THE TREE SAP, THE DIVERS AND THE SILENCE

(…) Andrea, my brother…the vodka sour starts to take its effect as the ice cubes slowly melt…I left the Ramones disks in Italy and they would sound so good in this Viennese house called ‘Vegas’ where summer is a rainbow photographed from the window with a battered webcam…

at the party in my stylish apartment, there are two pretty girls dressed in ‘dirndls’ and a conglomerate of Mr. Bill Gates taking erotic scenes from my mdf work table, which stands tottering on its Swedish wooden legs, only good for glossy magazines…but when you buy it no one tells you that the mdf releases formaldehyde and gives you cancer …or why David Bowie is committing suicide tonight on Youtube with his rock and roll…bring me a suitcase with four wheels where I can at least put Ghirri’s poetry or Rudy Ricciotti’s ‘salle de rock’…a picture by Antoine d’Agata or Bruno Munari’s artichokes…Roland Barthes’ dark room… and, stuck in the middle, an Explosions in the Sky album as well (…).

Dear Massimiliano (…) you write to me about fried drawings, as per Artusi‘s architecture. One white onion finely chopped. Like Pablo, before falling in love with the popes and whores of Avignon, there are people who are looking for the regular geometry of the Harlequin costume. My parameters are a bottle of wine and the death of Piero Manzoni. And, as you know, when someone starts to talk of their intentions, they are in danger of becoming boring. This is almost worse than talking about architecture. A blonde girl, who I was temporarily in love with, told me this one night. I was talking to her on the stone pier of the river, drinking watered-down beer as my only intellectual nourishment. You’re so boring, she said. The bitch. Try to blame her if you can (…) I have been in need of maps for some time. I rip out the maps from large yellowed books or from the words of liars. I catch myself with my nose glued to old stone walls, looking for hypothetical constellations to guide me. Then, the road is nothing but dust and stones, and conversations with the walls, which are, after all, not so interesting. I usually draw thick black lines on white paper, hoping that these will be the streets I walk tomorrow.

From “The Weekend Cookbook”

text by Weekend in a Morning