‘Too intimate’ is the third 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 text she will develop until January 2018.
Too intimate
Have you ever looked at yourself in the eye?
I mean, have you ever taken time, on purpose, just to look at yourself? To study yourself? To identify yourself? To find yourself? To surprise yourself?
With no make-up, without gazes, without costumes, without filters, without adhesives, with no smiles of 1000 likes on Instagram, without necessarily having to be liked.
Naked. You. Alone.
Have you ever looked at yourself? What have you found out? You were not how you expected it to be, right?
I did it. A week ago.
I was not how I expected myself to be.
I accidentally became intimate with myself. I entered inside myself. With hands. With no hands.
I touched my soul. With fingers. With no fingers.
It was unpleasant.
It was beautiful.
I found myself face to face with myself, in front of the living room window. I was busy retrieving the keys fallen at the bottom of the handbag. The more I dug the more I could not find them, the more I rummaged the more they escaped, going elsewhere.
Then I crossed my silhouette. I had a moment of hesitation.
I had never met up with myself.
Who was that figure right in front of me? It had an alien aspect. It had a lot of blackheads.
It had holes everywhere.
I saw myself endlessly.
I became intimate with myself. It was a moment: eternal and subtle. It was embarrassing. It was like descending, all of a sudden, from a waterfall without control.
Without hands, with no God.
Adrenaline and terror.
I managed to take the keys, I got up slowly in order not to take my eyes off that surreal moment.
Off that figure that perhaps did not belong to me. Perhaps, it belonged to me too much.
Rocco was looking at me, outside of the glass, from the edge of the street. Happy, he was saying hi, waiting for me to reciprocate.
It was raining in floods. Careless, he was getting entirely soaking wet.
I remained there, staring at a point that was not Rocco, then changed room without saying hi.
I always liked Rocco, but I had no will to discover him.
The days passed by and they did it quickly.
For every dead day and for every other resurrected one, I noticed parts of myself I had never considered.
I was carnal. I was mean. I was egoistic. I did not know it.
I was immature. I was brilliant. I was perverted. I did not know it.
I was fragile. I was precious. I knew it and it wasn’t enough.
The more I studied myself, the more I got to know myself, the more I understood that intimacy with myself was not bringing flowers and fields.
The exact opposite, in fact.
Now I knew who I was.
A beast.
A bacterium.
A theatre without public and big tents.
I was nobody and I was myself.
I was everything and nothing.
I was me together with me.
Too risky.
Too strong.
Too intimate.
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.
Rebecca Ackroyd. Image copyright and courtesy of the artist and OUTPOST, Norwich. Web source: http://artviewer.org/rebecca-ackroyd-at-outpost/
CuratingtheContemporary (CtC) 