There is no oil,
No trace of linear perspective.
There is no sketching,
There is no, no, no –
There is no to a story.
There is a flash of a candle on paper.
There is a charcoal’s shadow.
There is chestnut earth,
The materials of nature,
Left to present your message,
Unadorned and straightfully painful.
There is the alphabet of invented letters
That erupts from your memory –
A curved line when asleep,
Like the horizon, a quiet twist,
Derived from trees and mountain rocks,
The arches of ancient Roman halls.
The swirls that dominate your language
Suggest a ‘resurrection’!
The s-lines are the gracefulness
From China or Tchaikovsky’s swans.
They glide along so smoothly on the canvas,
The pyramidal lines of Egypt, of the Dolomites.
There is a strength of verticality:
The alfas, betas
As the notes in the chords,
They stay alone
But sound as a whole…
(Painting “Alfabeto” by Sara Maino)