FOR NARCISO BRESCIANI

Seizing the moment when, exhausted or bored, tired immortals are dormant he replaces them. Not the sculptor who breaks the stone, but he who shapes, mixing, polishing, piercing, he still competes with the first day of creation, to take us elsewhere and beyond the seventh day. One who has turned to the earth to draw counsel, to make it the substance of his song, with his eros powerful and humble, has from time immemorial been its celebrant. He believes in the land for us, who are no longer able to hear the drenched smells of hay, the sighs of water within which bright motes flow; the whisper of seeds waiting to assimilate whatever humors be dissolved in it. He raises voids and places them back intact; he asks forms to be silent, so as to harvest their rustling; every living theme discovered to have infiltrated Gaia initiates us to a cult. His is a daily liturgy of time that becomes a ridge, a watershed separating before and after. His clays remain with us, because we cannot grasp them. The fingers that have shaped them, always know when to stop sketching. So his wisdom can rescue from the dark figures we could not see. Bresciani offers us crypts, tunnels, rhythmic dunes, tubular sequences. From his rocklike, but always lax concretions indications appear of broken memories, possibilities that have renounced all false illusion of eternity. Fragility flows impartial in everything he gives. He hollows out, gathers, piles up, stretches, lifts, perforates in our place; then penetrates between the scales of the surface, loosens rims, causes them to bubble with spent lava, grown weary of primordial chaos. As his gestures evolve they evoke what we were not given to see. His every primitive artefact, is destined never to own its identity. His meditation consists of incompleteness. This he knows and wants, even for us. Then he introduces us to the poetics of the instant that can extend to infinity. We see a shadow appear, entangled by mistake in a web of cartilage, scales, of vulvas. Regretting having ended up in the chain of incessant metamorphoses of what is even more alive, because it was never born... Sounding silences are what Bresciani builds for us, as he moves among his works, freed from an earthly prison we go elsewhere; to those crevices of the soul that are gradually closing, while what appeared sealed, is already preparing to breathe out new spaces.