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> > Foscarini

Foscarini

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Foscarini: Maestrie, 80 117

Mastery
156
Maestrie
Ricordo mio padre che io ero un
bambino, curvo sul banchetto da orafo,
nel freddo di una luce al neon che bagnava
le mani enormi. E quelle mani me le
ricordo nere entrambe, di resina esausta,
tenere con una e spazzolare con l’altra
un minuscolo cuore scuro di fiamma. Mi
ricordo di me che guardavo mio padre
circondato dai santini di mia nonna, appesi
allo stesso chiodo del calendario dei
carabinieri e mi ricordo che erano accanto
alla foto di Maradona, sopra quella di mia
sorella da bambina, a sopportare il suono
della spazzola, l’odore dell’acido, i desideri
di mia madre. Mi ricordo quel cuore
stremato dalla volontà, cedere un colpo
dietro l’altro, per risplendere d’oro, tra le
mani nere di maestria.
È così che ho fotografato l’agire paziente
di queste anime attente, di questi uomini
meticolosi, i luoghi della loro fatica, i segni
stratificati, cercando nelle loro mani enormi
il cuore che, un gesto alla volta, le illumina
di dignità. Le mani di mio padre che, senza
averlo visto mai, senza le parole per farlo,
mi ha insegnato quel giorno lo stupore
per il mondo.
I can remember my father when I
was just a boy, hunched over his small
goldsmith’s bench, his enormous hands
illuminated by the cold of a neon light. I
remember both those hands of his being
completely black from the used-up resin,
and I’d watch him as he held a tiny heart,
darkened by the flame, in the one hand,
brushing it with the other. I can remember
how I’d watch my father surrounded by
my grandmother’s holy cards, pinned up
on the same nail as the police calendar,
and I remember that there was a photo of
Maradona next to them, above the one of
my sister as a little girl. I’d sit there putting
up with the noise of the brush, the stench
of the acid, and my mother’s nagging.
I remember that heart, battered by
willpower, giving in to blow after blow, to
then glimmer with gold in the blackened
hands of the master craftsman.
That’s how I picture the patient work of
those attentive souls, those meticulous
workers, the place where they worked so
hard, the embedded marks, trying to see
the heart in those enormous hands, the
heart that, one movement at a time, made
them shine with dignity. My father’s hands,
without ever seeing it, without any words,
taught me the wonder of the world that day.
Gianluca Vassallo
Mani nere
Blackened hands

Cabinet Myconian

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