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I don't own a boat, but, when you are by my loaves of Moncemarcello, and I go to fatally at the Mouth of the Magra to go for a walk on that of a friend who takes me on a tour in the gulf of la Spezia. There, in the midst of that Sea, there are two small islands, Tino and Tinetto that I look grateful for the similarity that one of them has a picture of the painter Arnold Bocklin from me very bitter. On top of that island there is a plantation of dark cypresses, of that green that unlike other green bench in the painting makes us believe that there is the melancholy that his nails. With a ghost. That example of nature's ghost has been suggested to Bocklin, deciding that the small island he painted towards the end of the nineteenth century, in the image or likeness of that which is in the Ligurian Sea, you could call The “island of the dead”. Giorgio de Chirico, before i become even more mysterious when his Ebdomero “did the boat tour of his room” had passed beyond it, for the same paintings, portraying the island and ghosts, centaurs, and nymphs crazy love was on the rocks, and the backwash of the waves of the sea: the ghosts wrapped in a white sheet with the hidden face because we guardatori of paintings we could allow ourselves to be more than a thought.

As the boat with the motor and the two horses moved slowly to take root inside of me, the proportions of those rocks and those plants green so dark from being athletes nerboruti, I saw in the boiling midday summer – I own view, I have dreamed of it – the small island bockliniana move at the same speed of our boat, or oars of a young Ebdomero, break away from the moorings to which digs bound for a thousand years and come back, slowly, her rowing , almost without a ripple in the water in which digs immersed. It was a floating island that, when a little wind and decided to animate it, and began to turn on itself, to be watched. Last summer Cortina I had met in the gallery of Stefano Contini, the sculptor Paolo Borghi and he told me almost the same thing. No. I said more. Because he is convinced that in the framework of the“Island of the dead” Bocklin is a sculpture, a painting, the plastic has said, and not an island firm, and immobile, and that was in the sea for us to see how it was made. That body had. How they made the rocks, the foliage and the height of the plants so dark, corpulent as the resident, and if the set of architectures such as may be the round shape of a small baptistery, which overlooks the water of the sea.

I always thought that the sculptures of Paul Villages not to have been born from the mountain, but by the waters of the sea. That the whole of his property in polychrome terracotta in the top of which is a female figure and another male that sustains it, or the has – visco how, and where, he placed the man behind the back of the woman – is a clay rocks to work by the water of the sea, frastagliare from the passion that the water has in respect of the inlets of the mainland. And that the constant impetus of those waves to distort, gnaw, even a couple of millimetres per month, the shape of the rocks, is exactly that of the sea water that tries to remover the mainland because the face over, a good volca, stand there, still motionless. To give this movement not unlike that of the water, he thought the same Paul Villages: a great charmer not snakes, but movements of a kind earthquake. Villages breathe as if he had the sea in the nose. And breathing gives a shape to the life of anyone who dares to breathe, and builds on the content of this island, of which we have spoken. To the point that her family tree is sitting on top of the rocks of that island having, as an accomplice, of the small baptistery bockliniano, the trees are dark green and the other forms that fatally, ch i hold your hands in the dough terracotta can bring forth depending on the breath that remains to him for having believed in the island. That can be as large as great: how great the bow of an island, led by a man and by a woman stuck: and Villages become as long as a ship. How great a chaise longue against a chair.

But always rocks in the middle of the water and the air to breathe it must be, because they were the work of Greek sculptors to invent the air that moves those characters. And in the same way the nordic Paolo Borghi he heard breathing with the nose, which, Turkish, what is in the form of a sculpture must have in the air. To breathe. And if you do not breathe blessed when you're in front of a sculpture, then would you say that the sculpture is without life. What other foibles of life is possessed Paul Villages it is as if I am convinced that his women are happy to be born with beautiful lands, of the sweetest profiles , noses g uai to break them as it has always happened to the nasi of the ancient sculptures: born with backs long as the legs of the most beautiful swimmers that have views of workout in the pool, cannot survive, and to be admired, if not have, at the back, tight on the back, a man must feel inspired by the mere idea of being put there. Tacked on to the woman who ltti you're taking it from behind. Is a picture not fleeting, it is almost a fixed point, in the imagination of the sculptor. For him, the woman should be arranged in that way the voluptuous. Can you remember the etruscan sculpture of the bride and groom one next to the other in the bed. But Towns has them stuck because there are doubts about the quality of the passion to stay engaged, there at the space marine on the top of which the two prefer to live, youths of seduction. Reason why I do not see, for the moment, the other solution to this seductive, intense illness loving.

Giorgio Soavi

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