lunedì 19 settembre 2011
giovedì 1 settembre 2011
Cafe Race . The Smell of the grass. L'odore dell'erba
Race Cafe. The smell of the grass
The smell of dry grass is everywhere, impalpable, sour, hot. Shades of emerald green to olive camouflage stains from dried leaves of unvoiced to coarse flakes of ice in his eyes, Andrea remains motionless, surrounded by a shell of resin scraped and patched several times. The hull of an old boat design object appears suddenly in the middle of the field, just steps from the trees scorched by the sun.
With the air of one who has a secret between her teeth, speaks in silence, without moving his mouth.Thoughts take form in the clear air of a late afternoon, tired but proud of the burden of the day and decided.
Hens crazy, careless of his presence continue their comings and goings in the rural living, messy and scruffy. Reminiscent of a crowded waiting room of the past. Uncertain balance of feathers and confetti give life to a party without an invitation.
Sofa in the shell, the shadow is sweet, the voice takes shape and depth. The hands are clasped between their two shovels of meat. They tell stories never heard, far away, without too many clues and not too long.Most of the anecdotes that seem to have other meanings not too explicit. You have to have ears, pay attention to gestures and light rough that from time to time move the air that is in front.
The laughter, also small, are simple and genuine as perhaps his character.
He leans on his knees and thrust over one hundred and ninety centimeters from the ground, pointing the waxed canvas too dry and cracked by time. An improvised curtain takes ownership of memory. The tiny theater camp is about to unveil the silent until now.
With a sweetness improper for a giant, the birds are stringent and unhelpful placed just under the shadow of the old Japanese Cyclops. The lifeless eyes for years ahead. The dust is so thin that it be imperceptible.
The look is not exactly exciting. The shapes of the eighties mostly disappointing not leave room for imagination. The chrome, they get confused with the land, announcing a fall too far. Oxidations unpredictable draw strange shapes along the chassis and engine parts.
Andrew clenches his fists on the handlebars too small, moving with the ease of a child who moves his bicycle. Iron is free. Brake noise closed by the time bouncing between the cries of the soil dried dung to the overheated drums. Open a bottle from the strong taste of the same gesture, probably used for the actors when birds pass away. A rap. Two plastic cups environmentally friendly surface as if by magic. Best not to ask questions and try to make friends with the seeds still unknown. Alcohol will do its part.
Throw down as it burns your throat just enough to remind you that you're alive. The shepherd dog keeps running away just watching the scene with suspicion. Talk of the project while I nod, already tarnished by the second glass.
He has loosed the tongue revealing a mood unexpected. Virtually everything is to dismantle, remove, cut, trim. Cancer has touched the rusty levers of control and certainly the electrical system. It 'will be aware that a lot of work, made of beer and sweat, cursing and sleepless nights.
In the warehouse next to a pitch-black frame, some notes and photos are moving in the air, fixed by nails and paper tape. They evoke a kind of image represented most often in the movies where psychopaths living with walls covered in detail, stories, programs. Continue to talk about seeing nothing but those notes. It seems to be a lesson. I sit on a rickety chair without color, standing still is not disturbed. Sometimes I get lost listening to the sounds in the distance. Voices, un'abbaiare continuous, even chickens. I'm about to lose his balance but I awakened, disguising the embarrassment. He is kind and turns a blind eye, still leading to the mouth, another glass of alcohol.The next time I return to see the disassembled pieces of the Cyclops on the bench. I will carry with me a bottle of water, tea gives me head.
L’odore dell’erba secca è ovunque,impalpabile, acidulo,caldo. Dalle tonalità del verde smeraldo agli oliva mimetici, dalle macchie afone delle foglie secche alle pagliuzze ispide dei suoi occhi di ghiaccio, rimane immobile Andrea, avvolto da un guscio di resina scrostato e rattoppato più volte. Lo scafo di una vecchia barca sembra un improvviso oggetto di design in mezzo al campo, a pochi passi dagli alberi scottati dal sole.
