Plinio Perilli

Soaring in synæsthesia

the multi-media REFLECTION of Largo Sguardo

Wide View

by Plinio Perilli

translation by JOSHUA CAMBRIA

John Cabot University (Rome, Italy)

– ogni frammento o gesto d’espressione –

per solidale tangenza visionaria,

altezza implosa, intimizzata…

arioso rito di luceombra!

Soaring over everything in synæsthesia… even the post-

baudelairian correspondences dated Third Millenium give us,

altogether, a wide view and a new jolt of passion!

So as to not delve into the most affectionate inhereted

inebriations Rimbaud style, always rocking the boat with feet firmly

on the ground, equally malicious and impetuous: “Ho sognato la

notte verde dalle nevi abbagliate, / bacio che si leva con lentezze

agli occhi dei mari, / la circolazione delle linfe inaudite, / e il

risveglio giallo e blu dei fosfori canori!”… “Io che correvo,

chiazzato di lùnule elettriche”…

He has and requires a “wide viewpoint,” a plan that links the

elective lunulas… or rather, the Psicofantaossessioni of Faraòn Meteosès

(alias of Stefano Amorese), to the complex collaboration co-

opted by some of the best videomakers, musicians, performers,

actors and singers from Europe – of rather, the world. A double

result, if our Stefano is successful, alongside following a sort of

mythicised unexpected and indecipherable Total Art, and moving

at the same time the stagnant, torpid pentacontinental and/or

Italian waters. Five continents make the world, but here 15 brief

shots between text, film and music and “warbling phosfori” make

in all a single work! There following, we can repeat the anxieties,

the indemnities and pulsions – the abrasions – of our unavoidable

contemporaneity, altogether rushing and deriding them…

“Sidol” and “Specchiatura” are the reacting writing, the litmus

paper, the public self-psychography of Faraòn Meterosès (to say it

like Pessoa!), upon which every directer, every musician,

translator and orator, imposes and orchestrates, placing and

emphasising his or her own score of explicit, or moreover

unfathomable, uncovered and harkened interior images…

Oh logos che ti fai ritrovare

che hai collegato “questo” – fammi pensare

a quanto sia grande in te il far ritrovare – unico e tuo

per ogni cosa fata unica e sua

come al gettare amo e filo nella neve

………………………………………………………..

There is no need, however, to render unconforable the splendid,

above-mentioned Phosphenes of Andrea Zanzotto, “the erratic

truths the crunchers and the climbers”: here every photogram,

every second of projection is a passage of Logos, it is

phosphene that draws color from darkness and it misses us, o we

prefer to protest, invoke, ritualise; thus the face that becomes

nebulous, the sky that shapes itself into a desired body – but even

an illness that consacrates a tedium or absence, the preturbance

that encourages, the destinates and that curbs a dissonance or a

melody equally harmonic or orchestrated…

We sound and live and see it, share it, this blessed, integrating

multi-media“pièce”… e Stefano opens the door to a postmodern

and ultrafunctionalist house with door-handles shining with

“sidol”:

Sidol: sapore giallo limone. Agra lucidità mentale.

Solarità del pomo: pensiero primigenio.

Lingotto sferico delle mie ricchezze interiori.

With this silly but also bitter metaphore, we are bound to the

journey, to walk down a serpentile corridor, arcane and domestic,

with every room faced on a faceting or a portion of the entire

work, autonomous and solid, fragmentary but total in unison…

⁂

If “Sidol” shined and rubbed handles and plaques, between

Logos and Ethic, “Specchiatura” brought us even further ahead:

