Using Louis ghost chairs, the installation Talking chairs by Giovanna Iorio combines the transparency of this iconic chair created by designer Philippe Starck to the colours and sound of her unique voice portraits, spectrograms of the human voice. Chairs and human voices will be the only protagonists of this new sound installation that aims to reflect on the possibility of dialogue in a time of isolation. Philippe Starck described his transparent chair in these terms: “You are not sure exactly what it is but everyone recognises it and sees it as something familiar. It’s here when you want to see it and you can blend it in if you want to be discreet. It is half disappearing, dematerialising. Like all the production of our civilisation.” Through the “transparent design furnishings” the aesthetic aspect of transparency became accepted globally. In a society where everything that counts must be visible, the invisible becomes a valid alternative. Words, being a product of civilisation, disappear and dematerialise everyday leaving human beings every day more silent in a world of noises. Starck said that “the universal success of the Louis Ghost chair does not come from its design but from collective memory. The Louis Ghost chair was produced by our collective subconscious and it is only the natural result of our past, our present and our future.” In this installation we await for curious visitors to sit on the invisible chairs, blended in nature and only revealing the invisible colours of the human voice. Ten authors from Italy, USA and New Zealand have sent their message and voices to reflect on past, present and future. Talking chairs invites visitors to a place where chairs will no longer be chairs, but imaginary islands for urban sailors.
Authors included:
Sara Capoccioni (poet) Galen Cranz (author of The Chair) Lidia Popolano (poet) Mariapia Quintavalla Elena Ribet (poet) Chelsea Rushton (poet) Beppe Sebaste (author of Benches) Angela Schiavone (poet) Marco Sonzogni (poet) Matilde Tortora (poet)
Music by Lucio Lazzaruolo and Notturno Concertante
Marco Sonzogni (New Zealand-Italy)
VACANT SEAT
Then there is nothing but the sound of their looking
Billy Collins is right: there are chairs sat on by no-one -- chairs devised to be mused on one by one blossoms and trees, boulevards and heights --
and whoever put them there mused on couples — two here, two there: double vision often survives only as intention -- without the care to actually use.
Is this not how life declines? To plan without pause all that is absent -- and to give shapes and names: pew or rather bench or rather stool or rather recliner --
yet neglecting their substance: we’re made of chairs’ same matter which like us consumes the bite of hunger, contemplative and alone in a residence.
SEDE VACANTE by Marco Sonzogni (Italy-New Zealand)
Then there is nothing but the sound of their looking — Billy Collins
Ha ragione Billy Collins: ci sono sedie su cui non siederà nessuno -- sedi deputate a contemplare uno ad uno fiori e alberi, viali e colli --
e chi le ha messe contemplava coppie — due qui, due là: doppia visione che spesso sussiste solo come intenzione -- e di provarle non si premurava.
Non è così che la vita si declina? Pianificare senza sosta tutto ciò che manca -- e dargli forma e nome: sedile oppure panca oppure sgabello oppure panchina —
trascurando però la sostanza: siamo fatti della stessa materia di una sedia che come noi consuma la morsa dell’inedia, sola e pensosa in una stanza.
Wayfarer stop You’ll repose here Thou too shalt couch thy limbs Linger with me, sit Stay, whether night or day I’d like your sitting here to benefit you
I know, you’d like to go on, you’re rushed, called by all, allured, winked at from a distance, but have faith, even seated here the Sun can flood you, the rose’s velvet spur you, a glass of wine intoxicate you
Linger with me, pose after pose, Wayfarer repose, here you can calmly rattle off the grains of each beloved, yearned- for verse. And, in the meantime, spot their mother-of-pearl gleam, sea memory
Trust that this seat was known even to Machado “there is no road, you make the road as you walk… blow after blow, verse after verse…” I want to tell you the road can be sketched, made, even with the thinking of it somewhat restfully, as it gains impetus, to picture it as it stands, pausing here today comfortably seated on this chair, lending ear to how much I’m telling you, my welcome friend, my precious guest ready to leave again and, all the more precious, because interim and ready for new swerves, for setting off, merely passing through, lent to me, only for as much as is enough to hear me a little
I know, I know, you’re thinking back to your school chair, your naked knees, your falls, your bruises. Your mother who said each time “do you think you’re an apple perhaps, coming home bruised?” Her sharp way to squeeze out your laugh and apply disinfectant then bandaid. Your mother, make room a little today for Her to sit here too. smile at her and gratefully touch your now-uncut knees.
