110: The red felt pen
The red colour of the felt pen resonates like a flame in the fireplace. If I didn’t know about the strength of my fibers, of the ribs skeleton I’m made of, I’d think I am snow meant to melt.
But here I am, I’m here, I am matter shaping itself in an artist’s hands. I’m observing him at work, not everyone has the privilege to get in touch with the creative process. I don’t know much about him. I know about his gentle eyes, looking at me with concentration. A little less about his eyes, he’s one of those men who talk very little, only if it’s strictly necessary. And his hand? Well, I’ve been observing it, during the days: it’s strong, self-confident, embodying every work’s direction with precision.I told you about my simplicity one week ago, forgetting to recount about my curiosity! Because I am damn curious: every inch of this cotton armour wants to know about the ornaments he’s going to draw on me. Maybe a waterfall of colourful flowers, like those you can see on female bodies in Botticelli masterpieces. Or maybe a puzzle of rounds, squares, rhombuses – we’re in the Seventies, people like this stuff, don’t they?
I got wrong. The artist and his felt pen trace continual signs on me – controlled, equidistant traces. Parallel lines. I turn my nose up at my delusion, I’m going to become an ordinary pinstriped suit. Or maybe not? There’s too much confidence in those eyes, they’re too determined. He’s looking at me, but he doesn’t seem to find me in the present. He’s searching for what I’ll be tomorrow. And – believe me – I can see no ordinary nature.
You’ve got to trust artists, let them do. The felt pen keeps on making me blush, the fabric turns into a rigorous, minimal gate. In the shadow, I rely on this path taking me towards a rebirth.
At a certain moment, a distant voice breaks the silence. It’s calling him, saying his name.
Pierluigi. His name is Pierluigi.
