‘No one knows why’ is the second of a series of texts written by Amalia Iavazzo as part of the CtC Writer in Residence (CtC WiR) Programme launched in October 2017. Over the course of four months, the resident writer will contribute short stories, inspired by the image of a contemporary work. For her series, Amalia has chosen artworks she knows nothing about, in order for the narrative to unfold in a spontaneous and unrestricted way. Stay tuned to discover the whole chain of images and the texts she will develop until January 2018.

No one knows why

Italo woke up exactly how he had fallen asleep.

Curled up in a corner of the sofa with a violin in his head and a theatre in his stomach.

He did not know why. Or maybe he did.

Perhaps he had simply forgotten it; for convenience.

Some thoughts, if silenced, become more beautiful.

He woke up slowly trying to avoid the nose of Pablo, who was snoring, trapped between two pillows.

Failed attempt.

Pablo arrived in his life three years ago, all tied up with ribbons, inside a carton box. Wrapped in that way, it was a clear attempt to turn something very ugly into something very beautiful.

Failed attempt.

It looked like sunlight inside the storm.

It seemed like a tormented story, to be defended no matter what.

In the end, it was just a random crossing of dogs, saved from the edge of the street.

It was a mangy creature with little gifts.

Although three years old, it was still pissing on the floor and, if hungry, it wasn’t able to complain.

A bit like Italo.

Italo desired many important things, as well as stupid ones, but he had no idea whatsoever of how to go get them.

The only strategy he knew was the wait.

He would have been able to wait forever.

He was seeing himself respected and well dressed, at around 40.

He wanted to reach the 40s with fame under his ass and a lot of women around.

Failed attempt.

The truth is that he never put much effort for into it. The wait did not bring him anything and he continued waiting for things to change by themselves.

Failed attempt.

In the meantime he had become a beautiful magnet for wrong stories.

A tangle of unspeakable secrets.

A badly planned cupola.

An overcooked plate of spaghetti.

A little heroic and little reliable Italo.

A clumsy Italo, made of random episodes, saved from the edge of the street.

A bit like Pablo.

Since when things took a turn for the worst, he began appreciating the time spent ironing.

He was looking at the iron as a magic wand, the same one that was missing in his life. That instrument had the power to erase mistakes with heat. He was purposely gathering crowds of wrinkled textiles in order to bring them back to their original condition. He was doing so just for the pleasure of seeing them going back in place.

For two, three, four times a day, slowly and with little patience he was testing his skill of middle-age man to erase the creases from wrinkled shirts, through both heat and consistency; through the precision that did not belong to him. When finished, he was stopping to think in front of those items, good as new, sighing satisfied.

Something that was never happening in his life.

He had developed a mania for order and cleanliness.

He was maniacally ordering everything around him by the millimetre.

He was maniacally sending the dust away, from everywhere, as soon as it arrived.

All this brought him peace.


All this gave him control back.

Something that was never happening in his life.

Yet no one knew why. No one knew why he had become a magnet for wrong stories and a little heroic, or little reliable, Italo.

When had this happened? Why no one ever took the trouble to iron him? To take the wrong creases away from his shirt? From his trousers?

No one knows why.

It was like that and that’s it.

Italo was born wrinkled. It grew up uncombed. No one cared for the reason why.


Amalia Iavazzo

Born and raised in the warmth of the South of Italy, Amalia is 23 and since always cultivates a strong love for words and for all it is possible to create (or destroy) through them. From 9am to 6pm she curates the way big companies communicate around their business. From 6pm to midnight she manages her own company, namely Tutelio, which deals with the protection of author rights at 360 degrees, alongside other professionals of the sector.
Things that make her heart beat are:
– Art aiming to generate change in society, with the goal of explaining otherwise complex subjects. Direct art. Art as human improvement. Art as beauty.
– Travelling to unknown, unconventional and not-specified places. Travelling with a flexible and variable itinerary. Leaving for a day and coming back after six.
– Listening to thoughts of big historical characters, listening to the sea and to children.
– Writing about herself, which is useful to better understand her own mind. Writing about others and the world, to appreciate the cosmos.
– Titans. She unconditionally loves people that, once defeated, perseverate and do not give up, by any means following their own values.

Original text in Italian. English translation by Miriam La Rosa.



John Baldessari No one knows why – Goya’s series (1997), Source: http://socks-studio.com/2015/03/13/true-to-form-john-baldessaris-goya-series-1997/




Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.