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  • Palazzo Avino, Caffè dell'Arte Pieces
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  • Palazzo Avino, Where The Sea Stands Still 2 - Marco Nereo Rotelli

"Diciamo Azzurro" by Paolo Di Stefano

"Diciamo Azzurro"

Let's say blue, but this blue does not seem at all pleased with itself: it gets impatient, kicks, stretches, shatters, melts into a milder blue, more inconsistent and darker. So it flutters up and down like wire, strips, rags, fibers, mists, puffs of blue unclear whether air or sea, open at the top and bottom, overturned, merged, split up, they return to join obliquely, to overlap, to leave and now find themselves indifferent to the cactus, the dragon trees, the palm trees and towering palms, pines incumbent and violet, piteous and hypersensitive blue things, the walls, stairs, arches, balconies and terraces, the mirror-polished floors, the columns, the capitals, the swollen vessels of ancient, jolting, greens cheerful and cheeky. The mountain on the bottom.
"Where will the Dragon be? To the right, to the left or a little everywhere?"
The clot, frowning, but accommodates other muted colors as well. Hints of a child who would like pink, growing up, scatter in the wrinkled surface.
Tell me you smell the scent of jasmine too? And which world is the girl with the white collar skimming? Is she alighting from or maybe lifting the green as if unaware of the human force of gravity? And to what exact point of the blue is her sleepwalker nature turned?"
"Jasmine like thyme and like rosemary?" That lindo-acre of lemon yellow peeps from leafy branches, canvases we call blue lying positioned at the edges of his shyness. It is a shadow that is frayed, that flickers and can also cut the glance of the unwary who pass. It is a shadow suitable to the green which mocks shine. It asks you to be breathed in and you breathe it really only in the moment when you forget the charm of surprise, and just then I would tell you that yellow is not yellow and green is not only green, but they belong together, they are called, are attracted to each other, reflect each other, perhaps desire one another and eventually blend into a furious embrace.
"All mine, I would like to be the princess of this castle straight out of a fairy tale, or a present."
But the blue ? The blue, no. If it clots, it is because it aspires to stretch in the memory - even from here to Byzantium - to become transparent, to participate in the silent breathlessness of eternal photosynthesis. It goes without saying the clouds that hover, silhouettes of dolphins, orcas or whales, as if the creatures of the sea, rearing, want for an afternoon to free themselves from the water and melt into the atmosphere.
Come with me, come on, give me your hand, we’ll walk together. Here a bridge almost unexpected, here geraniums and pungent puffs, here water lilies waiting for the explosion of white. Here poppies; will they be true poppies or bloody emergencies of underground lives that seek a breath of wind and even stagnant water, or do they too aspire to the blue fringes of a sky among the many?
"Where is the sea?" you ask me. "And where is the sky? What is the true celestial sky? And you, what blue would you prefer for me?" All, all possible blues, for you, for who you are and what you will be. "I wish, however, that the cloud-whales-orcas-dolphins never fall, you promise me?” Okay, my child, I do promise you that.
And now, do not be dazzled by all this lunar white, times and porches, gates, balconies, sofas, hallways and mullioned arabesque windows. They are there still, you'll see, a corner of blue in which to rest allowing the imagination to navigate. Up there, there. The blues are inhabited by figures perhaps prehistoric: frogs, amoebas, jellyfish, crabs, hominids ... And in the floating signs, hieroglyphics, gashes, curves, there are arrows that at the end pierce the canvas; a little betrayal. Here, would you tell me here where is the sea? Because if we walk on the tiles as reassured by the habit of gravity, to know with certainty that the floor is the floor and the ceiling is the ceiling inside these blues, still nervous, and the variables above and below are an opinion, yours, mine, an illusion, an arbitrary dislocation.
"Just like before," you answer, "as when, out there, whales, orcas, dolphins flew, or swam, over us and over the green." Or under, who knows.
This furniture sparkles. You would say sky and swimming pool. Would you say flying and floating. Open wings of flamingo-heron or arms that splash. Sun reflected in the celestial blue or blue sky that is evaporating? Exactly, where is up and where, down? And us? "We are where we've never been."
Here, do you not see how, even here, in this explosion of light, the blue has already yielded to the white vaulted ceilings? Generously. A free gift. By dust motes, waves and lumps it emanates and is reflected upwards - and not only - a veil almost uniform, which, wrapping, reduces the wounded blinding glare. A blue finally pleased with itself. "Let's say blue."