Mom: My little, why did you do it?
Jan Palach: Mom, to live, man needs space

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What, do I remember of that unity, condition, mother of memory, whose I would shortly speak?

Now, almost nothing. I want to try to draw that thought happiness in which the images that appear are just grains. In the desert sand of our life there is more than it casually appears and let’s offend whether some compare it to anything! Maybe we should get to the limit of our experience of the world and remain, stay. We will illuminate ourselves with the times, way such as: this, once again, that, pause. Walking or stopping will be a continuous surprise. Why? Art, poetry distils a beyond-unity in the experienced instants, make them become space. Motherwell and his painter companions were seeking, were speaking about Maqom, God as a place of the ancient Jews.

Often, these moments are dreams of a generative place whose thinking stuns us because our experiences have become pale and exhausted by the forced separation of our lives in too narrow areas and appliances. It is as a hell that divides us too much, beyond the bearable, but that should be helped to quit, to get away from himself. We could consider beauty this standing, this moving around and being moved by this enchanting pain, as Milosz writes, of this transformation. We can turn our senses into shared with “yes” and “no”, assertions and denials of a reality that join each other. What are these dreams and these moments that point us and welcome us? They come from a deep memory, from the interlacement of the pure pain of our work, from an experience of true beauty that leads us to do, that takes us away from the aesthetics to make every experience a new one. Maybe trying to exchange the red of our lives, this justice which emerge each time you spread an indigo on a surface, a line of color that gives it the right tone and a dense internal rhythm of nostalgia and fear in its implementation. And, as well as for the red, that is also for the other colors. Perhaps, turning to the slowest relationships and to the communion of lines that are written without seeming we might give to our visuality the sensibility which nobody perceive anymore because we are no longer in each one, in the truth-color that everyone forms, in the dream and tactile thought that we give. I mentioned few knots that I live in art. These are words that I try to share, that I find in the actions of life and notes in movement on the thought of my sheets compared to the cultural changes that affects me. It is not a point of view but many the one inside the other. All things change following them, touching them, listening them even shattered and without aesthetically perceivable beauty. There is in middle of these words a challenge that questions us.



Tommasina Squadrito - painter, Palermo, June 2009 /ITALY/