Plinio Perilli

Soaring in synæsthesia
the multi-media REFLECTION of Largo Sguardo
Wide View

by Plinio Perilli
translation by JOSHUA CAMBRIA
John Cabot University (Rome, Italy)

– ogni frammento o gesto d’espressione –
per solidale tangenza visionaria,
altezza implosa, intimizzata…
arioso rito di luceombra!

Soaring over everything in synæsthesia... even the post-
baudelairian correspondences dated Third Millenium give us,
altogether, a wide view and a new jolt of passion!
So as to not delve into the most affectionate inhereted
inebriations Rimbaud style, always rocking the boat with feet firmly
on the ground, equally malicious and impetuous: “Ho sognato la
notte verde dalle nevi abbagliate, / bacio che si leva con lentezze
agli occhi dei mari, / la circolazione delle linfe inaudite, / e il
risveglio giallo e blu dei fosfori canori!”… “Io che correvo,
chiazzato di lùnule elettriche”…
He has and requires a “wide viewpoint,” a plan that links the
elective lunulas... or rather, the Psicofantaossessioni of Faraòn Meteosès
(alias of Stefano Amorese), to the complex collaboration co-
opted by some of the best videomakers, musicians, performers,
actors and singers from Europe – of rather, the world. A double
result, if our Stefano is successful, alongside following a sort of
mythicised unexpected and indecipherable Total Art, and moving

at the same time the stagnant, torpid pentacontinental and/or
Italian waters. Five continents make the world, but here 15 brief
shots between text, film and music and “warbling phosfori” make
in all a single work! There following, we can repeat the anxieties,
the indemnities and pulsions – the abrasions – of our unavoidable
contemporaneity, altogether rushing and deriding them...
“Sidol” and “Specchiatura” are the reacting writing, the litmus
paper, the public self-psychography of Faraòn Meterosès (to say it
like Pessoa!), upon which every directer, every musician,
translator and orator, imposes and orchestrates, placing and
emphasising his or her own score of explicit, or moreover
unfathomable, uncovered and harkened interior images...
Oh logos che ti fai ritrovare
che hai collegato “questo” – fammi pensare
a quanto sia grande in te il far ritrovare – unico e tuo
per ogni cosa fata unica e sua
come al gettare amo e filo nella neve
………………………………………………………..
There is no need, however, to render unconforable the splendid,
above-mentioned Phosphenes of Andrea Zanzotto, “the erratic
truths the crunchers and the climbers”: here every photogram,
every second of projection is a passage of Logos, it is
phosphene that draws color from darkness and it misses us, o we
prefer to protest, invoke, ritualise; thus the face that becomes
nebulous, the sky that shapes itself into a desired body – but even
an illness that consacrates a tedium or absence, the preturbance
that encourages, the destinates and that curbs a dissonance or a
melody equally harmonic or orchestrated...
We sound and live and see it, share it, this blessed, integrating
multi-media“pièce”... e Stefano opens the door to a postmodern
and ultrafunctionalist house with door-handles shining with
“sidol”:
Sidol: sapore giallo limone. Agra lucidità mentale.

Solarità del pomo: pensiero primigenio.
Lingotto sferico delle mie ricchezze interiori.
With this silly but also bitter metaphore, we are bound to the
journey, to walk down a serpentile corridor, arcane and domestic,
with every room faced on a faceting or a portion of the entire
work, autonomous and solid, fragmentary but total in unison...

⁂

If “Sidol” shined and rubbed handles and plaques, between
Logos and Ethic, “Specchiatura” brought us even further ahead:
the rivers delta where the drunken dinghy, wandering and visionary,
wrecking and eager, meets the water, a sea of metaphysics but
even brackish, litterary, yes, but no less existential, averbal (and
most likely uncurable)...
In the Mirror frees the caustic and hammering video art of
the Frenchman Roland Quelven (to the music of the
Argentinian composer Marcela Pavia)... The incipit is inexorable
and it is perpetual like a lustrous hemorrhage of an enchanted and
hallucinogenic remake of the same kind: bodies, water, pools,
blood... a strange massacre within a divided screen – a sanguinary
one in a plastic dream, senseless and atrocious, schizofrenic and
forced to repeat... In the purgatory of a music, inisistant, modern
and obsessive, dissonant and disquieting...
Maria Korporal, Dutch director of a grand mettle, takes us
with Specchiatura on a beach where Alessandro Pintus wove
himself and wrapped himself with the horizon in a butoh dance...
but the first floor, cavernous, contracts and widens like a great
eye – a brilliant computer effect – to liberate the viewpoint
excluding, just like the leopardian “lonely hill” in “Linfinito”...
Nina Maroccolo and Faraòn Meteosès, fill with vocalisations and
plotted acting the convulsing and pure music of M° Daniele
Venturi, “for a reciting feminine voice, reciting male voice,
counter bass and electronic”...

