Faces and masks on the road, apprehension and anger, bawls and noises,
the city is full of thousand distant and near sufferings, ants on the sap of the nothing daily paper.
The time shortens, words and movements in the frenzy of a beehive,
not more me, us, you, them, the unknown and fleeing humanity of a game of mirrors.
Confused images, fragments of an unknown thought of truth, modesties and lies.
At the end, all keeps silent and he stops, only lightnings of anger and noise, the city falls asleep and the forgotten memory
it spreads the thoughts of the metropolis. Slowly the landscape becomes liquid, the mind it flies free.
We exist…
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In: Archivio Parisio
Porticato San Francesco Di Paola 10 (Piazza del Plebiscito)
Napoli (Italy)
Info: +39 81 032 00 33
Mail: info@archiviofotograficopa risio.it
If I have hands to compose, between colds and blowpipes… words to look for the agreements in the thoughts… I thank…
If you listen, perhaps
you will hear in the dark the terrestrial essence.
the wall of the time
it follows our tracks,
what they cross the path of the life.
For every voice in the desert,
there is a you eclipse of sun.
Brushes are not enough me for to dip of color my life. I need to breathe the wind, on the lost shore of the time. Faces are not enough for me framed of roses color of the lavender I have need to fall in the secret odor of dreams disclosed by the fire.
Italy crosses again a period fascim. A government and a part of the people that it doesn’t have memory of the racial laws of the second world war. Italy is a country without memory and without dignity. While the head of our government, Silvio Berlusconi, promulgates racial laws against the immigrants, he becomes ridiculous to the whole world, the continuous mafia to shoot and to kill for the roads of my city… in the markets, between women and children. Without pity. And people are distracted more and more by useless problems. Italy is crossing one of the most terrible periods of the history after the fierce dictatorship of Benito Mussolini.
In this period I would like to feel me proud to be Italian… but I am not able.
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The eyes that observe the Litorale Domitio (Caserta Southern Italy) and that horizontal world that it unties him in a huge language of asphalt that rolls for hundreds of miles telling of a firm world on the indifference of the men. They narrate of rights violated for the migrant ones and the inhabitants of that places forgotten by God and above all from the men.
The images that Luigi Caterino proposes, are the looks of whom that places us alive. Anybody of he has succeeded better in returning the apparent calm that reigns in those ghost town. Its objective has succeeded in returning, in palpable way, the worse one of the human feelings: the indifference and the contempt for the people and the earth. The trip unties him among countries poisoned by the cinders of the racket, migrant invisible on the papers but not in the hoarse voices of the exploiters of men. Used beaches as dumps and miles of asphalt. The images of Luigi Caterino tell of a silent suffering of a forgotten earth of men and things. Of an anger by now resigned and whose poison flows among our more hidden wounds.
Luigi Caterino web site
Luigi Caterino Flickr Photo Stream
Fast as who chooses to fall.
Untied by every understanding, with the look of whom escapes the violence of a need or to taste the pity, also if the occasion is unfair.
Who he remains ago to share that meters that don’t return.
To reach a sort of balance.
So that is the distance to ransom its presence.
To be there… in an only unstoppable movement of words caressed by the wings.
Camera Polaroid
Road Notes
Union Station