Foto e racconto di Francesco Enzo van der Burght per HYDESTYLE 2011 C
The smell of dry grass is everywhere, impalpable, sour, hot. Shades of emerald green to olive camouflage stains from dried leaves of unvoiced to coarse flakes of ice in his eyes, Andrea remains motionless, surrounded by a shell of resin scraped and patched several times. The hull of an old boat design object appears suddenly in the middle of the field, just steps from the trees scorched by the sun.
With the air of one who has a secret between her teeth, speaks in silence, without moving his mouth.Thoughts take form in the clear air of a late afternoon, tired but proud of the burden of the day and decided.
Hens crazy, careless of his presence continue their comings and goings in the rural living, messy and scruffy. Reminiscent of a crowded waiting room of the past. Uncertain balance of feathers and confetti give life to a party without an invitation.
Sofa in the shell, the shadow is sweet, the voice takes shape and depth. The hands are clasped between their two shovels of meat. They tell stories never heard, far away, without too many clues and not too long.Most of the anecdotes that seem to have other meanings not too explicit. You have to have ears, pay attention to gestures and light rough that from time to time move the air that is in front.
The laughter, also small, are simple and genuine as perhaps his character.
He leans on his knees and thrust over one hundred and ninety centimeters from the ground, pointing the waxed canvas too dry and cracked by time. An improvised curtain takes ownership of memory. The tiny theater camp is about to unveil the silent until now.
With a sweetness improper for a giant, the birds are stringent and unhelpful placed just under the shadow of the old Japanese Cyclops. The lifeless eyes for years ahead. The dust is so thin that it be imperceptible.
The look is not exactly exciting. The shapes of the eighties mostly disappointing not leave room for imagination. The chrome, they get confused with the land, announcing a fall too far. Oxidations unpredictable draw strange shapes along the chassis and engine parts.
Andrew clenches his fists on the handlebars too small, moving with the ease of a child who moves his bicycle. Iron is free. Brake noise closed by the time bouncing between the cries of the soil dried dung to the overheated drums. Open a bottle from the strong taste of the same gesture, probably used for the actors when birds pass away. A rap. Two plastic cups environmentally friendly surface as if by magic. Best not to ask questions and try to make friends with the seeds still unknown. Alcohol will do its part.
Throw down as it burns your throat just enough to remind you that you're alive. The shepherd dog keeps running away just watching the scene with suspicion. Talk of the project while I nod, already tarnished by the second glass.
He has loosed the tongue revealing a mood unexpected. Virtually everything is to dismantle, remove, cut, trim. Cancer has touched the rusty levers of control and certainly the electrical system. It 'will be aware that a lot of work, made of beer and sweat, cursing and sleepless nights.
In the warehouse next to a pitch-black frame, some notes and photos are moving in the air, fixed by nails and paper tape. They evoke a kind of image represented most often in the movies where psychopaths living with walls covered in detail, stories, programs. Continue to talk about seeing nothing but those notes. It seems to be a lesson. I sit on a rickety chair without color, standing still is not disturbed. Sometimes I get lost listening to the sounds in the distance. Voices, un'abbaiare continuous, even chickens. I'm about to lose his balance but I awakened, disguising the embarrassment. He is kind and turns a blind eye, still leading to the mouth, another glass of alcohol.The next time I return to see the disassembled pieces of the Cyclops on the bench. I will carry with me a bottle of water, tea gives me head.
L’odore dell’erba secca è ovunque,impalpabile, acidulo,caldo. Dalle tonalità del verde smeraldo agli oliva mimetici, dalle macchie afone delle foglie secche alle pagliuzze ispide dei suoi occhi di ghiaccio, rimane immobile Andrea, avvolto da un guscio di resina scrostato e rattoppato più volte. Lo scafo di una vecchia barca sembra un improvviso oggetto di design in mezzo al campo, a pochi passi dagli alberi scottati dal sole.
