27 APRILE – 5 MAGGIO
CELESTA BUFANO
OPENING HOURS Sunday, April 27 18:00
For the last show of the Four Rooms project space dedicated to the museum is transformed into the "Living Room "- site-specific installation, 2008 - Celesta Bufano (Naples, 1984), a personal space animated images and colors that come directly from the world and art history. The physical implementation of what is the magic box of Celesta, where everything, every object, image or thought is transformed into an artistic ability, an experience that brings the many suggestions and examples of trips that led Celesta Bufano around the world. Travel as an extreme amplification of the concept of movement, dynamism, as well as the concept of knowledge of, what you can not just explain, but you have to live on their skin. In this sense it is street art that changes in the many signs found in places as diverse as the people who speak up the most diverse and kaleidoscopic vision of life, the artist's own, a place to stay and go back to, a fixed point in geography rolling. Memories made as codes to be interpreted as places to discover.
A composition to the rhythm of the chants of African women that made by Fortuna Del Prete, a way to try to enter the whirling world of the artist and try to stop for a moment to tell us what he could see her reading thoughts that go in reverse.
... CHOKING AND BETWEEN AIR VENTS ... of
... I saw myself forced to sit on the sofa cleaned, mended with beautiful tapestries. Hit for all to see. And then the music was fabulous. Fabulous ethnic popular radical visceral poor.
All full room. A room in a garden paradise. The Paradise of the Few. But popular. Enter a space and fill it all with lights, colors, leaves, paper dolls this past brushes photos desktop computer. ... Ahhhhhh ... good ... but I was choking.
discomfort. Overflow. Too everything. Too.
You have a paradise. You
Behind the house there will be? Behind the room that will be there? There will be a behind? Yes yes yes. Take off your shoes, go with your feet in the heavy wet soil fertilized. That keeps the feet bound, his body immobilized. On second thought, I'd stay here in this paradise. It seems crazy, carving out a room, a room all to himself, out of time. Where the bread I do with my hands smell of tangerines and lemons and basil intoxicate me. So accustomed to having almost run. Maybe behind a tree or a tree, feel the beauty of a moment, and its precariousness.
then dropped.
The rope was too slack, the game has not gone very well. The risk was too much. I could hurt myself. Nope. The ground is wet, full of water, the earth would have kept me would have rocked. "Every place like home" at the bottom, or maybe a new home. Do you want us always a little 'time to get accustomed to the smells of the houses. Home, sweet home. Smells like home, this shirt smells of "home, mmm ... food. Home. Familiarity. Research on gestures in the eyes of others and the other that touch you and to your coming from the opposite direction, same side, same pitch, of whom we meet in "movements". Come home. The house, your home. Where there
Look, I have a little 'music ...
Duerme, Duerme negrito
mama que tu estas in the field, negrito
... trabajando, trabajando hard
trabajando you
trabajando ... and not the pagan
Por Chiquitita negrito, negro por
Apumba chicapumba chicapum
Each trip is led by a primordial melody, as the background of research and experimentation, creation of more immediate. Marks the rhythm of the shares, gives meaning to the thoughts and emotions. The subjective experiential journey has a strong attraction for what is beyond, but it feeds, in an almost primitive than it was, we did not really know and just smelled. The pleasure of starting the imagination, to deconstruct the formulas of common life, constantly being in the game of life, emotional life in the yoke, on the edge of the acrobat, the land of men, including suffocation and air intakes, and between - and and O - o.
see the horizon and to get there.
Last night I fell off the bicycle. I peeled the elbows and scratched his nose, his hands were fine, just a little 'red. My house was far away. The legs I held up great.
Last night I went to bed late. I lost time.
E 'that was rolling in the colored forms of my eyes closed.
VERSIONE ITALIANA
APRIL 27 - MAY 5
CELESTE Bufano
OPENING SUNDAY 27 th of APRIL 6.00 p.m.
