edited by Bepi De Marzi
Memory cannot be invented: unrepeatable things, worn by the toils, the dreams, and the restrained happiness of our past. Light gestures of tenderness have always moulded with crude strenght the need for the great, unaware poetry of the rural world.
Everything has already been done and said, both in words and thoughts.
The beauty of memories can only be found here, in the incorruptible love of the iron moulded in the dazzling light of the heat: a breath of art, a blow of fantasy, the vibration of hope.
Ancient wood, displaying the signs of time, is gathered in the forge of fusions: the ladder broken by forgetfulness and now finally made indestructible; the dusty tabard of pride with the folds of pain hidden in the silence; the chair of exhaustion at the end of the day; the “sgàlmare”, old poor shoes of misery, tired of walking; the suitcase with the tears of the emigrants; the hat with the fruits revealed by the sun; the miracle of eggs cracked opened in the warmth of the barns; the flask of consolation and solitude; the umbrella of rainy, snowy Sundays on the streets leading to church; the “mònega”, an old bed-warmer, whose heat inspires security and ensures the first sleep; the restless sling of adolescence; the bowl and the bread-cutter ready for a caffelatte in the extreme hours of the day; the “bigòlo”, a barbell bar bent to the uncertain weight of buckets; a book of stories repeated and left unfinished; the guitar for an unknown dance and a melancholic sigh…
Gibo Perlotto lets iron sing the stories of our lazy souls.
And it awakens the sigh of lost emotion.