Words… heavy and yet faint, well ordered in the vocabulary but chaotic in daily life, shouted and silent, sought with obsessive skill by a poet and dispersed by the logorrhoea of frantic rhythms.

What beautiful objects, words. They come and go like a wave and split on the rocks of deafness.
Hearing is its tail… in the future we will lose it due to the lack of use.

Maybe our eyes will save us: images, with their eloquent silence, will make us hear through the soul’s ears.
The soul, the deepest and most sophisticated listener, dumb adviser, capable of shouts and whispers.

What is a picture, in short? A road that language does not dare to run along, weakened by an unthinkable poverty, by an abuse that has reduced itself to a few and worn out words, sadly used to express always the same concepts.


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

To explain the pictures “stolen” by FPB’s camera, we use the word Joy, knowing that, doing so, we take away part of their essence. Could we use a more appropriate vocabulary? We will end fishing in the sea of synonyms, and the result will be the same old story.

Happiness, joy, gaiety, joyfulness, beatitude… there is all in the author’s shots and in his travel diary. But there is much more, inexpressible sensations, the look of a person who saw and elaborated a thought impossible to write down using pen and paper; there is a memory that is slowly coming to light and will take its shape in the closet of a dark room. Dark like the impulse that caught an image sacrificing another.