There is water, but there is no air. Above all, there are no words. This is the sense of “Distance” told by Matteo Canestraro.
We are in a landscape without geography and without history. The only element that stands out is water: enormous, primitive. Sacred. It washes our feet. We are the guests of a primordial baptism, we watch the neophyte parade: they are men, women. They stride, there is no way to understand the way to. They ask to be brought back to life again, yes. Cleaner, this time: safer. They dress all the same, potential believers of one religion. But they look at the sky instead of looking at each other: they expect an answer form the sky only. Nobody talk, then. There is no sound but wind, wind and waves. The voices of distance.
Matteo Canestraro makes us touch feelings. Along with him we sail a sea of incommunicability. Silence and frustration. We sail the await of a sign that is the same for everyone: a distant call, a sneeze from a whale.