Leftovers of moments

running plots

running plots

She loves photos; not only taking them but also making them. Making the link between body and mind, exploring the influence of space and time. On people. So many layers; an ignorant look, a timeless smile, a heavy tear, a quick pace, a daily race, a random fear.

She thinks there are no bad photos but only negative emotions jumping out of feeling- bad situations. She also thinks that these situations result from bad- lived lives. Sometimes she photographs those lives in order to dig behind their images and play with their meanings. Meanings coming from inner occurrences. Inner occurrences interacting with outer factors. Outer factors shaping instant images. Instant images becoming the connectors between appearance and perception.

Appearance and perception broken into pieces. Pieces that come together filling in the gaps of the puzzle. A puzzle full of untold secrets. Secrets whispering unfinished truths. Truths partially revealing one’s mystery. A mystery giving way to one’s imagination. An imagination retouching the portrait of one’s memory. A memory guarding the leftovers of moments one lived and they passed.

Moments one can still touch by looking back at the photos he owes today, remains of himself coming back from that day. Is it a truth or a mere representation? It is the reconstruction of past and present relation.

The revolution of everyday life

gazing at life

gazing at life

She loves those tiny crumbs of time when she can climb outside her thoughts and get lost into the acrobatics of another place. A place where the ordinary and the uncombinable can meet. A place where all sorts of people can fit. A third space.

Where lose playfulness can provoke and inspire. Where people can have a space to improve and not a little corner where they cannot move. A place where the fancy lady will dare to look at that filthy beggar in the eyes and drop her arrogance in the garbage for a while. And keep her coins inside her well- sewed pockets to explode like misery rockets.

And the golden war of arrogance and fear will flap the city streets with its angry wings, wounding all it could reach. Every petal of a flower, now flowers are plastic with no smell. And every pure beauty, untouched from dirt, now beauty is naked and nicked from regret. And every little imperfection that gave sense to the world ; the curvy, muddy pavements on which your sneakers would crush, the sweaty skaters whose tricks would make life go fast, the well- thought graffitis on the forgotten walls of an abandoned parking, the echo of the laughs and chats of teenagers in squares, the nasty fight of street- drinkers in fares.

And all you would see is billboards full of recipes for falling deeper in the trap, words of ignorance, orders for being more sad . The necessities of the modern man, crushed under the success towards which he once ran. Lipsticks, flat TVs and guns, where is your history, your consciousness and your rights ? You kind of lost them on the way, you say. So you gotta go back, find them and bring them to this generation in decay. They wait, they hope, they pray. There is nothing they can do but live their life in delay.

Do not avoid the rain they say, it is the only freedom given to us all without the obligation to pay. They can twist their minds inside the water flames and forget all about what society claims. They can cut their bounds with a sharp knife and set up the revolution of their everyday life.

Urban tales

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weaving plots

She would stand in front of that big window observing the multiple aspects of street life. She would try to auscultate urbanity pulling her look from one’s static misery to another’s ephemeral happiness. She would think that people appear as found objects on a large stage of different performances. She would then try to look deeper inside their plots and give names to their feelings. She would sometimes match positive facial expressions to negative emotions, in the beginning just for fun, but she would soon realise that she wasn’t wrong in many cases.

That serious looking man would be a child’s father. He would overflow his lungs with screams and he would close his arms to his kid’s dreams. He would remind his son of his rules and objections and he would abolish any of his freedom and imagination. He would talk about a forgotten war and he would support a nation’s fall. He would release pressure by squeezing his fists and he would strengthen his hope by looking at his tattooed wrist. He would once escape the prison of his mind and an empty home would be all that he would find.

That young lady who had reached the sky in her bad quality heels, a modern Cinderella with Dior bag and a body made of diet pills. She would ignore the role she was given and she would waste herself on raising men’s fever. She would be in love with muscles and sweat, she would be a jerk’s bet. Her internal bruises would colour her face, make uped and dressed up she would make her way. She would drink, dance and fuck with a stranger overcoming her fears, she would wake up vomiting beer brimming over with tears.

That youngster with headphones larger than the decibels of his music, a narcissist of drugs and pussies. Big watch, car and fame, small consciousness, dignity and faith. He would fight with his father late in the nights, he would fill in his pockets with a guilt that bites. He would embrace his complexes inside the impossible circle of the one-armed, he would insulate his ears from the buzzing of the mad. He would pave the street for his dreams with a Land Rover, he would soon understand that his oxygen inside the bubble was over.

That punkie with the crazy mother at home would wander in the streets with black eyes and no hope. He would swear to the god of metal his faith and he would trip every night with the rest of his friends. He would fill in the holes of his spirit with smoke. He would fight against the status quo that broke his world. He would paint over walls with an A bigger than his mind, he would consider it the starting point for shaking the public realm. He would burn cars and break windows to be heard, he would jump on his heart and let it scream his regret.

She would pull the curtains and sit back to rest her eyes.

The breathless city with the poisoned lungs and the rotten heart has no more tales, people are on sales.

The society of the spectacle is on rails and the city fails.

To some place I know

buried_city.jpg

buried city

Rubbish bags all ripped off, concrete walls with dark signs on, the sound of a beer can crushed inside the palm of the punkie teenager, idle footsteps of some hectic neighbourhood stranger. A motorbike parks itself in some dusty city slum, weak streaks of moonlight unlock one of its many paths. It always felt unusual but nice.

You were there again.

Wandering around the small turns of this urban labyrinth, charmed by the echoes of an unfound mystery rhythm. As an urban flâneur, your only guide is your feeling, your only way in and out is your nerve. It provokes and inspires, it is a glorious metropolis in decay.

The sunlight sets fire on your path. You get to see them again, wandering lost and found at the same places, beggars of their own destiny. They stink, they shout, they are crazy they say but you so much want to touch them, they are all so real and safe.

But you keep walking never daring to turn your head to their side, this appalling guilt that scratches your golden inside. You keep walking, sweaty worked out hands give you warm bread, old man with beard spits on your name.

You keep walking.

Old ladies, two of them uncoil their morals in a morning chat, you hear a couple of words or one. There is sun, so much sun.. you need sunglasses, they are your only protection against the spasm of the public realm. Warm grey sunshine, untuned mind.

Meat choppers tik takking and you weigh your lies. Hostile looks and trembling hands, the sound of your coins will nourish his heart. Lost fights with life, headless statues on time. Up and down, shaking hands, exchange is done.

Nighmarish parade of some gypsy kids with chaotic smiles, this city is lost in an accordion’s sound. Insignificant melodies of a young little man, swallowed by the charm of this beautiful smile. Sprayed on the surface of some debris in the street, it demarcates the beyond and the within.

Your heart is squeezing and your inside is freezing, this lava fills you up, your mind is about to crack, stark naked as a tyranny it messes up with your wounds while promising a therapy to all those she could.

Look long enough to see, it is an abyss, a lie, a beauty, a we . It is Athens.