Scroll quickly the time in which

You ran after your dreams. Foolish man
You care for your moods with such drive and joy while

Awake with no awareness of what your brain

Will suggest to you during the night,
it stimulates you, it teaches you.

Pure awareness of what you are, desires, yearnings.

 

 

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It sometimes happens that you remember a dream. Images apparently vivid told in a form of narration, cinematographic, where the idea of a future memory, immediate, nearly without time. Then the search for meaning, allegorical, symbologies of visions with no sounds uniquely emanating states of mind. The idea of the memory, scientifically impossible to sustain, together with superstition which in those disorganic elements, made of images with small segments of meaning, may hide our true knowledge, our real progeny, our desire. The place of dreams rarely appears. It is often told of what happened where the actor provokes or suffers, acts or serves as spectator. Confusion too generates dreams. l recall having walked with my mother-man in a garden perhaps taken from some film. My mother man; the demon nothing short of an orange. It sprang here and there, non-stop, trying to hit but then stopping. l remember the orange and the sensation of the devil. Everything is flattened. Even the flight; over nothing, where the eyes too look for the inexistent horizon. There the flat breath of a movement recalled within measly spaces. Amphoras cut out to contain the protected man and his most intrinsic wish. It is also said that dreams are needed to give us back a truth, perhaps not absolute, but surely support to a life conducted in the state of vigil too influenced by stimuli which do not belong to our nature. Sigmund Freud elaborated superjacent theories on the true sense of a moment which lasts, compared to sleep, a few seconds. The eternal unreal which opens doors to our subconscious to free what in life we refuse sometimes forcibly. What stratagem it would be to educate the dream; how much would the fact of being able to decide what to make appear to our retina, blindfold, determine our mind, rather like satisfying the latent instincts which during the vigil we mask for fear of imperfections in judgement. A dialogue with ourselves, a manner with which to decipher what we would most like to live as also, conversely, to eradicate. Yet it happens that, despite imaginary superstitions and approximate readings (cabbalistic) of so-called truthful dreams still existing, when we close our conscious part our self (not very magical) becomes a bomb in continuous evolution, transformation, the link between what the brain would recognize as true and something which perhaps existed but that we cannot remember. No depth in this. No horizon, if not meek sensations of impossibility to shout something to someone which seems to run away. Nightmare?And we still insist in this short life of having dreams without even thinking of realization. What deception then? I was asked if the opposite of life was death. I replied instinctively that death does not exist. A vision of transformation, if anything, yes. And I still ask myself, before millions (perhaps less today) of believers why we cry at death. If in the "dream" of sinner and redeemed that piece of paradise where the celebration of one's passed life of doing good exists. Why cry? The dream of survival has killed the dream of survival. So we lose the space of experience, in which the oneiric image also becomes fundamental element of vision. We lose the sense of seed, in which even the dream is integral part of an origin to which we belong. We lose the real consistency of a world

which, like us, has states of sleep where one's own elements are modified and broken. To lose these images means to go to hell. If anything evil as the absence of good may lead to a place of flames. Physical pain does not exist, no circumstances of blood, but a difficult death if only as a sensation. Then the search fora truth which immediately succeeds when, immobile, we realize we are breathing and with just as much seed we know we are awake. Having ascertained the truth space returns, three-dimensional, in which everything is perfectly positioned, where the recognition of what we have ascertained to exist is perfectly in the space provided. Alienation of the contents. Aromatized cages in which every flight is superfluous, naïve, useless, able to be copied, artificial. It is better to make everything appear without an extreme dialogue, making the mathematical existence of truth absent; thus, without too much suffering fora condition which is too fickle. Vision is not to be confused with dream. Two worlds in the contemporary strongly conditioned by confusion. Not dreams those of

Goya, Cha gall; visions in a state of vigil provoked by the alteration of the senses. The same which arises when once the unchangeable certainties are abandoned everything expands, the perception of noise, of size, of emptiness and rumbles which are similar to the sound of bell towers and bells fallen to earth. A tremor which does not disturb the work of Luca dall'Olio; tempered and at the same time impatient to reach the end of his dream. He has conquered the quiet, after some anxieties and sorcery of enchanted worlds which express meaning change and mutilate. Then there the dream transformed into vision. Wisdom matured during dark colored inspirations. The first insult is the world behind the dream. The vision of the vision; theatrical wings which operate an uncontaminated world, parallel to pure desire for survival. It is said that the blind dream sensations of color. It is said. If this were true so it would be for the work of the "master of the enchanted city" survivor of the cataclysm of the contro( of man. Not Utopian, unreal, fantastic, fairytale landscapes. Here no narration is stronger in a sense of truth which pushes, should push, man to finger over the only detail in a city which in that lives his relationship. Close relationship the child. Far-sighted education, if you like, which spurs on to research of an essential condition because measured in its authenticity. Authenticity of the child, of the fast car, of the microcosm in which the same cells which form the whole live. The ships, which inspire the conscience of a world in continuous movement. Landscapes, it was said enchanted cities, in which different streets, paths, streams radiate. No window. No fissure which sends us back to the outside world, because already in that outside world we find ourselves. If anything the sharing of the vision, by hidden eyes which aim to let you see that what is great you are contemplating. The vision in the vision, the dream in the dream, the look within the look.

