“Il mio segreto è una memoria che agisce a volte per terribilità. Isolata, immobile, sul punto di scattare, sto al centro di correnti vorticose che girano a spirali in questa stanza dove i miei cento orologi sgranano battiti diversi in diversi timbri. Se alzo il capo li vedo fiammeggiare, e ad ogni tocco di fuoco corrisponde un’immagine. Sempre sono trascinata fuori di me dalla tempesta di vivere. Che cosa è il tempo, e perché deve considerarsi passato? Fino a quando viviamo esiste un solo tempo, il presente. Una forza struggente mi prende alle viscere: costruttiva o devastatrice non mi è dato di sapere; è senza regola, almeno apparente.” Rinascimento privato, Maria Bellonci
Images from last spring photo-shoot with the lovely Leonie as model and the talented Meg Wakefield as make up artist.
“For I do not exist: there exist but the thousands of mirrors that reflect me. With every acquaintance I make, the population of phantoms resembling me increases. Somewhere they live, somewhere they multiply. I alone do not exist.” Vladimir Nabokov
Working with reflections, dreams and delusions with the sweet Marlena.
I am stuck under my dreams, so down that I cannot even see them, as I used before, so far in time that I cannot touch them when they fly before my eyes. It is still night when the sun rises. Behind the eyelids a shadow swings and guides my body ahead.
It is not a mask I am wearing, I am not hiding. What you see is what I am, but you refuse to stop your eyes on mine long enough to understand. What you see is what I am, but you are scared to recognize that life doesn’t always lie. So I cover my face, and wait.
“Grown up, and that is a terribly hard thing to do. It is much easier to skip it and go from one childhood to another.” F. Scott Fitzgerald
It might be that summer is close and with it my desire to go home, but childhood memories act sometimes as ghosts I cannot really escape from. Here is another series where I try to show that, with the help of the lovely Ophélie.
Today it’s one of those “nostalgic days” I often live when I have enough time to think about the past. The day I took these photos was one of those too, so I decided to speak – through images – about that long, silent, emotional travel that brings souls everywhere and nowhere, the kind of travel everyone is scared of. And the end of a poem came back to my mind (sorry, but it is an Italian one):
“E ora, che ne sarà
del mio viaggio?
Troppo accuratamente l’ho studiato
senza saperne nulla. Un imprevisto
è la sola speranza. Ma mi dicono
che è una stoltezza dirselo.”
“[…] How many others are in this place?
I don’t know.
I’m alone far from them,
they’re all together far from me.
To talk anyone besides myself
So I talk to myself […]” Letter from a man in solitary, Nazim Hikmet