A space for Traces
When I began Rubedo I didn’t have any idea.
I was attracted by the name “Rubedo”, something about red,
the colour of love and passion.
Then I knew Rubedo is a process about creativity.
Since I was a child, I Knew to be an artist, but soon I understood I also was a woman
and I was born not in the same era of Giotto.
No atelier for me, no a life completely dedicated to Art.
I tried to take together many things:
love, son and daughters, job, independence, art.
Professors and teachers told me that it was easy to be artist for women now:
no discrimination problems anymore.
If I wasn’t successful it was only my responsibility:
I wasn’t good enough, simply. I believed it for long time.
During Rubedo the feeling of my value increased more and more.
Apparently nothing happened: some online meetings,
breathing deeply with near and far people,
shared words and images, lit flames, talking with my ancestors.
Then I left for a trip to Weimar,
across desolate plains of an unknown scaring Europe.
At the beginning there were only dark images in my mind,
dreams like nightmares, old fears, horrible memories left me awake many nights.
My Guide said it was regular. It was exactly the process I had to expect:
going into a obscure cave would be the first step,
but we were together, I wasn’t alone, so no fear and keep on going!
Rubedo is working while I live my normal life. I feel the effects of this alchemistic process and I don’t know where it will bring me.
Mariarosa Pappalettera (Bari, Apulia, Italy)
a trail of vapor
a delicate broadcast
a trace of burning embers
a diary, backwards
a voice, and many voices
some sort of half light
a trace of a question
some sort of purpose
a delicate noise, a burning signal
an undulating rhythm, backwards
Ani jednej więcej! Nicht eine weniger!
I am mourning a person I never met,
a woman died because of illegal abortion
nobody wanted to go to prison to help her.
I look at the screen – thousand of angry women,
a million times: “Ani jednej więcej” – not one less.
I am mourning my friend wild flower
traveler creative freedom body painting put gender in a blender our hands in the clay
She went north.
She told me somebody tried to traffic her abroad.
She went east.
She took her life not long after.
HOMEWORKS: live; heal; help. Please reach out if they are too difficult.
woman in surgery room by Guess Loo
WHO ́s the „victim“?From patriarchy suffers not only the oppressed but also the oppressorbecause in our essence we are all connectedAs we harm someone, who we perceive separate from us, we harm ourselves.As we exploit nature, we harm ourselves.There is no you and me exciting separate from each otherAn assumption like this can only persist in the shape of an illusionLet ́s free ourselves collectively as it comes to good to each and everyone!
Nigredo Iula La pioggia scende
Il lungo filo
consunto a tratti,
che d’assenza di luce
ché nube di cemento
ritorni al mittente.
The long yarn
at times threadbare,
I hope it holds.
on the absence of light
let’s be burnt,
as it’s concrete cloud
let’s return to his sender.
6 November 2021 to weimar to Capurso to Luísa MeToo Maria
today as some other days
I was inside river
I was one of them
but he said my name again and again
I was one of them inside boat
but in man voice there was rosario
I was there inside river and I was the third
I was there inside river and the fourth was wrong
but in man voice there was rosario
I was there inside boat
but I need to sorry
I was there among others failing again and again
but in man voice there was rosario
I was them for wrong
I was there or outside
but inside me I shout out my gender
but in man name there was his power
I was inside traces of river that flow up
but I need to shout up and erase me
sudently water came inside and he got river up his feet
but I could laught with the river movement
but in man voice there was rosario rowing again and again
douro rowing lessons 06112021 Rosário Forjaz
The Dream was not over yet
That it was already Day
Sons in Clusters
Attached to the Breasts
Lost the Companion
And there was so much to do
I walked slowly
thight in my fingers
While I was donating
T i m e
T h o u g h t s
F o r c e
E a r l y s i l e n c e s
I was fighting against the Death
Until SHE WAS EXHAUSTED
Until SHE EXHAUSTED me
I locked Her up
Into a box
of plain White Mists
In a land without Memory
Where was I
Was I the one who WROTE
A few syllables
Who SCRATCHED marks
On the whitewashed walls?
