Meet Me Under Water - One Room BooksIn the embrace are not two lovers (to be lovers is irrelevant), but their bodies, indifferent to any identity, that climb to each other; better: that abandon themselves to the embrace the solitary and desperate one in the arms of the other, they feel good, for a moment, “they are in peace”, as they say, if only there wasn’t love, desires, projects , the touchiness, the chatter, the head in the clouds, the feelings and the incalculable crap of their owners: the two lovers , who look at us, do not know that the camera does not care about them and their love (love is irrelevant), but about their bodies, the exhaustion, the embrace of the arms, the head reclined on the breast, the inconsolable hour (for the body all the hours are inconsolable).
Thus, the body of a girl who, as a grazing animal, is lying on the bed, only looking for the shadows, bending her shoulders and turned to the side where the shadow comforts, is indifferent to the euphoria of her feet (but it is euphoria of a moment) for the red shoes that they put on her, only occupied by its weight to lay down and console inside the luminous and maternal cone between the sheet and the pillow. The life of our body is not our life, we drag it behind as it will be for the souls of suicides: you throw on a couch disconsolate, or turn frightened for a moment (who knows of what), or open the eyes spotting and looking for others horizons. Perplexed by all the life we lead, he comes behind us dreaming of surprising and furious hugs, or tilting its head on the shoulders of another body to find warmth, or to lie down or to turn around laughing with a friend, or even to lower the look at the shame of today that awaits us. Deeply alone, always aching, on his own, in constant search of allies, until indecency (indecency, as impudence, are their own supreme forms of discomfort and irredeemable rancor), above all, intolerant to awakenings, recognizes early the only one’s own vocation to the night and to the familiarity with the revelry. A special malaise then dominates it in his youth: the knowledge that when we age we become ugly. Atrocious thought, Leopardi would say. When we age we become ugly. It is a fence that all the subjects photographed by Maria Di Stefano are careful to not overtake. They sit on it, or astride it, turning their backs on it, knowing that the end is right behind them, and that, unfortunately, the camera frames this end, sees it, and focuses it, as a background and dust and light. and horizon of nothing. Curated by Giuseppe Garrera, https://oneroombooks.com/meetmeunderwater/ |