“Memory is an old garment.
But repetition is an imperishable garment.”
Writer Giorgio Falco would tell me how fifteen of his first eighteen birthdays were shrouded in fog: atmospheric gloom and dim light lingering just beyond the window as he blew out the candles on his cake. He was born on the thirtieth of November and lived in Milan’s south hinterland in what might have been the final era of the Milanese fog. For many years, Falco sought in vain to write a text entitled Thirtieth of November, in which the sense of estrangement – from himself, the world – was born from objective atmospheric conditions, the dim, foggy present that struggled against the memory’s attempts to recover something pure, snatching it from oblivion, from death. My work emerges directly from one of the breakdowns that every artist will face, which is how Thirtieth of November came about. It is an impersonal autobiography in which personal images exist alongside the invisible surface that produced them, the incumbent social and economic flow, from which this inventory of the archived body must be removed and saved, left over from an a long past era. Thirtieth of November is a work in progress, a composition of photographs and writing. Re-visited landscapes. Sketchy spaces. Architecture that does not fit in its place. People photographed or picked out of a private family archive as though they were guests in other people’s minds. Similarly archived mourning for the past is now flipped over and adapted to pull apart the monumental nature of the historic event. The work generates a mobile structure of lived-in space, that place where images, transformed into architecture, might break up the work into microhistorical bereavement. Our insides are spaces where fire is set aside, set elsewhere; it is akin to looking at oneself through an inattentive mirror. The future dreams of the past while virtual reality becomes a psychoanalytic path à rebours, a means to rewind to the beginning.