I.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat do you play the flute for, Olympos? Why music in solitude? There is no shepherd nor goatherd to hear it, nor is there a Nymph in his absence that would happily dance to the rhythm of your music.\u201c<\/p>\n\n\n\n
So Philostratus swore to the adolescent whose beauty goes beyond the passion of the satyrs, while sleeping, and his sweat mixed with the smell of grass on which his body rested.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Why the harmony of breath that diminishes the sounds of the song, while the young Olympos, as a Narcissus facing the mirror of water, blows? Why the image turned into skin, stuck to grooved trails? Why music in abandonment, dormancy, death?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Like a premonition by Narcissus, with whom images are born in order to be extinguished immediately<\/p>\n\n\n\n
in their primordial instant, painting 21 of the icons of Philostratus describes a licentious and silent scene of holocaust: Olympos will be raised up, magnificent and naked, on the grasslands of desire and will majestically and indolently play his flute on the banks of a pristine lake, in order to just blow the unexpected canto of the song on the skin of the water and also see his own image shake, which others desire, and deform in the wrinkled surface that his breath moves and destroys.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A few lines before the true Narcissus, Olympos foreshadows, and has already seen the beauty of the image come undone in the folds that deform it, while its contours are shipwrecked on the draping of its liquid and exasperating density.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
II.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Only the ignorant arrogance of the present has been able to sell us the idea of modernity as a scene in which, for the first time, the image dies.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Only the epidermal certainty of the present, which because of it would discover the world every time, can make us forget that the appearance of the image will always be declined upon its expiration; the emergence of art with its agony; the drive to erect the monument with the ephemeral duration of the experience that it celebrates or exorcises; the gaze of what we want to reach with the distance its image imposes upon us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
In order to name this distant object, eventually, the ancients conceived the maze of drapery, because the body is too visible, and what it breathes into desire and into life is camouflaged in its edges and sweating. What it breathes into: breath, the soul that has no form and has, maybe, every form. Then the obsessive dispersion of outer membranes that cover\u2014let us think about fragments of Hellenistic sculpture, silent robes\u2014canvas and drapery, clothing, vestments, linens, blankets, coats, transparent waves of silk in the wind served as an alphabet to say, with every movement, a truth, and with every gesture a revelation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
III.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ever since I have thought about the work of Carlito Carvalhosa\u2014white liquescences that wave by chance, painted mirrors where instead of Olympos\u2019 face we see the wave of his breath turned into a stone of colors, written word in the solitude of an invisible whip; Sugarloaf Mountain inverted in the mausoleum of the museum; an uprooted tree in the sky of the great halls of convivium and pageantry\u2014I think only of shrouds that multiply their folds facing the breath of the footsteps, the noise, the solitude, the music, the immense coverings in order protect the architecture from our habitual animal customs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
What, then, is music for in abandonment; why the image in the flesh wound of the waters? Why erect the glorious adolescent with his flute? Why hide the sublime Nymph behind its cloths?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
If we are only left with the image\u2019s agony, if there is no art of the monument or of the body as representation; if the image is multiplied in the vanity of its pornographic exchanges\u2014not just in pornography, which still retains an ability of impulsive and momentary convocation, but in its sophistic aesthetic market\u2014what do these white curtains tell us, these trees suspended from their roots, these murky mirrors?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That it is a space, any space, like a body that we inhabit; that in the severity of its durable inscription on the world is hidden the elusive multiplicity of the air that embodies it, and the hermetic numeral of its silence and echoes, that we did not hear when we saw, that only an epidermis that entirely covers can, as in those nymphs, as in that boy, herder of good goats, as in that flying Zephyr, decipher.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Why music in solitude? Why the sails with hoisted masts? To go through them, a niche of our body before it was there. To be where we have never been.<\/p>\n\n\n
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