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But if then the soldier deploys his lethal weapon towards the castle of dreams how will the future generations draw the principles and the meaning? How will they be able to find the enchantment? Death and life. No death can ever claim the life which already in itself returns after death. Transformation?Chance of a return?

Yes. But we want cities to be proud of such a name. Those landscapes which enchant in their monochrome, in their impersona( shadows, oblong, embroidered by the same shapes of plants which act in the limbo of our childhood.

In the dream, the archive material opens suddenly; a sensational proposal of images which scroll with no preordained stimuli.

"We can say that the brain opens the drawers of memories alone, no longer controlled, it extracts some at random, shapes, with components taken, in different times and places, a new painting: precisely our fabulous city of dreams".

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If we think of the route of Luca dall'Olio everything seems to end at his beginning. Because at the end of the dream evolution does not exist. Let us imagine we are born in the state of non-awareness of our being. Pure, dreamers of liquids and sounds acquired within the placenta, in the wrapping of urine where blood is nourishment. Children who have never lived life and who dream of the origin; let us imagine to be able to exhume the idea of an ideal city which does not exist from the conscience of a common sadness (as a space of life). Having taken down the walls which mark and fence off the property with useless boundaries, then, on that pathway of freedom we shall be able to regain the pureness of thought. Therefore not evolution but a return to an origin which exists within us, hidden, closed, covered and destroyed by the vigil and by open- eyed education. In this return today the enchanted land- scope incarnates this cleanliness. Rigidity, also in which the reorganization of the memory does not become casual where the conscience of a truth hidden by the vigil may if anything determine a return to normal. Why not draw from dreams concrete replies for our conscience. A healthy law ready to supply the maximum need with a minimum effort. I was speaking about reorganization and organization. That is how the polished up dream of Luca dall'Olio presents itself; that is how the painting becomes immediate and repeated vision of organized elements and facts resurface from the most secret and far away conditions. From chaos to order; from breaking down of the line, nearly Chagalliana, to a regime in which all dialogue without noise within a landscape created with the scruple of survival of the inhabitant elements. So, calmly, fish talk to mothers, eclipses with stars, the forwards and reverse, as too the bow of a ship with the sea itself which seems not to feel the weight; images without time that incarnate, in the inhabited nucleus, the fascination of the far off Middle Ages in which the encirclement was observed (is observed). It is lovely to wake up in a dream, another illogica( assumption in which the character of the vision is aware that what he is living is not reality. And to understand that nothing can be determined. That is how Luca dall'Olio immerses himself in his condition of eterna( child. The uncontrollable dialogue among those present. With no order, other than in the condition of a state in which the object itself must live and survive. The smoke of the smokestack of a train is thus transformed into a long snake careful to dialogue with the moon, while the lighthouse on the horizon (existent) overlooks all contents dictating the light. Because, above-mentioned, one dreams in colour. It is all reflection, still, in the various layers of prospective wings (flat) in which the game to hide and of hiding implicates every element present. The journey begins thus in the awareness of a slide, immediate, inside atmospheres "depolluted" by every comprehensible layer; in which a cardinal order does not exist, apparently inaccessible areas, impenetrable on a walk, pregnable by a flight. It seems that in these visions the courage of a gesture lives. The need for a choice: survival or the slim irony of an inaccessible place because our mind is handicapped turned towards the perception of an existing nothing. The flat silhouettes, two-dimensional, maintain their silence until the touch of a mind which concedes them movement. The cause is external, the effect immediate. The protagonist external who is invited to indulge in the game of a mysterious route. Sweet colors an invitation to enter. Sweet wiry objects interpret soft structures on which even a crash is thinkable. Then, inside, the rule of observation; a clean design, sharp, terse and neat just as the number of places to meet. Still once more, as in every communicative spirit, the need of courageous gesture, a last, heated attempt to a reaction of crushing and depression of mind. Inevitable depression when from high on our primary need for vital space, blindfold, we receive a comfort of the truth from our senses, instincts and if we like, from our most repressed desires. Poor us.

 

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"...and that our mind, weird
more from meat and less from thought taken,
at its nearly divine vision,
in dream I appeared to see hanging
a garfish in the sky with golden feathers,

•

with open wings and falling harmony...".

 

Dante, Purgatorio, canto IX, vv. 16-21