THE INNER WORLD
There are no characters.. there is no plot or,
rather, the story is a prelude to birth : birth of children, works
of art, war.
Let us say that we are not on stage but rather
in a sculptor’s studio amidst the clutter of tools, visions and
projects that try to give shape to a certain idea of human history.
All this follows the rhythm of the repetitive gestures clay work
requires: beating, smoothing, turning, kneading, moistering and beating
again.
Timeless questions of humanity are kept alive in moulded clay, archaic
knowledge is forever printed in it and clay goes deep into the heart of
its matter to open paths and find new melodies to exalt the earth.
The creator’s imagination coloured copper by red dust handing in the
air is then relayed by “visitors” to the studio: future models, the
ghosts of forgotten works of art, friends passing by…
They hear the whispering clay and in turn express their own feeling:
one sings, another capture images in his digital net and make them
dance, a third sits down at the piano and plays… although not
necessarily in this order.
And then the walls crack, truth and beauty are transformed, codes
collapse, clay comes to life, disorder threatens. The studio is opened
up to wandering mind; like clay it is porous, like the word it is
many-sided.
The sculptor goes even deeper breaking through the
screen, opening windows, meeting children’s cries and fancies head on
working and working and working again to model this material that
murmurs unanswered questions.
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