On ineffable levity
by Mario Borgese
Every love encounter reveals its secret. The encounter of art opens the world through peaks of color. Light strokes of grey-blue waters tell the story of the paper. Thoughts that were never thought before emerge and open the beauty of our chimeras. It is so that the games of thoughts and dreams multiply and cross the unreal and the real, to produce the ex-tatic forms of imagination.
Simonetta leads us lightly to a tranquil melancholy, a nostalgia of nostalgia, and its memory the smell of a bud during springtime, its perfume in a birch tree, that smell that connect the universes of childhood, that smell then, that in its first expansion is the origin of the world. Boxwood and carnation, maybe, in a far memory, give back an ancient garden and the resin dripping from the tree has the smell of all our summers. In its growth to the cosmic flux, the images of ample spaces until fading horizons dream of the matter; the meaning of things appears to us in the union of cosmos and substance. Images that grow on its own until the level of their universe.
Spaces, not places, strata of earth living depth, perfumed paste with which we begin to manipulate the substance of the world. Plato said that Mythos is a fairy-tale. The man, not being able to dream, started to think. But these dreams return and the myth returns as poetry in the feeble sign of a thread given to Theseus who won the monster generated by Pasifae in the labyrinth of his soul. And more, him that fell wanting to reach what is unreachable. The Being is reachable, says Heidegger, through poetry, true Simonetta!