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7/12/2012

Piero Maniscalco

Artists' House, St. Petersburg

The labyrinth is a place and no place, It is sense and no sense, Memory and oblivion together For those who believe in the gods of time, In immortality, And for whoever does not believe in their virtues, Death. It is architecture that divides Matter from shadow, deceit, Illusion, denial of denial, Abstract fury, Loss of oneself, of memory, Of space. It is cloud, who wraps askew Whoever finds himself, Before, behind, by day, By night, desperate, furious, Alive, living, by slow and heavy, Quick and light steps. It is Sisyphus, deceived, obstinate, Giving the illusion of certainty, Giving certainty to illusion, In an eternal round, endless anabasis, Violent fall, wrapped in a great cloak, So high the view is wiped out. It is Daedalus inextricably, unnameably, Losing himself, his name, His history, what happened, Cursed, unnamed, Without cease, walled up, without Walls, in the illusion of being Architect of the world but, in fact, Wrapped in myth, suffocated, transfixed. It is Dionysius, lord, Seated on the throne, king Of who wins, murderer Of losers, happy In gladness and joy, Gloomy and melancholy In sadness and pain. It is a mask, like another face And a liar, it is Shield and sword, like Fear and menace. It is the phallus, like a knife, That desires pain, the devil That watches my, your, our Ruin of man... It is the mirror that looks and watches you, Like a divine mark, perverted, Hinting at men with the heads of Bulls, fish with wings, birds With dogs’ tails, lizards, dragons, Centaurs, sea sirens, deer Fleeing, chimeras; vanity.

Figures in an upside down world, Houses on the points of spires and Earth above sky, the only place Where the labyrinth is revealed, annulled; But the flight is Icarus, above all Icarus with His eternal tears of that damned Fall. It is alchemy that changes death Into a golden face, stolen from death, The minotaur in speculum et Aenigmat a mixture of Unknown things and an astonishing Infinite bestiary; lynxes, Leopards, chimeras, harpies, nightmares, Hairy snakes, hyenas, otters, Crows... It is the sketched rhinosceros, paper, Geography, of absurd rhetoric, Of intolerant arrogance, brute force, Mosaic that recalls verba vana aut risui Apta, on loqui. It is the poet driven by error, Horror, it is lascivious woman, everyone’s Own demon, metaphor, Play on words and enigma, Art of pure pleasure, and anguish, It is folly and the apple of discord. Ab ovo, hanging from the vault Cum filo che pende et ovo That keeps in the shell in secret The author of this, of all this, Who will be snatched, punished, like The thief of fire.

Artists' House
Uliza Piestila 93 - St. Petersburg

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