The Trace of my Face
It is more less so: I have almost nothing to add, except, perhaps, a cut in the endless movement. Of my face, what's left? A trace, beyond the mirror. The origin of the image, it seems, from the circumstances of the body. There’s been talk about ruins. Here we could speak of traces, which are remnants of pure chance in a decomposition of compositions. It is the destiny of works, they say, beyond that which may never be erased. In addition, there is some enjoyment, a delight in the colours, the shapes, in me. Creating shades in the perpetual tearing of the light, giving discreet outlines to the continuous fading of the senses. I can add the obvious, after all. It is already something: appearing in the disappearing, like in singularity or memory, like in desire, which moves us in the novelty of repetition. I could say more, but I limit myself to the streaks of the night in the shining of the sun.
It is a method of passage, but without discourse. The perpetuity in which words expire is thus avoided. Pasted, torn, layed over, removed and put back, but without any intervention of mine. What results from another time, taken off, torn off, filled, saturated and undone, knowing, however, that the thing is always ready made, in the unfolding of every corner, in the expectation of the unexpected. It dwells, at least, in pure surprise. A gesture, solely, to delimitate the unfinished. Beyond that, what’s left is to register encounters in the deluge of endless information, more or less like someone who turns urinals upside down for the sheer pleasure of reaching emptiness. Of the walls, of course. Without adding or removing any fantasy, but in the full haunting of some phantasms. Of the original, remains only what passed. I picked up the dice played by, I don’t remember who, throwing some names at random, after those of Mimmo Rotella and Ana Hatherly, for different reasons and in different cities of Europe.
I did almost nothing.