you ask: "What is this?"
It 's a series of eight passport photos.
"maddai?!? And who is that guy in passport photos?"
Well, this is already a demand for a tad more appropriate, I'll tell you right away.
Everyone knows that there is a man of the Iceman, the man of Altamura, the gas man, tiger man ... here, he is the man in the coffee at Piazza Bologna.
all happened about four and a half years ago.
was a hot day, of those days so hot that the Peroni two minutes after you've bought it becomes a broth, leaving an aftertaste similar to artichoke, mixed with an extract of sea water of Ostia, at the point at which twenty children with Roman descent have peed once.
At that time, you could enter the subway without necessarily owning a business. Of course, it was a choice at their own peril, but we know that known to the employees of Rome public transport have all this everlasting desire to work, especially in August.
And then, after a day spent wandering the streets of the capital, to persuade the gypsy in my portfolio that really there was nothing but old movie tickets and receipts, to show signs of approval to the usual talking out of my mind policy and pastries, instead of asking what place hidden in its wheels were over, daunting and imprecise to provide guidance to those genes of tourists coming from Germany to any miles and miles away and the thousands of people as possible, were through which the happy idea of \u200b\u200basking information to me, immersed my head melted a thousand, as avoidable pressure in the daily refreshment stations.
Just passing through to subscribers, that path next to the cabin staff, used for the most part by those who, like me, was without a ticket, you crushed me in the face with such well-liked power, one of those that make you refrigerate shivers down to my ribs.
My hair was shaved recently, but I imagined them as long as Lorenzo Lamas in "Renegade," graceful and rebels, with this impression of speed and initiative that gave the wind caresses and projected into the past, like the wake of an aircraft that has just past the sound barrier ... Or they were just the waterfalls of sweat on my brow, falling in large drops, and that probably would have represented the beginning of a difficult to avoid colds.
The trip in the wagon passed as anything: the top of my head had dropped back like the lid of the toilet up, mouth open as if to keep it closed it would take some kind of willpower, and the eyes of drug addicts ravaged by the effects immediately after a powerful fresh dose intravenously. In
Piazza Bologna metro station gains an appreciation of myself and the world, very unnatural, a clarity of mind that hardly remember ever achieved in life without drinking at least three beers.
Everything around me was an endless source of interest, and everything is posasse and philosophical than my eye, I could draw a conclusion after a complex reasoning is not necessarily useful.
I remember thinking that next to the machine for the tickets, there I could see one of those distributors of stuffed animals confined in plastic pallets, and I designed it myself the other puppets, perhaps inspired by the fantastic world of the underground: I know , the controller, the guy with the face that broke off the balls of life, the one with the paper, the nun who seeks physical contact between the crowd, the young man's ear, Japanese, and so on ...
An old woman looked at me bad because I had seen too busy to look at the tiles next to the ticket machine, I remember that I thought we could put herself among the stuffed animals ... "the old woman who does not makes his cock."
But then after all is not history that you care nothing comes the crucial moment: just as I started toward the exit of the station, still looking here and there, my right hand instinctively went to rummage in the slot machine for passport photos, one from which magically pop up in the photos you take.
Something shiny paper was in contact with my fingertips, I took it: he was the series of eight passport photos, which is up there.
If I remember correctly, not even I looked to see if someone was sitting inside, the excitement I had grown up in my throat, even going to do a slap with the epiglottis, I put the photo in the folder of drawings in the my bag, and went home.
Since then, the series of eight passport photos of Piazza Bologna Man Machine, hangs in one of the Frames per day under a rectangle of glass, always close to my work space.
She looks at me with disappointment, a bit 'with a sense of challenge and sometimes with indifference.
He knows I can do much, but I am disgusted when I do not do enough, and I feel the weight.
I found that I can not draw at home when he is not hanging on the wall, watching me and judge me with his sixteen eyes, his hair and other times it just seems that his clothes got up and did not is to be a bother with me.
He knows a lot about myself, I do not know anything about him, apart from the fact that if those pictures were for a job interview would have been discarded, then I take it, of course, I have not caused some kind of problems. .. indeed.
I am very fond of this perfect stranger, so I wanted to dedicate this space on my blog "Scazzi Amari.
Ladies and gentlemen, MAN MACHINE OF SQUARE BOLOGNA.
ninety-two minutes of applause ...
0 comments:
Post a Comment