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  • Daysleeper, 2017
    markers on destroyed paper, plexiglass case, iron plinth, 140 x 120 x 10 cm
  • Daysleeper, 2017
    markers on destroyed paper, plexiglass case, iron plinth, 150 x 120 x 10 cm
  • Daysleepers, 2017
    exhibition view
    Nam Project, Milan
  • Daysleeper, 2017
    markers on destroyed paper, plexiglass case, iron plinth, 140 x 100 x 10 cm
  • Daysleepers, 2017
    exhibition view
  • Daysleeper, 2017
    markers on destroyed paper, plexiglass case, iron plinth, 145 x 70 x 10 cm
  • Junk Love, 2017
    exhibition view
    Annarumma Gallery, Naples (IT)
  • You Were Blue (Paolo), 2017
    markers on destroyed paper, wood frame, 200 x 170 x 6 cm
  • You Were Blue, 2017
    markers on destroyed paper, wood frame, 200 x 170 x 6 cm
  • You Were Blue, 2017
    markers on destroyed paper, wood frame, 200 x 170 x 6 cm
  • You Were Blue, 2017
    markers on destroyed paper, wood frame, 200 x 170 x 6 cm
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DAYSLEEPERS



(Exhibition text by Marialuisa Pastò)

Gray outlines of dancing shadows become hazy through the fogged windows, and the glares of the night start to melt into one another.
It’s time to close your eyelids, yield to the flattery of a welcoming sleep and let dreams bump into your drowsy, kissable smile.
While the bothersome buzz of the waking city greets a new day, echoing around you. Noises down the road move into a whisper that the wind takes away, repeating the same strange words like the echo of a menacing litany.
The experience of time is a fast moving target.
It vanishes near the horizon as past dawns become the sunsets of the present.
The longer we test our senses through filtered rather than first-hand experience, the more our being in the world becomes ‘more vitreous than visceral’.
The day comes to you asking questions whose answers have already been written, too unfocused in their message.
A lot of what is behind the filaments of our thoughts remains hidden, needing to be found, like a thread of a woolen sweater that once pulled reveals its ground zero.
There are moments that do not give yourself enough chance to realize how much time you spend - how much you challenge it - dragging yourself within four walls.
Just one day, a week or maybe even a month, judging by the biting cold air you can breathe outside now.
Only to the lure of the night is allowed the vanity of stitching the disjunctures, in a muffled, sleepless and soundless limping.
Intimacy’s murmured fragilities become props for the stories that the night tells, darkness gives the permission to be present. Night renegotiates its essence as a private space, the last trusted heaven from an always more motionless world.
It’s that time where many layers need to be removed and revealed and you can only do your best to keep them together and not let them fall to pieces.
Like small fragments of thin frayed paper, thoughts soar in the air. Now you can smell them, touch them and - if you’re lucky enough - even see them for a moment.
Look around you. You find yourself in a wide room with a rough grey floor. No windows.
The walls are a blazing white, even more glowing under the ray of flickering light that runs along the ceiling. Three monochromatic small monoliths spread out in the middle of the space, discreetly inviting you to walk around them.
Something disturbing runs through the skin on your fingers, in the eyes of your mind, a tingling stating its urge to exist.
The pressure of desire for discovery secretly invites insomnia.
And you can finally dream, awake.

×

JUNK LOVE


(Exhibition text by Scott Henry Elliott)

In those days of summer which reached forty degrees and higher, the white cats seemed to be particularly prolific. These scorched ghosts lurked among the streets and I couldn’t but help envision each one as a sort of pure white grim reaper, ready to pounce at any moment.

I remember the day we both decided to embark on this draining course of action.
“Do you want a holiday home? Yes or no?”
It was a rather rudimentary question, but the domino effects afterwards were not those I had envisioned. In a haze of sun-bleached perfection, it had all seemed like such a good idea. It was that New York energy again, that one I left behind in the summer of ‘69, I can do anything and I will! Where had this bliss disappeared to? In the ether dissolved their spark, something they both embraced silently.


Slow it all down.
Hold your horses.
Steady on there, my friend.


Reality had a much slower tempo and it suited them down to a T.


You shall make three windows on each wall, light should be a priority. My memory superimposes squares of sensual blues together, set perfectly into the wall. Together we add poetry to stone, the surfaces now mirroring the ripples along your spine.

Polished concrete
Stainless steel
How does it feel?
Pay for it later
Put it on credit
Do you accept debit?


Its purpose would change, the form remaining close to that which was intended. Neither of them knew how to construct a stable home, a solid capsule to contain them in. It was to become a transformer of sorts, holiday home slash tomb, or perhaps this is the true form, a doubled sided sword, never admitted by those inhabiting the idea. This was how it was to be built. The length should be thirty cubits; it’s breadth ve cubits and its height three cubits. There was to be one dominant window facing the sea, the rest of the building would be encased in concrete. Any wood included in the construction would be cypress wood, a wood perfectly suited to the harsh climate that left them both sitting in grey, saggy denim.