I had followed myself
a D R E A M
Il Sogno non era ancora finito
Che era già Giorno
Figli a Grappoli
Attaccati ai Seni
Smarrito il Compagno
E c’era tanto da fare
Tenevo stretta in pugno
La mia vita
T e m p o
P e n s i e r i
F o r z a
S i l e n z i p r e c o c i
P A U R A
Lottavo contro la Morte
Fino a SFINIRLA
Bianca di Nebbie
in una terra senza Memoria
Ero io quella che scriveva
che GRAFFIAVA segni
sulle pareti a calce
come si segue
Birth by Mariarolsa Pappaletera
Adolfo La Volpe
my Father walked Naked around the House
Never my Mother
I found her
on the bathroom Floor
her red Dressing Gown open
to reveal her Legs
I had drunk that Milk
She looked at me
I ran away
I thought She was Dead
To survive the distressing Question:
Was it my Dad?
mio Padre se ne andava Nudo in giro per Casa
mia Madre mai
sul Pavimento del bagno
la sua Vestaglia rossa aperta
a rivelare le gambe
avevo bevuto quel Latte
Lei mi ha guardato
sono scappata via
pensai fosse Morta
Ho fatto fatica
a sopravvivere alla Domanda angosciante:
era stato mio padre?
I don’t want to live with my heavy heart anymore
Cut it out, tear it into pieces, give it to someone who can take care of it, because I can’t do it anymore
Or throw it on the ground – you don’t need to bury it, because it’s so heavy that
The heart is an alchemical entity, a Philosopher Stone, an ever-changing element, never still and never the same. Look at it: in the dark night, in solitude and stillness it turns to a heavy boulder, grows pikes, and hurts itself with it, lies as a burden on the lungs,
And wants out.
In the bright sunshine it’s the sun itself: bright and light, spreading warmth and sense, embracing every little thing, and mirroring their light back multiplied by two,
And wanting out still.
In a cold room full of people, it grows to ice, unforgiving and cynical, growling like a scared dog, showing claws and teeth it never had,
In a warm kitchen with just few persons in grows fuzzy, white, and big, a gentle cat wanting to purr on someone’s lap,
Still wanting to get out.
It’s tied to my body way too tightly by the ropes way too fragile – bury the fingertips in my ribs and you will feel it, yearning for the touch
Yearning for the pain
And being afraid of it.
But sometimes – some really rare times, – it feels at home in me.
And sometimes the wild transformations hold on, and it’s suddenly becoming just what it needs to be: a living creature full of blood, vulnerable but strong, fragile but protected. A piece of the system, working with it together.
So God, give me the strength to keep this heart feeling at home.
my Mother is a body
a large round body with triple Belly
and countless Breasts
just a headless
She became swollen
like a large Bud
of Lotus flower
and when She burst
I slipped out
like a Clam
into the Sea
She was surprised
no good memories
Just a Cry
mia Madre è un corpo
un grande corpo rotondo
con tripla Pancia e Seni innumerevoli
solo un corpo senza Testa
è diventata gonfia come un grosso Bocciolo
di fior di Loto
e quando è scoppiata
sono scivolata fuori
come una Vongola
è stata sorpresa
nessun bel ricordo
solo un Grido
“Onisaurè Marialuisa”… The conditions that allow one body to… How can I allow my body? A dancing body…
Patriarchy, a system of oppression for whom? Not only women but men, who do not fit into the schematic vision of what a man should be, do. Coherence, a strong tool to oppress people into the cage of the system. Is the schizophrenia an escape path?
satisfaction and health
who,why,with whom and warum?
who is the patriarchy’s representation… when did it started, when did it end… …
Roots Feet Earth Fire
going deeply where I am
picking up the Strength
which is sleeping – Frog
in the Mud
Flame River Tree Stone
articulating the unpredictable Word
the silent thought
through the Black Forest
a new Space is opening
Step Well Mad Home
my Hair is a light grey Cloud
the Womb a Prune
my Loves are over
the Kids are gone
not finished my Painting
my books not written yet
my Spring will bloom in November
Radici Piedi Terra Fuoco
andando profondamente dove sono
raccogliendo la Forza
che dorme – una Rana
Fiamma Fiume Albero Pietra
articolando la Parola imprevedibile
il pensiero silenzioso
attraverso la Foresta Nera
si apre uno Spazio nuovo
Passo Pozzo Pazza Casa
I miei Capelli sono una leggera nuvola grigia
il mio Grembo una Prugna secca
I miei amori sono finiti
I Figli se ne sono andati
Incompiuti i miei dipinti
I miei libri non sono stati ancora scritti
la Primavera fiorirà a Novembre