Auspice, 2019
ashtrays, speakers, variable dimensions
installation view at Bocs Art, Cosenza

Paolo Bufalini artista artist art arte bocs artPaolo Bufalini artista artist art arte bocs artPaolo Bufalini artista artist art arte bocs art

Mike: Look at the sky.

Ryan: I see the sky.

M: The burning ember falls, getting cold, its red light slowly turns out. The bottom is full of... crumpled short-sticks once warm.

R: A dry-smelling fog climbs the turbine throat, fading out halfway. On the top a sneer, a black cut, hard edged, a dumb wide mouth.

M: Wrapped in cold steel, thoughts act as hollow vessels, floating restless in the foul air... words lie down piled up as stacked desires. A feeling is coming out, the lack of leaves on the face, the freshness of the green, where did all those leaves fly? Where’s the tall grass field, so tall to hide the laying bodies?

R: And where are the bodies?

M: Hard to say, a pink worm is on the trail. The trails are feeble, like napkins flying in an empty bar, like water flowing through the tile’s grout lines.

R: I’ve seen a dog looking for its owner, out of the hall. It was pleasant.

M: Pleasant?

R: Yes.


R: I had a strange dream.

M: What was it about?

R: Room in twilight. There is a small round wooden table. On the side, a red viper draws a spiral. It is like a spring, rigid, motionless, with the head suspended in mid-air, the yellow eyes like glass marbles. An insect colony is eating the viper, they are swarming on its uneven, shining skin. At the table there is a conversation going on. Fade out.

M: How do you explain that?

R: I don’t know. It’s just a nightmare, isn’t it? But I can’t forget it. Even now, I can feel it very clearly, some pictures are very vivid in my mind. But something is missing.

M: What?

R: The conversation. Faces and words are lost.

M: That’s something to meditate on.


R: The gold bell is ringing. It's the trapdoor signal.

M: Another one gone.

R: I hear the swishing sound of trees, waiting for the thunder. Where are the dogs, where are the flyes? Dog tails swing like braids, like fresh girls in the afternoon. They are erotically full-charged, they are all steamed up... waiting for the thunder, when everything turns out fine...

M: ...when something comes to an end, and the bad omen seems to be not so bad. It sounds like a melody, a mermaids song, coming from the lake. I have a dream I would like to tell you too.

R: Okay. M: There was a storm down in the street, an hailstorm, much wind, lightnings. No one was in the street, just a few cars passing by, from time to time. Suddenly, the storm quitted, everything turned out clean as a dentistry, and a voice said: "Peace came back, this is the place of rest. I want all your caresses for me". And then I woke up.

R: "Peace came back, this is the place of rest".

M: Yes.

R: That's my auspice.