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Martina della Valle


September 27 | November 11, 2005

Scene one

The gallery, a public metropolitan interior. In a large, white, limpid house.

The traces of a banquet, a virtual last supper in a vast entrance hall. A large dining table partially set. Signs scattered in time lie on the surface, identities of unknown persons, feint traces of their lives. The white ceramic surfaces are contact printed by them, diaphanous mirrors absorbing the lights reflected in them.


Scene two

The home, interior private. Everyday life, things, light things.

Living room, dining room and kitchen, elegant and functional space, rarefied and essential, studied, designed and lived in: the sharply defined forms of an everyday utopia. Minimal traces of lives lived appear on parts of the furnishings, signs of interaction with the actions and the bodies of the guests and the owner of the home. They are documents of being and of having been: everything emerges, disappears and reflects. The mute dialogue between things and people creates experience, evidence, sense of time


Scene three

The shell, the wrapping, the magic box. The walls and the crusts.

Signs of the white walls emerge, traces of past owners, future tenants: subtle icons, pale shadows. The sensitive surfaces reflect, observe and hold back light, bodies and thoughts. They are histories lived through and never known that now emerge, mute and present. Observations and listening. The future perfect is perhaps the past: the sense of the present in the home of time.



The experience of a guest.

I am invited to the gallery. I go, therefore, into the present and into the past. I find myself in a definite and possible place. In a room before something manifests, after something has happened. The room seems almost empty, but it is as if were just beginning to fill. I touch and observe, I look, reflect and sense the traces, the objects, the things and the odours. I brush against the absence, the subtle presences, the facts and the impressions, the empty and full spaces. I intuit the fragments of unspoken stories, the rarefaction of everything, the pregnancy of the little that emerges. 



Ever never land by Silvio Wolf

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