VOICE PORTRAITS
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talking chairs

Giovanna Iorio
29/05 - 12/06
Gallery No.32 | Free art space in SE London | @gallery_no.32



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

Picture
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. 


Listen to the talking chair vocie by marco sonzogni
MATILDE TORTORA (BELGIO) 

​
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?




listen to the talking chair voice of MATILDE TORTORA
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