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The tangle



“Quality of what is beautiful; the aesthetic value of things, that is, the perfection of the sensitive aspects that arouses admiration or delight. Sight or hearing produces a feeling in the soul. "

(from the Garzanti dictionary of the Italian language)

It is the definition of a word whispered every day, handed down over time. You know what it is, you know it and you look for it. It is hidden in an orderly intertwining of roads and intentions. Thus beauty is born. It comes from the limits, always. You meet her in going beyond “looking for trouble”, to reflect, to think. It comes from accidents and opportunities that we don't appreciate at first, but that allow us to build invisible architectures , to quote Calvino. Then beauty, like the city, comes alive with the gaze, the heart and the steps of those who live it and those who dream of it different every day, while keeping intact its deepest essence, its history, its value. It is then in the most severe, stormy and crazy paths, in the chaos and in the sewn texture of everyday bodies and ideas.

“I wonder, What does it mean to sew? A needle enters and leaves something leaving behind a thread, a sign of its path that unites places and intentions. The united things remain integrally what they were, only crossed by a thread. "

(Maria Lai)

Maria Lai talks about crossings, going beyond matter and learning to appreciate it in its primordial and then changed condition. Draw a thread of existence . An art in a small space that, in the end, upsets an immense space. Its threads, its infinite intertwining tend to go beyond the confines of the tables, almost redesigning others to become new sounds of cosmic music .

They are books without words, woven threads, but threads with a gentle and silent voice. Then in the impossibility of the tangle a closed song is handed down in an attempt to decipher it in order to derive its meaning; which must not be interpreted, but must be dreamed in order not to exclude the multiple senses it brings with it. The threads of Things hold beauty tightly. They are shy, they do not enunciate. Instead they suggest, evoke, whisper.

Imagine and experience the impossible.

The soul is full of shooting stars.

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