Flavio Favelli: La mia casa è la mia mente

I always remember the diary of H.Carter, when he discovered the grave of the pharaoh. It was always a requirement of mine to have a grave, but when I am still in life. A true and actual house, with so many rooms, adapted at all desires. but perhaps it would not have any sense to call it grave, by the fact that there is no dead body, It doesn’t matter. It would be a true and actual building, maybe on the Apennine. large, rectangular, white, with only one floor, but heighten, with a big and large ten steps’ staircase. Inside, ten rooms at least, without windows, with skylights on the roof, but with the intern doors , without water, but with the light. The ceiling is high two meters and an half. sometimes I would bring things, furnish, my works, the articles of furniture, modify a volume, build a staircase or to put on a pavement. It would never be ended. there would be several beds. also the baths, three, with all, but without water, built respecting the order of the things according to an idea, a policy, a desire, a logic. Those / the one of my images. The couple of two structures named “Ballatoio”, would be in one of the last opposite rooms in front of a bed, on a black floor, of polished slate, as the same as school’s blackboard.

The house who bought my grandfather on the Tosco-emiliano Apennines is one cold, dark, hard house. A short, ridiculous tree-lined drive of twelve lime on the humid mossy staircase. In the Apennines, on the Apennines there is something that seems to wrap it all. and they’re seems so similar the grey faces of the women and the men on the ceramics’ medallions of the tombs in the cemeteries full of chestnut trees. And then, the tombstones of the Big Wars. And the balconies in iron unvarnished, thin terrace, exiles who give the vertigo, the rusty railings. The enamelled bowl. Rose’ s intones, the dark green boxwood. During the winter then, every day seems torn. The heaps of stones and the brooms. and the floor of grit, the walls between the white and pink hydrangeas, an ash rose as some intones. And the roses with petals lukewarm by the sun, always faded. It ‘s like if I always turning round.

After a long work on those themes, described in those two last texts, the exhibition in the Gallery will be an ulterior deepening. It will be a kind of mental house, with remembers of dreams, situations déja-vu. Carpet, floor, trimming furnished.

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Flavio Favelli: La mia casa è la mia mente