I know, you’re thinking back to that traitorous fold- up timber cinema chair, to the smoke in your eyes, to the sweet girl sitting beside you, to her face watching you, you enthralled more by Her than the rolling film, to the kiss you dreamed of giving her, to the ceaseless rain in the street that seemed even to enter the theatre.
Make room today for that sweet girl too, as you ponder where in the world She lives today, and above all how you could have forgotten her all these years. Hold yourself a little on this chair, Wayfarer, there’s room for Her too, close your eyes and cleanse them of smoke, of rain, of tears.
Repose, Homo viator, pilgrim, trust you’re beside the chimney in your grandfather’s house. Open yourself, though you’re by no means a nut, and show yourself your nature, munch on your thoughts, one by one, think back to them, pledge to love yourself a little.
And resume, refreshed, your walk, my interim guest, my wayfarer friend. What’s important is to have met, and it wasn’t so sure then, so predictable. This is the power of verse, of each verse and of a chair, this one. Who would’ve thought?
Fermati Viandante Tu qui ti riposerai Tu te reposeras toi aussi Resta con me, siediti Rimani, se sia notte o giorno Vorrei che ti giovasse il sederti qui
Lo so, vorresti proseguire, hai fretta, ogni cosa ti chiama, ti attira, ti fa l’occhiolino di lontano, ma abbi fede, anche seduto qui il Sole può inondarti, il velluto della rosa solleticarti, una coppa di vino inebriarti
Resta con me, posa dopo posa, riposa Viandante, i grani di ogni verso amato, desiderato, qui puoi tranquillamente snocciolare. E, nel frattempo, scorgerne i barlumi di madreperla, il ricordo del mare
Fa conto che questa sedia sia stata nota anche a Machado “non esiste il sentiero, il sentiero si fa camminando… colpo dopo colpo, verso dopo verso…” Voglio dirti che il sentiero si può delineare, fare, anche con il pensarlo un poco quietamente, prendendo slancio, immaginarlo stando, sostando qui oggi comodamente seduto su questa sedia, prestando ascolto a quanto ti sto dicendo, mio benvenuto amico, mio ospite prezioso e pronto a ripartire e, tanto più prezioso, perché provvisorio e pronto a nuovo sbalzo, ad andare via, solamente di passaggio, in prestito a me, solo per quanto basta ad ascoltarmi un poco
Lo so, lo so, stai ripensando alla tua sedia a scuola, ai tuoi ginocchi nudi, alle cadute alle sbucciature. Tua madre che diceva ogni volta “ma credi di essere forse una mela, che mi torni a casa sempre sbucciato?” Il suo modo arguto per strapparti una risata e metterti il disinfettante e poi il cerotto. Tua madre, fa posto oggi un poco anche a Lei qui a sedere. sorridile e toccati riconoscente i ginocchi oggi intonsi.
Lo so, stai ripensando a quella sedia in legno proditoria e ribaltabile al cinema, al fumo negli occhi, alla ragazza dolce che ti sedeva accanto, al suo viso che tu guardavi, affascinato da Lei più che dallo scorrere dei film, al bacio che sognavi di darle, alla pioggia incessante in strada che sembrava arrivasse fin dentro la Sala. Fa posto oggi anche a quella dolce ragazza, domandandoti chissà dove Ella oggi vive, e soprattutto come hai potuto dimenticarla per tutti questi anni. Stringiti un poco su questa sedia, Viandante, c’è posto anche per Lei, chiudi gli occhi e detergili dal fumo, dalla pioggia, dal pianto.
Riposa, Homo viator, pellegrino, fa conto di essere accanto al camino a casa di tuo nonno. Non sei una noce, d’accordo, ma apriti e mostrati quale sei, sgranocchia i tuoi pensieri, uno ad uno, ripensa ad essi, impegnati ad amarti un poco.
E riprendi, rinfrancato, il cammino, mio ospite provvisorio, mio amico viandante. L’importante è esserci incontrati, e non era poi così certo, così scontato. Questo è il potere dei versi, di ogni verso e di una sedia, questa. Chi l’avrebbe mai detto?