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Andrea

Cirillo

Firenze

Utopian Decomposition

A dying mud ball, a sepia-colored spot: The earth is the dying sod underneath us. So it is reduced in 2049. From it we drain resources through invisible technological umbilical cords: The heavenly cords.We are now a group of white marble statues; but we do not reach the beauty of those of antiquity. The skin is white, Siberian. It's icy and painful. The skin is white; Siberian. It is icy and painful.We are without sexuality. The head is white, it looks almost like wax. No eyebrows, no eyelashes, no lips. We have protruding bones, cheekbones, shoulders, collarbones and access points. The skin: the new paper, The new canvas, The new screen. We have transformed what was left of our stupid flesh into art. Up here, in this false paradise, skin grafts were born. Grafts are tales of skin: distant descendants of tattoos, spurious cousins of the Braille alphabet. Here the richest have skin like a vast and swollen palimpsest of flesh: grafts on grafts. The faces were like white piles of medieval doilies; even the hands had their intricate flowering of watermelons and white lumps. In this life of pathetic angels, in which we hover over the past as Greek gods but powerless and useless, I want to hand down the story of Joan through the mastery of my grafts. History that has changed and been replaced by heresy. The eco-terrorist; the bloody girl who made the Earth scream. I want to use my body to tell it. Joan was the life force to which we could no longer return. A not very feminine body, a masculine body: a sublime androgyny. Joan had something that we did not have; the harmony of the universe. Let us begin the Book of Joan.