For the last show of the Four Rooms project the dedicated space of the museum is turned into a “Living Room” – the site-specific installation created in 2008 by Celesta Bufano (Naples, 1984), a personal space animated by images and colours belonging to the artist’s world and history.
The physical transposition of Celesta’s magic box, where everything, every object, image or thought is turned into a form of art, an experience that carries with itself the countless fascinations and stories collected by Celesta Bufano during her journeys around the world. The journey is seen as an extreme exaggeration of the concept of movement, dynamism, just like the concept of knowing the other, that which cannot be explained but needs to be experienced in the first person. In this respect hers is street art that turns itself into numerous marks found in different places, that tell of different people and make up the kaleidoscopic vision of life, typical of the artist; a place to stay and to go back to, a permanent point in her rolling geography. Memories that are formed like codes to be interpreted, like places to be discovered.
Fortuna Del Prete’s composition has the rhythm of African women’s songs. She tries to get into the artist’s whirling world and stop it for a moment so as to tell us what she saw reading her thoughts that go backwards.
…AMONG SUFFOCATING OBSTRUCTIONS AND AIR OUTLETS…
by
…I had no choice but to sit on the clean sofa, darned with wonderful tapestry. It drew everyone’s attention. And the music was fantastic. Fantastic ethnic popular radical visceral poor.
The room was packed. A room a garden a paradise. The
Unease. It’s too full. Too much everything. Too much.
You have
What is there behind the house? What is there behind the room? Is there a behind? Yes yes yes. Take off your shoes, put your feet into the wet fertilized heavy earth. Which binds your feet and immobilizes your body. Come to think of it, I would stay here, in this paradise. It seems foolish, carving out a room, a room of my own, out of time. Where I make bread with my hands and the smell of tangerines and lemons and basil inebriates me. I become so inured that I almost want to run away. Maybe behind a tree or on a tree, feeling the beauty of one single moment and its precariousness.
And then falling down.
The rope was too loose, the game didn’t work well. The risk was too high. I could have got hurt. Naaay. The ground is wet, full of water, the earth would have held me back, cradled me. “Every place is like home”, after all, or maybe it is a new home. It always takes some time to get accustomed to the smells of the houses. Home sweet home. I can smell home, this sweater smells home...mmmhhh...the food. Home. Cosiness. You look for it in other people’s gestures, in the look of the other person coming from the opposite direction and almost touching you, same side, same pace. You go back home. Your home. Where your room is. A mess that is not a real mess, but rather a rule to be created. I scramble and overlay. It’s fun. Halfway between a 3D photo album and imagined imageries, archived yet shown. It’s probably because of this smoke, or maybe it is an attempt to trace a mental journey and to show it to those who come and see me in this corner of paradise. You’re invited, too. I’ll make you roll between the walls of the room and I’ll let you re-invent everything, from scratch, I’ll let you create the time of your journey, I’ll take you by the hand through the hallucinations of the journey.
If you want, I’ll put some music on ...
Sleep, sleep bold
For your mother these nel field, bold
... working, working hard
Working if
Working and not pay ...
tiny For bold by bold if
Apumba chicapumba chicapum
Every journey is driven by a primordial melody, like the background of research and experimentation, of the most immediate creation. It sets the pace of actions, makes sense of thoughts and emotions. The experiential path of the self longs for what is beyond, but – quite primitively - it feeds on what has already been, on what we couldn’t get to know in deep and of what we just had a glimpse. The pleasure of starting from imagination, of deconstructing common lifestyles, always playing the game of life, through the emotional yoke of life, on the acrobat’s tightrope, on men’s earth, among suffocating obstructions and air outlets.
Catching a glimpse of the horizon and getting there.
Yesterday night I fell from the bicycle. I skinned my elbows and scratched my nose, my hands were fine, just a little reddened. I was far from home. My legs could hardly carry me any longer.
Yesterday I had a late night. I wasted Time.
I was rolling in the colourful shapes of my closed eyes.
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