Con l’aria di chi ha un segreto tra i denti, parla in silenzio senza muovere bocca. I pensieri prendono forma nell’aria limpida di un pomeriggio a finire, stanchi del peso della giornata ma fieri e decisi.
Galline impazzite, noncuranti della sua presenza continuano il loro vai e vieni nel salotto rurale, scombinato e malconcio. Ricordano una sala d’aspetto affollata d’altri tempi. Equilibri incerti e coriandoli di piume danno vita a una festa senza invito.
Nel guscio divano, l’ombra è dolce, la voce prende corpo e profondità. Le mani strette tra loro sono due badili di carne. Raccontano storie mai sentite, lontane, senza troppi indizi e nemmeno troppo lunghe. Quasi degli aneddoti che sembrano avere altri significati non troppo espliciti. Devi avere orecchio, stare attento ai gesti leggeri e ruvidi che di tanto in tanto muovono l’aria che sta di fronte.
Le risate, anch’esse contenute, sono semplici e genuine come forse il suo carattere.
Si appoggia al ginocchio e con la spinta gli oltre centonovanta centimetri dal suolo, puntano il telone cerato anch’esso arido e screpolato dal tempo. Un sipario improvvisato si riappropria della memoria. Il minuscolo teatro da campo sta per svelare quanto taciuto fino ad ora.
Con una dolcezza impropria per un gigante, i volatili puntigliosi e mal disposti vengono riposti appena sotto l’ombra del vecchio ciclope giapponese. L’occhio spento da anni aspetta. La polvere è talmente sottile da rivelarsi impercettibile.
L’aspetto non è proprio entusiasmante. Le forme degli anni ottanta perlopiù deludenti non lasciano spazio all’immaginazione. Le cromature si lasciano andare confondendosi con la terra, annunciando un autunno ancora troppo lontano. Ossidazioni imprevedibili disegnano strane forme lungo il telaio e parti del motore.
Andrea stringe i pugni sul manubrio troppo piccolo, spostandola con la facilità di un bambino che muove la propria bicicletta. Il ferro è libero. Il rumore dei freni chiusi dal tempo grida rimbalzando tra lo sterco secco del suolo fino ai timpani accaldati. Apre una bottiglia dal gusto forte con lo stesso gesto probabilmente usato per gli attori pennuti al momento di passare a miglior vita. Un colpo secco. Due bicchieri di plastica ecocompatibile affiorano come per magia. Meglio non fare domande e cercare di farsi amici i germi ancora sconosciuti. L’alcool farà la sua parte.
Buttiamo giù mentre la gola brucia quel tanto che serve a ricordarti che sei vivo. Il cane pastore continua a girare poco lontano osservando la scena con sospetto. Parla del progetto mentre annuisco, già offuscato dal secondo bicchiere.
A lui ha sciolto la lingua rivelando un umore inaspettato. Praticamente è tutto da smontare, togliere, tagliare, accorciare. Il cancro rugginoso ha intaccato le leve dei comandi e sicuramente l’impianto elettrico. E’ consapevole che sarà un lavoro lungo, fatto di birre e sudore, bestemmie e serate insonni.
Nel magazzino vicino ad un telaio nero pece, alcuni appunti e foto si muovono nell’aria, fissati da chiodi e nastro di carta. Evocano una sorta di immagine rappresentata il più delle volte nei film dove gli psicopatici convivono con muri tappezzati di dettagli, storie, programmi. Continua a parlare senza vedere altro che quegli appunti. Sembra di stare ad una lezione. Mi siedo su una sedia scassata senza colore, rimanendo immobile per non disturbare. A tratti mi perdo ascoltando i rumori in lontananza. Voci, un’abbaiare continuo, ancora galline. Sto per perdere l’equilibrio ma mi ridesto, camuffando l’imbarazzo. Lui è gentile e finge di non vedere, continua portando alla bocca un altro bicchiere di the alcolico.
La prossima volta tornerò a vedere i pezzi del ciclope smontato sopra il banco. Porterò con me una bottiglia d’acqua, il the mi da alla testa.
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