In Uvira D.R.C. there’s an hospital where a basical lack looms over the everyday life.
I’ve worked there for two weeks, during the installation of
a photovoltaic plant, which will hopefully give a stability
to the building’s lightning. A critical issue due to the daily blackouts, which are consistently disrupting the already scarce reliability of the hospital.
I condensed my experience with this project called Controluce, as a personal perception of my time spent there.
Controluce it’s a vision, a colorless vision, a shadow vision.
Vision of absence, a lack of vision, a blinding contrast.
The world’s horizon defines itself as a projection, while shapes and profiles rythmically come and go, as the distant echo of the funeral marches.
Hands springing in melodious chants, articulate an unspeakable allucination.
One day i met a man, leaning in the shadows of the hospital's external corridors, he told me that there would be no obscurity anymore.
Until that very moment i didn’t considered this thing.
Until that very moment i didn’t understand.
The silent darkness is absence.
The all filling darkness is presence.
I’ve never perceived before this tangibile dichotomy.
Anticipated by the crows at the dusk, gathering like pinnacles on the silent vegetal cathredral which envelops the hospital.
Like spectators waiting for the final act: the darkness arrival.
Brimming from every crack and hole, a mute immense monstrousity, watches the castaway sinking in gloomy waters.
Shadow, is the negative of diurnal reality.
Darkness is turmoil and peace, chaos and multitude of possibilities.
Every shape exists within undefined boundaries.
An endless forest, a tangled labyrinth, unfinished and primeval, writhing towards the sea, like withering hands, struggling out of a dark tomb. Monition of cosmical and everlasting metamorphosis,
exposes our insignificance.
The lack of shape, is revealed in its primordiality,
raw and wild, eternal in sight of our existence.
Alterations projected from a distant infinity,
cast eternal shadows over our time.
Night fires glitter in the dark, the smell of scorched rubber, gasoline and charred flesh. Steel plates, dust and mud, the foundations of the golden age. A waste heap piled through time, bears the course of development,
like a diabolic clockwork, fueled and lubricated with blood of myriads.
A huge millstone, chops, crushes, tears and mangles the carrying flesh and the sustaining bones.
Raw is the new born world, in his immense and chaotic complexity.
A difficult birth anticipated by an abyssal cry, from beyond a plastic wrap,
immensely elastic and unbreachable.
The stretched hands won’t pass through, while it distorts the mute cry of salvation.
