not want to teach the beauty . Do not we would be able to.
We have no new theory to be presented. We would not have the tools to investigate and we would not be able to add anything new. We do not claim to make you think and leave in the company of uncomfortable questions. We only know that one day we look for beauty, we sensed, then lived and owned. And that's what we'd like to tell.
Fall 2009.
We have an idea for the thesis. Another idea. Different. Bella. There is talk of abandoned quarries. There is talk of Puglia. It was decided to leave. Romantic Travel in the ancient and intentions.
left to look for.
parties to find.
is the journey that we want to tell. That fact of miles, asphalt and the smell of gasoline, and the fact of a few feet into the ground after a rainstorm. Trajectories and meetings. Wild dogs and shepherds stateless.
Julian Day bites just picked an olive from a tree and discovers the bitter , is an unexpected taste, flavor unknown. It 'about the same unexpected flavor that we all three felt when, a few days later, we have lived and participated beauty.
Trying to discover a land unknown to us, we find ourselves in the south of Lecce.
people search. A hand
friendly, marked by time and wise caresses an area on the map, a depression, a dark, full. Alone among the usual earth tones. We gain that space, we cut. Just as the old shepherd once did.
We are surrounded by olive groves as far as the eye can see. Even if outsiders perceive a system in equilibrium geometry, we hear it run silently in the warm air of an afternoon that almost coming to an end. It could be perfection, olives and enough real work done.
Distracted, stumble in what we understood only later to be our goal. Person who joins the end and beginning of our journey. A tuff quarry once underground, hidden, white. Today, the colored part of the surface covering has been raised. The walls carved, cut, have finally been able to touch the sky and be free. Walls that are materialized in the light, ever-changing natural cathedral. Places that were only imagined, glimpsed from faint glow, can be touched, felt and appreciated in their smooth roughness. The light we
rolls, stumbles, falls in vibrant shades and shadows. The volume of the sacred and blessed the material that built the space nice day: residual and reserve together.
The beauty?
We believe we have learned in those moments. Our beauty is not Vitruvian memory. It is a woman dressed in mourning of the South that is expressed in an Italian peppered with colorful expressions and slang effective. It is unexpected in the bitter olive. It is the night of Marshes and violence of the picks in the tuff. Our beauty is in the sincerity of a tool shed in the lime and eaten by the sun.