the river's delta where the drunken dinghy, wandering and visionary,

wrecking and eager, meets the water, a sea of metaphysics but

even brackish, litterary, yes, but no less existential, averbal (and

most likely uncurable)…

In the Mirror frees the caustic and hammering video art of

the Frenchman Roland Quelven (to the music of the

Argentinian composer Marcela Pavia)… The incipit is inexorable

and it is perpetual like a lustrous hemorrhage of an enchanted and

hallucinogenic remake of the same kind: bodies, water, pools,

blood… a strange massacre within a divided screen – a sanguinary

one in a plastic dream, senseless and atrocious, schizofrenic and

forced to repeat… In the purgatory of a music, inisistant, modern

and obsessive, dissonant and disquieting…

Maria Korporal, Dutch director of a grand mettle, takes us

with Specchiatura on a beach where Alessandro Pintus wove

himself and wrapped himself with the horizon in a butoh dance…

but the first floor, cavernous, contracts and widens like a great

eye – a brilliant computer effect – to liberate the viewpoint

excluding, just like the leopardian “lonely hill” in “L'infinito”…

Nina Maroccolo and Faraòn Meteosès, fill with vocalisations and

plotted acting the convulsing and pure music of M° Daniele

Venturi, “for a reciting feminine voice, reciting male voice,

counter bass and electronic”…

The horizon sees us and it is seen like the eye of the world…

“Adesso… riverberare il Verbo”… a tear descends, it splits out

to make of itself a reflection. They permeate each other. “Nel

gorgo della glottide sonora”… The inspiration squeaks. The

exhaustive and irreplicable high notes of Nina scrape the

soul like the needle of a heart monitor that retracts or

confesses the heart… But Korporal is the cosmological,

ariostesque talent: the bowled hands can't contain the

paternoster, and yet they make a star, a perfect compass rose…

Un’improvvisa mitragliata di luce frantuma l’imago –

la sfracella in fiore. Ne fa un Occhio, cerchio

dentro al Cerchio, ciclope immaginifico che infuoca il

visus… “Chiromantico” chimes Nina… “la traccia della

resina e la linfa / del fango della cenere e l’argilla”… Then

the pupil shudders, it widens, becomes just a beam of sky and

sea – a minimal and absolute orb… like Chaplin The Dictator,

even Pintus plays ball… Meridians and parallels… but

Alessandro goes back to dancing with the sea, to become the

sea… “Per la schizofrenia delle mantisse/di Fibonacci il

matematico…” Nina evokes “per la scossa sismica

assestata”… Faraòn follows it and continues in low

baritone – modest and rearing wildly… duetting like a strong

wind and a nightingale in tremot… And the shoreline turns

horizontal, salt water divining, celestial confluence of

wisdom… a book appears, material and enforced. A swarm of

letters leaves and returns as if a mythical hive, a summa of

honey and wax, lost behind history… the book burns.

Alessandro, a most lively dancer, disappears and becomes

sacred, baptising, perhaps, the state of being from oblivion

there blending in. The apple he had in his mouth remains on

the beach – not the one that Eve had, transgressing and

nefarious, but one of good taste, the taste of a new creation:

the baptism of the Logos…

Dans le Miroir Pinina Podestàs kaleidoscopic videoartistic

fervour smiles (in the transalpine music of Mathieu Bonilla).

Quickly were surprised by a mask of bull horns, an accursed goat-

like visage; expiatory… Two indescribable portholes are placed

together and they vibrate and whistle like music like insectile

wings… It is the alfa and the omega, two crania or masks stare at

each other almost as if an ancestral reflection. Between the parietal

bones numbers fly, the stigma and the double sense are sought…

Two reflected and perhaps antithetical hemispheres, coral, leaves,

numbers, existential x-rays. With Saint Jerome that finished and

signed his Vulgate in full cosmological Baroque, a galactic drift…

Two faces in profile, they move with their beauty, luminous as the

fulcrom of ribirth, a humanist portrait. The view seeks, it

becomes a wall, a bat of light; bricks out in the open, an

immense porous stone? Numerology flows like a river over

us. Maybe its a pyramid. Numbers occur, like chances or

alibis… The scope of the viewpoint becomes incarnate

like a body. A gentle feminine hand searches and

caresses. The same scope of time now vanishes. A man

runs below – he runs and rune because he is Man that builds upon

himself, deep-rooted, he falls to crumbs, he spreads himself… The

mirror becomes a wall…

Horkay István, a Hungarian citizen of the world, true

orbiting genius, strikes us in “Nastro” by taking the “Lounging

Adam” of Manzù, shaped with mere cinematographic clay for

The Bible of John Huston, prolonging it like the initiation of

every completed genesis, for an aquatic exodus, for nudity

and enchantment of the Ecclesiastes… Another collaboration

with Faraòn and Maroccolo (well leave the author of this

review out of it), and even with Daniele Venturi, to exhaust

and structure music, as the harmonious surgeon of

sound… Here in Spiegelung the music is marked with the

talent of the Chilean Daniel Osorio Gonzalez, and it is no

disappointment! A woman undresses, beautiful in her mystery.

