«We can try to imagine what silence looks like» Prince - “Sign Of the Times” album
Alla sThe structure given to Fabio Moscatelli’s “Nostos” series stems from its own implicit character and assertions. The
book-form is an attempt in recreating an experience of yearning: uncharted and self-reflective and yet consistent and,
most of all, silent and gloomy.
These last two features explain the use of the night-blue backdrop, the preference for the loss of detail and why so
many voids have been used: as if something would always be missing. The sequencing has been careful in never even
suggesting any sort of narrative, even though all the fragments flow around a center of coherence. This discourse has
been extended up to the choice of the font: readable, yet short on petty details.
Forms resound from afar, and so do ideas. The photographic experience here aims to be a visual metaphor of human
experience: forever fragmentary in our making sense of it, yet unescapable and focussed.
Diptychs or double page compositions have been discarded because the layout had to look discontinuous, but also in
order to avoid fashionable or brainy solutions. Images have been put in logical and formal relation, or dynamically
contrasted, via their mnemonic montage; or else – should anyone read slow enough to remain halfway a page flip –
letting virtual diptychs appear from contiguous double pages. As for writings, there are but a few fundamental ones.
The abundant basic materials were formerly divided in thematic groups, woven together so to interplay overcoming any
hyerarchy of meaning. Only the found photographs and objects have been set apart and organized as if drawn from a
dusty box or an old drawer in an abandoned home, after the earthquake. Because, yes, before returning to the
childhood home, long before photographs were even made, there had been an earthquake, and traumas too.
In the book, though, one thing has been held as stable, uncompromising and new for Fabio: the decision to keep out
every other human form apart from his daughter and dad – once drawn the latter from the heritage series. They are
both the compass and the engines of his searching, hence the central role they have in the whole work.
I have tried to be respectful of the score and to contribute, without overwritings, to its direction; that is why these words
don’t form a critical text, but rather recall some director’s notes. I should also add something on the empathy that drew
me to take at heart what at first wasn’t but a piece of work, and yet – unable to substitute words with images – I can’t
find words good enough to match a neat and purposeful silence.