Ariosto – Photo Shooting
A special thanks goes to Augusta Mazzarolli, for having given us the chance to use Palazzo Gazelli as setting for this photo shooting. A wonderful woman, of infinite kindness.
STORYBOARD BY NERODISEPPIA
One thousand five hundred and twenty one. One thousand five hundred and twenty one days had passed since the last time he saw her. He counted the days, but without using numbers. Numbers don’t have memories, he said. For counting he used poems.
One thousand five hundred and twenty one. He wrote one thousand five hundred and twenty one poems. And she was there, inhabiting each poem. He was convinced that time would pass differently if there were poems marking it. Not to mention that he could choose the words. The right ones. Every now and then he used to collect the time he found scattered all over the room, between the books covered with dust, in the cabinet next to the bottles, on the worn out piano keys. And then he would sit on the sofa.
Sitting there, with time on his hands, he looked. He looked at that room, where she used to be, until one thousand five hundred and twenty one days ago. And now the wasn’t there anymore. And yet she was everywhere. Her white linen dress, the one without embroidery. Her honey hair. Her wrists. The imperfect line of her nose, visible only in profile. Her bare feet. The mole on her neck, tiny, but hiding the infinite.
And that unmistakeable scent of winter of hers. Details, instants, images. He saved everything. So that he could write a new poem every day. As only poetry could have filled that room with her. That absence.
And if not her, at least a detail of her. One thousand five hundred and twenty one details. There were no clouds in the sky that day. The sun was setting shyly, but this didn’t stop the tiny specks of dust from moving slowly towards the rays of light seeping through the window.
He sat at the desk, staring at the long curtain coming down from the ceiling and hiding the door. It was her who convinced him to place it right there. While starring at the curtain he rummaged through the words in search of the right one.
It must have been a name, but he wasn’t entirely sure. Suddenly the curtain moved. Momentarily, he was left breathless. And then there she was, beautiful, that word he was longing to find. His lips drew her name in the air. A name he hadn’t pronounced for one thousand five hundred and twenty one days: Angelica.