A mirror contains her image, and it projects it into her as if

the heart and love. The screen seems full of stars, but it is

rather a galaxy of dice – that float as it in a waltz beyond the

monitor, beyond the intrigue of laser beams: dice in space,

playing for it all… There is a couple on the screen that dances

as if making love, or to celebrate it, to make an homage to it,

forever in the burning passion of the fantasy. The music

seems obsessive, it seems to curse the gestures of fatigue, that

not even the best Flemish art; the lady with the kerchief on

her head that, since the 5 th century Flanders awaits to riveal

itself seduced or befriended, can curb. The mirror is noble,

the frame ornate, wooden and devoted. Light and droplets,

perhaps of hope or of time; portions of shadow, droplets like

black pearls, even more precious than the white and ivory

ones… Ectoplasm, stringy flagella like spry tails or tadpoles or

darting sperm cells; heroes of life…

With an echoe effect, voices intersect. The couple dance,

a figurative dance, sensual through its movements: the

mirror contains it, in palpatations and cadences… To

that which passes into trality though history, an romance

of aesthetics, the impressionism that “expressionalises”

itself… like mute scenes, turning and accented in black and

white, the man thrashes on the ground like an epilectic

madman, or better yet, a fool for love. The dancer torments

himself, distressed, supine: but then he gets back up, he reclines, he

is alone. He agonises more in pain… but in the mirror She returns.

She rises, uses a stool to position herself, spreads herself out,

higher up; she gestures almost in a new harmony… She embraces

the mimicry, it is expressionist cinema, She beckons to him… A

soprano sings and chants the dramma that demands black sparks –

it caresses the space – then a yet unknown face of Man: as if to say

that it reflects, it is also our face. A counter-alto harmonises and

duets with through highs and lows like cyclothymic instants of life…

And there's the sea, there… History runs as does the individual – he

runs as he would have ran standing still, but he's never still… So

long as he doesn't reach the center – of the viewpoint and of us,

the reflection of all.

Image in the Mirror is, rather, a work of the great

Spanish videomaker Isabel Pérez del Pulgar – co-opted by

the music of the Chilean Antonio Carvallo Pinto… This time

the “Reflection” shows a woman strutting slowly in a night

shirt, silky and white… the ground below is all bundled up,

decorated with wide sheets… The mirror awaits on the wall…

it reflects the sheets in the rite of a light more dim than

tenuous, blurred with love. A beautiful woman places

herself before the mirror. She immerses herself within. It is

a psychodrama that shapes and finds its rhythm like a

solitary tango, like a flamendo with no eros, yet hopes

and dispairs as it turns… The black and the white, twisted,

turned, black and white, they seem to obliterate the night,

fragment it almost making it day… It is a mourning for love

that languishes and shakes… The scene turns then to the

floor, and there is lingers, and there only there, it happens.

The white creature, the black creature, duplicate and all-sided,

divided and single-voiced, dressed in a great shawl, it enters

into the mirror…

“… che mi tatua sottopelle una mandragora / che non

mi solve dal groviglio delle crome”…

Enter the black, enter the white… The mirror turns, the frame

ornate and precious. Beautiful and arcane, the woman is

reflected – seen from behind, the small of her back covered

in silk: she covers her ears, perhaps she refuses to listen – or

maybe she reitorates… Scantily-clad as she is elegant, she

seems to have just left a painting of Tamara de Lempicka,

were she seducing the brushes and the flesh in the same way…

Always doubled the image. In the end, it degeometricises,

upon this disquieting undulation, her radiant hip-swaying –

always with her ears covered, blocked by her hands, closed to

all sound – yet changing the angle of her sinuous arms,

almost like an Egyptian dance, a coordinated enigma… It is a

dance of torment, but the image benefits her and makes her

sublime.

Luce ombreggiata “… clorofilla / della creta non mondata / del

terriccio e della polvere / addensatisi sulla costola del libro”…

She now perfectly stands on her feet, almost strutting still,

like Gradiva both dreamt and realised… But the night shirt is

now like a peplos, a transparent garment of silk, skin, and

light… The centuries and millenia pass through, she

recomposes them between soft wrinkles so as not to invoke or

replicate caresses… She leaves then, from the mirror, and reality

returns – a reflection of events that condense, lower and lower,

exile themselves and remain invisible, if not offered to the Wide

View, contented and accompanied, by the true poetry that sees

us and knows that we are supporters and friends.

Presented by 

Faraòn Meteosès

Published By Oana Ileana Noorani Senior Editor pencraft Literary magazine Bangladesh.