The painting

The charm of this scene is given more by the colours, the materials, the textures, in few square meters, than by the story it has to tell. The time passing by, that we know very well by now, has modified the series of surfaces laid down by a human hand in an even, clean and regular way. Time has brought back to life what has been hidden, donating new sensations. I just can’t look at this corner as if it was carried away by neglect, but as if it was a painting. Each colour, each mark has it’s meaning of being there and the great artist who thought of all of this goes beyond any atistic trend. There’s a deep thought behind each brick that came back to light. Mortar was eaten a bit after bit by humidity, creating speaking depths: the false regular course of the bricks, the discontinuity of the columns, each single volume. My great-grandfather used to collect bricks, with date and origin on them: i remember a sort of wall in his garage, and it always was a sight to imagine each single history of them. Now i find myself staring at this anonymous wall, which i don’t know anything about, but i have the same feelings. I can see the mason patiently line up the rows, spreading the mortar with a hand too casual, of someone who’s done such gesture more than a thousand times, probably more than a million times. How many bricks can a mason lay in his entire life? At least as many keys i’ve pressed down on this keyboard since i have it (and who knows me well, knows i’ve pressed a lot). I’ll be an architect. I wonder how many plans i’ll happen to do without laying one brick? A bit of healthy manual experience wouldn’t be too bad for those doctors of theory that wouldn’t accept your project if there isn’t a bent pillar, or if it doesn’t represent a perfect cube. How many times i had to listen to certain stupid things during my 5 years in university! All this materiality makes me feel ashamed of my infinite ignorance.

When i took these pictures, i wasn’t paying too much attention. I don’t really think that much on what i do and usually i’m guided by chance. I haven’t searched for the best angle, the best light, nor the most interesting subject. I’ve just taken pictures to anything, untill i run out of batteries (once i used to run out of film, now of energy... each time has it’s defects). So, if this picture is beautiful (and i challenge you to say it isn’t) it’s not because of my discerning, but thanks to the great treasures hiding in our own cities. We just have to open our eyes and watch. I could write hundreds of words about the colours, the humidity stains, the small plant trying to make itself some space through the concrete, the door with no handle, the window where you can’t see through, the thunder that has divided the scene in two and the electric wires hidden on top of the scene. But why should i take the chance away to imagine yourself? Well... if i put it this way, i shouldn’t write anymore, and i should just upload the pictures... i think i’ve exagerated and let ecstasy get the hold on me. Also because it would be the shortest thesis in the world.