Géraldine Thébault
Elena D’Alò
A meeting of realities distant in time and space, in which music transforms the immaterial into language, and the concrete into image.
I dreamt, the other day, of my memory as a perfect sphere. A place where time curves space, drawing vaporous colours that cannot be touched. The tragedy of form is the language that transforms memory into gesture. Like my lips, which, while they want to say ‘colour’, can simply whisper ‘shadows’.