Time flows slowly through the ruins of what belongs to the past. A stream of images, dreamlike visions, reveal itself as if it was a whispered conversation, whose words stream along in apparently endless void silences. The static atmosphere is swollen by movements without a beginning nor conclusion, captured in moments filled of expectation.

Atelophobia becomes the fear of the end, fear of caducity, fear of losing the perfection of a just blossomed flower, of no longer experiencing the soft feeling of abandonment. Like the motion of a pendulum steps back and forth, the rumble of Marséll’s thick soles echoes in the wilderness of the place, marking the unstoppable death of instants. Barbara Bologna’s long dresses accompains them too, scraping on the gravelly soil, while wrapping the bodies of two women, two strangers coming from different eras and distant worlds, yet both desperately needy of each other. They come close and then they mysteriously separate, without ever talking. The ephimeral presence of mankind, makes the objects free to establish their fixed reign, and a pair of boots, dominates on the sickly confused vegetation like a column of ebony. The elegance of an intimate and deep suffering is embodied in the heavily draped garments, dense of passionate but silent poetry. Reddish and desaturated colors are mixed, rapidly passing from blur to high definition to paint the eclectic nuances of memories.

Everything quivers like if it was about to start dancing, asking and waiting for a human contact, which will never happen.