The horizon sees us and it is seen like the eye of the world...
“Adesso... riverberare il Verbo”... a tear descends, it splits out
to make of itself a reflection. They permeate each other. “Nel
gorgo della glottide sonora”... The inspiration squeaks. The
exhaustive and irreplicable high notes of Nina scrape the soul
like the needle of a heart monitor that retracts or confesses
the heart... But Korporal is the cosmological, ariostesque
talent: the bowled hands can't contain the paternoster, and yet
they make a star, a perfect compass rose... Un’improvvisa
mitragliata di luce frantuma l’imago – la sfracella in
fiore. Ne fa un Occhio, cerchio dentro al Cerchio,
ciclope immaginifico che infuoca il visus…
“Chiromantico” chimes Nina… “la traccia della resina e la
linfa / del fango della cenere e l’argilla”… Then the pupil
shudders, it widens, becomes just a beam of sky and sea – a
minimal and absolute orb... like Chaplin The Dictator, even
Pintus plays ball... Meridians and parallels... but Alessandro
goes back to dancing with the sea, to become the sea... “Per la
schizofrenia delle mantisse/di Fibonacci il
matematico…” Nina evokes “per la scossa sismica
assestata”… Faraòn follows it and continues in low baritone
– modest and rearing wildly... duetting like a strong wind and
a nightingale in tremot... And the shoreline turns horizontal,
salt water divining, celestial confluence of wisdom... a book
appears, material and enforced. A swarm of letters leaves and
returns as if a mythical hive, a summa of honey and wax, lost
behind history... the book burns. Alessandro, a most lively
dancer, disappears and becomes sacred, baptising, perhaps,
the state of being from oblivion there blending in. The apple
he had in his mouth remains on the beach – not the one that
Eve had, transgressing and nefarious, but one of good taste,
the taste of a new creation: the baptism of the Logos...
Dans le Miroir Pinina Podestàs kaleidoscopic videoartistic

fervour smiles (in the transalpine music of Mathieu Bonilla).
Quickly were surprised by a mask of bull horns, an accursed goat-
like visage; expiatory... Two indescribable portholes are placed
together and they vibrate and whistle like music like insectile
wings... It is the alfa and the omega, two crania or masks stare at
each other almost as if an ancestral reflection. Between the parietal
bones numbers fly, the stigma and the double sense are sought...
Two reflected and perhaps antithetical hemispheres, coral, leaves,
numbers, existential x-rays. With Saint Jerome that finished and
signed his Vulgate in full cosmological Baroque, a galactic drift...
Two faces in profile, they move with their beauty, luminous as the
fulcrom of ribirth, a humanist portrait. The view seeks, it
becomes a wall, a bat of light; bricks out in the open, an
immense porous stone? Numerology flows like a river over
us. Maybe its a pyramid. Numbers occur, like chances or
alibis... The scope of the viewpoint becomes incarnate
like a body. A gentle feminine hand searches and
caresses. The same scope of time now vanishes. A man
runs below – he runs and rune because he is Man that builds upon
himself, deep-rooted, he falls to crumbs, he spreads himself... The
mirror becomes a wall...
Horkay István, a Hungarian citizen of the world, true
orbiting genius, strikes us in “Nastro” by taking the “Lounging
Adam” of Manzù, shaped with mere cinematographic clay for
The Bible of John Huston, prolonging it like the initiation of
every completed genesis, for an aquatic exodus, for nudity
and enchantment of the Ecclesiastes... Another collaboration
with Faraòn and Maroccolo (well leave the author of this
review out of it), and even with Daniele Venturi, to exhaust
and structure music, as the harmonious surgeon of
sound... Here in Spiegelung the music is marked with the
talent of the Chilean Daniel Osorio Gonzalez, and it is no
disappointment! A woman undresses, beautiful in her
mystery. A mirror contains her image, and it projects it into
her as if the heart and love. The screen seems full of stars, but

