Numerical civilisations in comparison. The definitive defeat of meaning.
Two-figure diseases that multiply till you jump with fright: we’re just a few hops away from the subtraction that makes us disappear.
Wobbling and tottering in mobile ideograms.
Suddenly the link with the past ceases: ropes, nets and laces hold the situation tight. Life is played out in an ideogram. The section, translated into three dimensions, develops triangular volumes aiming upwards in coexistence with horizontal lines: but vertically only the man moves.
Here it’s not the bedtime story that’s being told, here we turn the other side. That’s not the cheek of he who has the face of an arse-hole. The side does not mean that it’s not been pierced through.
With a dry throat and a body in distress another sound is uttered.
End of words.
Start of the dance macabre.

The story

In a land that’s falling apart a Man is fascinated by space that becomes number.
The cadastral parcel of intellect brings the animated being to fuse with the numerical civilisation in decline.
A white woman, wearing netting and illusion, regrets the early times, when love was only distress and little else.
The civic non-sense escapes those who govern like beasts this mass of rotting flesh.
One votes with throat swollen from the shouting of those who voted before, one lets oneself be dominated by the institution that dictates convention and cancels dignity.
The weight lifter lifts himself and the organized family who spits breath on every neck that’s gone adrift.
Meanwhile culture is financed with the money of the master: servility has no dowry.
Sitting up on high waiting for the mutilated God who has torn us to pieces.
And finally the numbers render space fallacious, at the mercy of the figure that flattens it. Obliged to reason not with logic but through subtraction, the man is suddenly better: beneath him there is not the earth that will bury him but the table of a space that’s never been so confused.
The fact that one laughs is a problem linked to the commodification of butchered skin.
In this macabre, perverse game the hallucinated fable emerges: hardly happy and contented, here the neurosis chases after the deer: one running away and the other running on two legs that don’t make one.
If we were crippled we’d be more scary.

Escalation and tottering

Suddenly the link with the past ceases: ropes, nets and laces hold the situation tight. Life is played out in an ideogram. The section, translated into three dimensions, develops triangular volumes aiming upwards in coexistence with horizontal lines: but vertically only the man moves.
The blood red of the shining silk renders the atmosphere disturbing and receives the shouting, exhausted man who advances, comical despite himself, towards the snares of a pre-constituted order.
The ideogram, of Chinese inspiration, is written with objects familiar to us during childhood….the sculpture emits metaphor…and it’s this very metaphor that holds together the story.
The playmate beside the eternal, unaware child who is obliged to give way to a biological and numerical reality that inevitably pushes him wherever the vigour of his time so desires.

Flavia Mastrella

The jump in the throat

Jumps to the side and on the edges: loss of residual meaning and words for the numbers of the extermination. Useless to think about those who died yesterday while the extermination is still in full swing.
The space is like a number, for those who want to lose themselves, for those who give up the thread of what’s being said that’s the same thread that strangles you.
The body has given itself over to the throat that rasps in all intimacy. The side hurts still for a new and eternal alliance. Here it’s not the bedtime story that’s being told, here we turn the other side. That’s not the cheek of he who has the face of an arse-hole. The side does not mean that it’s not been pierced through.
With a dry throat and a body in distress another sound is uttered.

Antonio Rezza