On Google Street View
beauty instead of freedom
an embodied photo essay
Non riesco a spigare l'aria magica in Ogilastra
WHERE HIGH ART GOES TO DIE
When you hear the word “rococo” what immediately comes to mind? Maybe an ancien régime interior or one of its typical features, like an extravagant Sevres vase or a gallant scene by Boucher. Perhaps a gilded arabesque. Most know it as a decorative style: feminine, frilly and French.
Wandering alone through an empty exhibition is a rare and strange experience. The quiet of the gallery space is amplified by one’s solitude. Couched in silence, works of art take advantage of the latitude afforded by the lack of living bodies. Each surface, each tint and contour vies for attention, so that the walls and floors seem to erupt with competing frequencies. It is as if the rooms begin to buckle under the weight of life itself, consolidated in their contents.