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)


Adolfo La Volpe

a dance

a trail of vapor

a delicate broadcast

a trace of burning embers

a diary, backwards

a dance

a voice, and many voices

some sort of half light

a trace of a question

a dance

some sort of purpose

a delicate noise, a burning signal

an undulating rhythm, backwards

some leaves

a dance



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.

ombres dechirees, Laura Zerbis

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!

Rosário Forjaz 2021
liminal series by Rosário Forjaz 2021

 Marta Gadaleta 


Il lungo filo 

consunto a tratti, 

spero regga. 

Il manto 

che d’assenza di luce 

fa banchetto 

si arda, 

ché nube di cemento 

ritorni al mittente. 


The long yarn 

at times threadbare, 

I hope it holds. 

The cloak 

that feasts 

on the absence of light 

let’s be burnt, 

as it’s concrete cloud 

let’s return to his sender. 

Violence by Mariarosa Pappalettera

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 


Beech Tree by Mariarosa Pappaletera

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

My Life

While I was donating

Like seeds

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




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



At night

On the whitewashed walls?



I had followed myself

Like following

 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


Camminavo lenta


Tenevo stretta in pugno

La mia vita

Mentre donavo

Come semi

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



Lottavo  contro  la Morte



L’ho rinchiusa

Nella scatola

Bianca di Nebbie

di pianura

in una terra senza Memoria




Ero io  quella che scriveva

qualche sillaba


che  GRAFFIAVA segni

di notte

sulle pareti a calce




Mi ero

seguita d’impulso

come si segue


Birth by Mariarolsa Pappaletera



Into the dark by Mariarosa Pappalettera
Connection by Mariarosa Pappalettera
Lisa Albrecht

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
I struggled
To survive the distressing Question:
Was it my Dad?





mio Padre se ne andava Nudo in giro per Casa


 mia Madre mai


Una volta

l’ho trovata

come addormentata

sul Pavimento del bagno


la sua Vestaglia rossa aperta

a rivelare  le gambe

di Latte

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?


Mariarosa  Pappalettera


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

on Earth

like a Clam

into the Sea


She was surprised

by Me


no good memories

Just a Cry

of robbery

an absurd







mia Madre è un corpo
un grande corpo rotondo

con tripla Pancia e Seni innumerevoli
solo un corpo senza Testa


un giorno
è diventata gonfia come un grosso Bocciolo

di fior di Loto
e quando è scoppiata
sono scivolata fuori

sulla Terra

come una Vongola

nel Mare

è stata sorpresa

da Me
nessun bel ricordo


solo un Grido

di rapina




Mariarosa Pappalettera




“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?

health,  healing,


                        satisfaction  and  health

others  andthecoherence

who,why,with            whom  and  warum?

who  is  the  patriarchy’s representation…  when  did  it  started,  when  did  it  end… …

Valerio  Porleri

Adolfo La Volpe

Mariarosa Pappalettera

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
nel Fango


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