He who creates does not produce. Who creates is not seen. Everything that is not produced by companies goes unnoticed. What is created and is not a product of capitalism is as if they do not exist. And so in the same way creators are non-existent for society. They're on the sidelines. In their creative corners where they despair and cry. Their creations are not products and they are not existent. Capitalism has made them useless. In the past, creators such as Leonardo, Michelangelo and others were welcomed at court, well-liked and in demand. But today's creatives and artists stay out of every door, unless they produce something "salable". This dead company is based only on earnings and money is killing the imagination.
Very often I happen to take a photo and look at it. Thus, without saying and, at times, thinking nothing.
Especially in shots like this. Where the gaze is relaxed, but almost dull. A look that says nothing, but says everything.
A look that leaves the imagination of the observer free.
This is also what I like about photography. The unknown. A good unknown though.
A bit like when you read a book and it is we, only us, who make the image it tells our own.
Okay, I've never been here, I've only been here.
I've seen faces, walked streets, drank beer and smoked weed.
I wanted to do more, say more, but it's not the turn to feel sorry for yourself, not now.
Now we get up if we are on the ground.
Now let's run if we have learned to walk.
Now you don't just shout to the sky, now the sky will listen to us because we will make it tremble with our voices, so let us hear you.
Wherever you are, scream until you are free.
Turn up the volume of the music because it is the music that will set us free.
Forget everything for a moment, forget about being children, being fathers, mothers.
There are no bonds here except those we have built.
Forget everything for a moment, the worries, the pains, the pains, the hell, the tears.
Here we cry only for joy for having made it, to be alive always and in any case, because what you are never dies,
your word never dies.
I was born on a winter's night, in a valley of hopes and promises.
They are the consequence of my thoughts, my actions and beyond.
Beyond the imagination, beyond my head, my hands and beyond.
Leave a mark on all the people you've met and arrive at the end with nothing left, broken into a thousand pieces and beyond.
Over my arms, legs, feet and beyond.
Besides everything that has never been here
Besides all that has never been true.
I smell the stench of your darkness, your perverse looks, your bloody long tongues and your sharp claws that tear the light. You are worms that crawl to eat the soil you have beneath you. Humanity has nothing good and only a facade to get something in return. The true human soul is made up only of darkness that envelops the entire planet. I see empty people with no will to live. People who lose days of life without wondering why they die inside. Inside they have monsters that devour them and as soon as someone approaches they tear them apart to rob their soul. Life is a continuous devouring each other without even anyone noticing. We are beasts that devour everything and everyone in order to survive. A battle all in our heads that is amplified in the world.A stain contrasts with your whiteness. It is black, black bewilderment, black disgust. Some would barely notice it, others would not consider it at all. I, on the other hand, can’t see anything else. It is there in the center of my gaze, I try to eliminate it but I cannot because it is sticky, it has stuck to you. I have dirtied you, defaced you, I scarred you. You, so beautiful, so innocent … How can I still look at you the same way? How am I not going to think about that scene turning in my mind like a restless beast? How will I still feel your hands, your body? It happened a while ago, but for me it’s like it was today. The disgust makes me tremble, the disappointment makes me close my eyes. Maybe it doesn’t matter to you, it was just to try, a game, nonsense … Nothing to do, these excuses don’t work. I try to keep an open mind usually, tolerant, understanding. This time, however, after she heard you speak, she curled up on herself, like a piece of paper that burns and slowly chars. I just want to curl up and forget everything, and then open my eyes and find it was just a dream. Because this memory is so strong, because the disgust is so intense, because … I am cold inside and you are in sleep and you are still dreaming about that day.
He looks at her with the eyes of love. And she doesn’t see, she doesn’t understand that she doesn’t make sense, she doesn’t have a purpose, a dream, an aspiration, nothing. Nothing is what you hear. No past, heartbeats, breaths, monotony, do what you have to, make them happy. The look that from time to time rests on what is “normal” but which for her becomes more and more distant, unattainable, almost inconceivable. The present is no longer anything, the warmth, the beauty, the sweet scents have arrived. But nothing always remains her, so eager to resemble her childish fantasies, so hopeful and yet so dry and dumb, cold and empty. The desert doesn’t want flowers, does it? It makes them thirsty during the day, cold at night. The desert welcomes passing guests, but then lashes them with its storms and hurries to erase their footsteps. He doesn’t want anyone, the desert. Or maybe yes, but he doesn’t even know how to manage himself. Hot, then cold, storms, comatose calm. He is furious with himself, he is disillusioned. He thinks that he will not make it, when he has to spread his wings and fly, he will realize that they are made of paper, so thin as to be transparent. He will realize that the imagination is just smoke. And it will fall into the void.
I have been abused since I was only 4 years old and I still don’t know if it was someone from my family (uncle, cousin, grandfather, or friend of the family) and therefore my happiness was taken away from me so quickly that all theories and ideas of world are not enough to bring my soul back to life. I also went through years of therapy, but you will understand that undergoing such bad things as a child destroyed my inner world. I saved myself, thanks to my imagination and creativity. I have never had help from anyone and even if I always do good in return I always receive evil. I don’t believe in happiness. It is a harmful and illusory world.
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 