faded landscape, in the spectrum of the most expensive place
The black paintings on paper by Mario Benedetti is a farewell, a piercing cry of pain, an encounter with the shadows of the dead. The farewell is first and foremost a landscape that, in human glory, and kept the memory at the same time continued to be made fertile by the gestures of everyday life, from the words of loved ones, by their mere presence that was deposited over time, filling places of life, leaving the heat and the density of your breath. Yet, alongside motions of joy, the enlargement of the heart that finds the wonder of childhood intact, the light in which things appear as they are, were already present in Human glory (Mondadori, 2004) the shadow of death, that black scratch property and that, through the memory of the terrible earthquake of '76, grew up in the last sections where the landscape becomes a crib, a place not feasible, a "rest". With the two final texts of this his first book Mondadori we have arrived at this climate that the black paintings: the backward motion of the memory is no longer in the direction of life, the search for identity. A short circuit shut off the original light which drew the poesia; i luoghi dell’infanzia, dell’inizio, sono diventati quelli della morte: «Cerco una fine dove giocavo», dice il primo verso di Riesumazioni. Ai bagliori e alle slogature che il ricordo portava nella percezione del presente fino a confonderlo con il passato e con il sogno, subentra la fissità di un rituale funebre, il distacco del visitatore di un’Area museale. Ed ecco le Pitture nere su carta, come uno strappo dai luoghi su cui si reggeva un’intera esistenza, il referto di un trauma e insieme di un processo già innescato nelle cose. Come per un «disseccamento naturale» il paesaggio appare ora nel suo volto raggrinzito di mummia; la storia lo ha disabitato, l’ha svuotato, ha trasformato la sua life in an exhibit. But even in the eyes of the poet has been a radical change: a strong pain, "exhausting", led him into the field, retrieving the body and its perceptions. It is as if the eyes were 'retreated' leaving an insight, a screen where images of reality pass through the transitions, the beams of light, waves, and spectra of 'physical dimensions. " Art in Human glory was one of the filters through which the subject perceived reality, is now the only form of experience. The real appears as a large permanent installation, a catalog that could expand to infinity, a tourist guide, a "photo taken by satellite, "in which an opaque sheet has been given a body. The main figure is now one of the list, already present in human glory but with a glue that held things together, the elements. "And all you kept your sweater," writes Benedetti at the end of one of his tears, knowing that the warmth that gave the center a reality and that arose from the ideal of absolute power and his love child, has now lost. The real has thus expanded its cracks and nothing is expanded in each direction, three hundred sixty degrees, "Behind you, and before, well, nothing."
the landscape of childhood, loved to make a human shape, to confuse it with his body, has been applied to a negative sign, one that does not clear the emotional life and the movement of memory: "And the years / / head, that follow, you see, / / \u200b\u200bI can go, not in the face and not / cry why, oh why / / there are no lips to touch. " So also the light, and white light that appears multiple times, they are disheartened, spectral, come from frost or are emitted by the universe, a mysterious and distant tone dull, dull, "Clouds sottolucenti. Mother of pearl. [...] Polar auroras. "
But more than landscape should talk now of 'ghost of a place "(Giorgio Agamben), a space journey in darkness, like a sleepwalker, guided by the whispers and creaks from the dead. That search for the missing, bodies of slumbering in the depths of the places that opened Human glory, Benedetti led up to this space where, with no heaven or earth, the dead can almost be met, touched, they can "spend the force." Black paintings concludes with this sort of matter of overcoming, a central event, which seems to have brought the whole book, touching a level that attracts all the more irresistible because it is unbearable pain. It is this step taken beyond the limit, to give strength and reason of a book in which he risked everything, while touching the aphasia, the view of language, the indistinct that reigns when faith in the word is worn, "From the night the morning the night, / green pants, trousers, blue / black, blue, copper, everything. / / Why is not a word. / Seas are houses, roads / streets and seas, homes. " Human glory in the reality that was present in its density, its thickness also made of dreams and failures, gives way to a feeling of unreality that is as strong as death seems to suck with his appeal still. On the one hand, the epiphanies, the flashes of joy and celebration for the appearance of things, by their mere presence (the figure was perhaps the tautology dominant in the earlier book), and secondly the accumulation of images, moving towards the abstract, touching the manner ('veil of places. Screws, eggs, radish, / [...] screws screws, eggs eggs ... " or trespassing in the Baroque, with its funereal pomp, with its ornaments that branch off into space (see in particular section Reliquaries). It is no coincidence that many poems bring back the inscription in place or thing to which they relate, as if butts and pieces of reality were the starting point of a "decorative meditation," a change of image "in the void, in its possibilities." 
The whole book is a continuous oscillation and tension between two poles, 'Between unreality and tears ": on the one hand, the anesthetized distance, obscured by glare of shapes and images, who came to hear goodbye and once again back to life, other spasms of excruciating pain , nested "at the root of the nerves." A cry animal tearing each stride highest rhetorical ornament, every temptation to mannerism that could lurk where reality blurs, or rather enter into 'you can not, and in areas where the language does not come, but "barely" as "without thinking", anesthetized, or butts, in notations dried and fragmented, as in a medley. "Moon falling in my dream. / Idylls, c reasoned or thought too. "Benedetti writes in a sequence that closely recalls the Zibaldone Leopardi, but there are various points where the poet returns to Recanati, materialism which Benedetti has certainly fed (see lines like:" Infinite morning , endless nights. / It should be sweet nothing, / / \u200b\u200bthe sweet nothing "). As in the Leopards to himself, the formidable strength of the black paintings of Benedetti's in their being born in front of an abyss: a last step in the language of poetry, of all forms of human feeling.
The whole book is a continuous oscillation and tension between two poles, 'Between unreality and tears ": on the one hand, the anesthetized distance, obscured by glare of shapes and images, who came to hear goodbye and once again back to life, other spasms of excruciating pain , nested "at the root of the nerves." A cry animal tearing each stride highest rhetorical ornament, every temptation to mannerism that could lurk where reality blurs, or rather enter into 'you can not, and in areas where the language does not come, but "barely" as "without thinking", anesthetized, or butts, in notations dried and fragmented, as in a medley. "Moon falling in my dream. / Idylls, c reasoned or thought too. "Benedetti writes in a sequence that closely recalls the Zibaldone Leopardi, but there are various points where the poet returns to Recanati, materialism which Benedetti has certainly fed (see lines like:" Infinite morning , endless nights. / It should be sweet nothing, / / \u200b\u200bthe sweet nothing "). As in the Leopards to himself, the formidable strength of the black paintings of Benedetti's in their being born in front of an abyss: a last step in the language of poetry, of all forms of human feeling. Franca Mancinelli
0 comments:
Post a Comment