Visual Alchemy

Maria Chiara Fagioli

Ghosts


It was like watching at one of those films set during a post-atomic bombing in the middle of nowhere, where people live in a filthy state of decay and wander around the barely illuminated streets like rotting wrecks. Monsters came out from the walls and they enhance the life-blood of human beings, depriving them of creative intelligence and acts of courage and beauty. Delinquency and protectors of justice were confused, in particular justice was threatened with a machete between the indifference of drug dealers, complacent people, the old communist symbols liberally stretched out towards mystical and paranormal nostalgia, a strong desire to return to a barter economy, hawkers selling futility under the counter in spite of those who struggle to sell goods over the counter. San Lorenzo is a fifteen-minute walk to Termini station in Rome, a district between the grotesque and the medieval surrealism of reason in an analysis carried out by the end of summer at the dawn of winter. Immutable activities, lazy signs of change, unheard complaints and shirker services.

Who is guilty, who is blessed, the memory of the fracture between Roman fascism and the activity of liberation points out lost letters on the monuments inside the park, double amputations in the history of Italy which has seen neighbours acting for the extinction of the human races, bombs on civilians, and a precious Constitution emerged from horrors and not imposed. Then silence, after years of class conflicts, in the safe Harbor of a guaranteed subsistence. You get used to abusive posters and to the billions of adhesives covering even road signs, the rude and irresponsible excess become an alibi for questionable freedom of expression, so far away from the thoughts of coexistence started during the ’60s. The bottles have been left in the new square in front of the church after a fun night.

The district feature is hypocritically hidden behind a Guicciardini dimension for my peculiar business their greatness, an Italian story, the other half of the big apple, the defeated of Verga and the indifferent Moravian bourgeoisie, inside the most filthy rooms of the open Sartrian prison among dark tunnels and discontent, abject connivance poorly tolerated. Humanity involves living imperial ancient times and a blind present. No longer you are going to the big questions of life, but you act like a ghost among the present ruins, unable to discern the truth and to build critical individual thinking. The founding fathers of our nation observe series b citizens abused, ignored, invisible, so distant from the powerful meaning of the Constitution itself for mediocre short-term horizons: a common thinking for shared collective anti-values, the spirit of initiative is sedated. So, is freedom just leaving the bottle on the ground?

While waiting to cut the next ribbon for the umpteenth Italian electoral purposes disguised as souvenirs for the community, perhaps secretly we could regret the great dictators whilst we observe defenceless our inability to self-manage ourselves responsibly in the daily community.

Art will tear us apart.

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