Lebab fo yrarbil eht

“ The Library of Babel” by Louis Borges describes an imaginary world where an endless library constitutes the whole universe. This Library contains all the possible books ever written – including those that haven’t been written yet – and it represents the only known place for its inhabitants, the Librarians.
These people will spend their lives looking for the legendary Vindications, books that tell about the life ( and death) of each Librarian.
The act of painstakingly copying this story an indeterminate number of times, with its ritualistic undertones, becomes an obsessive as well as impossible quest for totality, a crave for those Vindications that perhaps don’t even exist, an unquenchable thirst for omniscience.
Borges’ story is but the starting point of a practice that, being nothing but numb reproduction of each of the text, loses its meaning. With this almost ascetic action I aim to create a psychological distance between the real world and me.
The end is exactly where the beginning is, and the time too is transformed in a perpetual return to the same words. But, in the real world, time does flow and what remains is nothing more than what was already present, which is the story itself, its authorship still fully intact.

"Now the Signore can fall in love with no worries"

"Tadzio followed his family; in the narrowest passages, he would leave the educator and the austere sisters go before him and, walking lazily on his own, he would turn his head to make sure, with a gaze of those extraordinarily grey eyes thrown from over his shoulder, that his devotee was following him. He could see him and he didn't intend to betray him.

Drunk with this certainty, bewitched by those eyes, besotted by his passion, the enamored man ran after his illicit hope."


I close my eyes: I can see nothing at first, the dark void drags me to its deathly end, I resist. I see two Eyes now, their gaze pointing at me from a shop window. I try look back, but I realize they can’t see me. What they see is behind me, somewhere. I want to turn to see what the Eyes are seeing, but I cannot move. My body anguishes, cold sweat on my palms, dry mouth. I want to speak, but the void has sucked in all the words.
Absorbed: I keep trying to turn, one centimeter closer each time, my eyeballs rolled so much to the left that they’re all white.
Feet grounded in thick mud.
I am almost there, my body wrapped up in a spiral, my sight almost coinciding with that of the Eyes.
My spine snaps, I look back at the Eyes before falling into the mud, they don’t see me.

First Chapter - The Armchair Traveler

Since this is my first post, I'll start introducing myself by showing you some of my recent artwork.
It's mainly performative and photographic work based on the ideal figure of the Dandy, which very well represent a part of my being Oscar.
Writers such as Huysmans, Wilde, Baudelaire and Rimbaud are key figures in my work ( and life).