gather the crumbles of plaster the corners save.

Not many people know the superb modesty of the armour, the perfect barrier.

"Protect me myself
I'm fourteen
There's nothing to do"

She moves fast, the sounds are those of everyday, and everyday something dies, slowly. The voices, always an instant before, intact food in front of the door, shadows and morning lights to watch the entrances. At night fireworks draw in the sky like creepers hardly climbing higher.

Insomnia like struggle is a strange form of voluntary banishment.

"Protect me yourself
I'm sixteen"

Insomnia like struggle is a strange form of voluntary banishment.

The washing machine has got its owns breath, and the things are secondary bodies.

"Protect me from starving
I'm eighteen"

I don't remember to have met her even if I longed for her image

Sometimes she tries to stay still while sliding down, there's no friction nor wish to fall. More naked than nudity she doesn't grasp at herself nor faces the tired fight.

"Protect me you
I don't know what to do"

The door has always been open

note : The words in bold type are from the lyrics of the song "Protect me you" by Sonic



Monday 25th April 2005, 2.34 p.m

Writing about Chiara's work is an intrusion, what she shows is enough , and what she shows is herself, it doesn't need to know much else. A body, a closed space, her house, then ten seconds, they're the edge between her, us, everything else around. More like the instant before the excitement than the breath to draw when one comes back to the surface, the brambles in the belly before a shot, the silence is broken and there won't be any way to mend what is there on the ground, in pieces. Her private space, a tide that strikes and divides, takes away and refuses, floods and dilutes, isn't the room we imagine or recognize by looking , it's that short time, and that time is a sound. Forms of life in ten seconds each, and there we can't get in, we'll always be before or after. There, she lives alone and sends us messages, with lazy confidence she gives herself, while she meets herself again and tells. We aren't utterly necessary, and it's better like this. What she shows us is a disconcerting clearness, whose fascination comes from the strange power she gives life to. Chiara lives a struggle, wearing her wounds and her nudity with the same confidence, she doesn't displays, she doesn't exhibits herself. She naked, more naked than nudity.

Augusto Petruzzi

Augusto Petruzzi ( Taranto 1972 ) Artist and writer, lives and works in Florence, where, among other activities, collaborates as literary and musical advisor with the theatre company Krypton. He is member of the editorial staff for Drome magazine.

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