È ciotola del cielo
Il corpo
Quando le radici urtano
Cocciute
Nella terra soffice,
È pane e vino
Luce e fuoco
È scala:
Dove vai? ¹

I borrowed a poem by Candiani about the body. I inserted it into an image. I transformed the image into a code and I altered the text, transcribing the verses in full, interrupting, repeating words. Like in a stream of consciousness, the words emerge—survive—from an indecipherable text, and the image transforms into something else, an error.
The act of typing and repeating becomes an unconscious, compulsive action, an outburst of the body. The image decomposes, dematerializes, and becomes a “home” for the gesture, for the poetry. The body and the word do not simply express themselves but become a dynamic whole that overlaps, blends, and reinvents itself. Writing becomes the body, and the body becomes language.

1 ‘Bambina pugile la precisione dell’amore’ Chandra Candiani, Einaudi, 2014