An industrial view threatened in its coloured obsessive rythm: a pink little presence, a primary organic form breaks down the landscape and brings smiles of dreamy voices. Metal meets a delicate shape of Being floating on industrial waters.

A match without a fight, the minutes of waiting, the setting under stress. Small town boxers acting their dream of win against themselves. Nobody ever wins alone.

In a squared cell of velvet light, on your blue moony skin, you look for the voice of the intelligence, the good sense of Orlando, lost in love. Astolfo, where is heaven?

A classic quarrel for a too short freaky ending. Love’s affairs, quarrels among lovers, always too short is love once you tell it.

Here we are with a contemporary dancing satyr. His elegant motion seems to be generated by ancient notes. He acts his natural divine force with a slow dance with no time; he seems to call us with no voice. A suggestion of harmony with nature, an offer of slow motion beauty.

A sugar refinery becomes a cathedral, a place where lines close the ghost of times gone over. The sight plays with the particular that becomes a sign, a new line for geometries, symmetries. Here, where description becomes a play, an exercise for imagination.

A foreign eye goes into a disco. The fierce recording of other eyes screaming and searching their way. Rotonda spins us in a circle, a rite, up to the bright sixties of its name. The men, the woman, the eternal walzer danced with only glasses.

A video-picture, a painting for an aesthetic exercise inspired to Francis Bacon works. Why telling if you can film it?