There is a sort of dark attachment to one's homeland, and there are the mists that turn every city streets and squares into metaphysical sceneries of a stage on which the typical script of each province is acted: that of waiting and dream. — Pier Vittorio Tondelli, 1990, Un weekend postmoderno. Cronache dagli anni Ottanta
As a child I used to observe my mother behind the curtains of our small provincial theatre. Household and everyday rituals performed with discipline and cautiously protected, which made her almost completely indecipherable. Outside long summers of salt and wheat dissolved towards the north-eastern end of Italy.
There is something raw in this hometown that quietly resists transformation and simultaneously never stops becoming something else, always ungraspable in its totality. As if a direction had been taken, still hesitating to move forward before going back.
As I walk down Schlesisches Straße, a wide space appeares. An open gate invites me to enter: I wonder, what this place was, what this place will be.
The history of construction sites calls both the past and future into question. Yet, while being often perceived as non-places, their liminality unveils a deeper uncertainty: by trespassing temporarily in their being in between states of becoming, these spaces tackle the meaning of modernity and question the present itself, progress and its consequences.