On Friday, February the 6th, the snow finally arrived in Borca; and about time, too.
The snow creates damn magic: it’s so strong, in its persistent fairness, that sometimes, for somebody (kai), seems to generate strong rhetorical images.
The snow cloaks everything, and it’s like Christmas all over again.
Right?
Wrong: Dickensian paranoia.
(a little like some curators or ephebic artists, who are afraid, cowardly, of specificity’s strength, and who would always like to make ethereal and light and transparent things: air could fall out of their heads at any moment).
The snow is marvellous because it falls light and slow, but it stacks up, heavily and dangerously.
The snow is kitsch for those who don’t know what the mountain is, maybe, and watches the images on the TV.
The snow is heave and dangerous, we’ve said: like the mountain, again: that’s why white images can themselves sometimes feel too charged, nauseating.
But, again, this happens to those who can’t stand being under it.
During the night of the 6th, while it obsessively fell, and the morning of the 7th, as it glittered, and then almost immediately transformed and exuded, Giacomo De Donà and Sergio Casagrande have portrayed the cloaked, pressed, silent Village; made heavy, sunken.
Here the pictures.
Meanwhile, in the Colonia, we walked, worked: took the spider webs off the windows.
photos: Giacomo De Donà
Photos: Sergio Casagrande