it is rather a galaxy of dice – that float as it in a waltz beyond
the monitor, beyond the intrigue of laser beams: dice in space,
playing for it all... There is a couple on the screen that dances
as if making love, or to celebrate it, to make an homage to it,
forever in the burning passion of the fantasy. The music
seems obsessive, it seems to curse the gestures of fatigue, that
not even the best Flemish art; the lady with the kerchief on
her head that, since the 5 th century Flanders awaits to riveal
itself seduced or befriended, can curb. The mirror is noble,
the frame ornate, wooden and devoted. Light and droplets,
perhaps of hope or of time; portions of shadow, droplets like
black pearls, even more precious than the white and ivory
ones... Ectoplasm, stringy flagella like spry tails or tadpoles or
darting sperm cells; heroes of life...
With an echoe effect, voices intersect. The couple dance,
a figurative dance, sensual through its movements: the
mirror contains it, in palpatations and cadences... To
that which passes into trality though history, an romance
of aesthetics, the impressionism that “expressionalises”
itself... like mute scenes, turning and accented in black and
white, the man thrashes on the ground like an epilectic
madman, or better yet, a fool for love. The dancer torments
himself, distressed, supine: but then he gets back up, he reclines, he
is alone. He agonises more in pain... but in the mirror She returns.
She rises, uses a stool to position herself, spreads herself out,
higher up; she gestures almost in a new harmony... She embraces
the mimicry, it is expressionist cinema, She beckons to him... A
soprano sings and chants the dramma that demands black sparks –
it caresses the space – then a yet unknown face of Man: as if to say
that it reflects, it is also our face. A counter-alto harmonises and
duets with through highs and lows like cyclothymic instants of
life... And theres the sea, there... History runs as does the
individual – he runs as he would have ran standing still, but hes
never still... So long as he doesnt reach the center – of the
viewpoint and of us, the reflection of all.

Image in the Mirror is, rather, a work of the great
Spanish videomaker Isabel Pérez del Pulgar – co-opted by
the music of the Chilean Antonio Carvallo Pinto... This time
the “Reflection” shows a woman strutting slowly in a night
shirt, silky and white... the ground below is all bundled up,
decorated with wide sheets... The mirror awaits on the wall...
it reflects the sheets in the rite of a light more dim than
tenuous, blurred with love. A beautiful woman places herself
before the mirror. She immerses herself within. It is a
psychodrama that shapes and finds its rhythm like a
solitary tango, like a flamendo with no eros, yet hopes
and dispairs as it turns... The black and the white, twisted,
turned, black and white, they seem to obliterate the night,
fragment it almost making it day... It is a mourning for love
that languishes and shakes... The scene turns then to the
floor, and there is lingers, and there only there, it happens.
The white creature, the black creature, duplicate and all-sided,
divided and single-voiced, dressed in a great shawl, it enters
into the mirror...
“… che mi tatua sottopelle una mandragora / che non
mi solve dal groviglio delle crome”…
Enter the black, enter the white... The mirror turns, the frame
ornate and precious. Beautiful and arcane, the woman is
reflected – seen from behind, the small of her back covered
in silk: she covers her ears, perhaps she refuses to listen – or
maybe she reitorates... Scantily-clad as she is elegant, she
seems to have just left a painting of Tamara de Lempicka,
were she seducing the brushes and the flesh in the same way...
Always doubled the image. In the end, it degeometricises,
upon this disquieting undulation, her radiant hip-swaying –
always with her ears covered, blocked by her hands, closed to
all sound – yet changing the angle of her sinuous arms,
almost like an Egyptian dance, a coordinated enigma... It is a
dance of torment, but the image benefits her and makes her

sublime.
Luce ombreggiata “… clorofilla / della creta non mondata / del
terriccio e della polvere / addensatisi sulla costola del libro”…
She now perfectly stands on her feet, almost strutting still, like
Gradiva both dreamt and realised... But the night shirt is now like
a peplos, a transparent garment of silk, skin, and light... The
centuries and millenia pass through, she recomposes them
between soft wrinkles so as not to invoke or replicate caresses...
She leaves then, from the mirror, and reality returns – a
reflection of events that condense, lower and lower, exile
themselves and remain invisible, if not offered to the Wide
View, contented and accompanied, by the true poetry that sees
us and knows that we are supporters and friends.

PUBLISHED BY : OANA ILEANA NOORANI