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OPEN POEM TO THE CURATORS OF THE 58th VENICE BIENNALE
FROM THE GHOSTS OF THAT RELIC YOU SHOULD NOT DARE CALL “OUR BOAT”
A gust of wind
The breath of a clipped wing
that failed to push the sail
Yes, WE DID LIVE IN INTERESTING TIMES
as we lay amassed – the bottom 374 of us
in the hold
Layer
upon layer of ebony
black, amber, yellower
grayer, coconut, whiter
hues at the top, following
the Law emanating
from the Center
of the Old World
Barely breathe,
mustn’t talk
held our tongues
for two days
so then upon the new shore
we could free it
in song
Fishermen of men
had come looking for us
as we disconsolately sat
fresh of deserts:
for the holy books of the Law
hath decreed
that we from the Southern Hemisphere
could not fly
couldn’t pass the port of the sky
Water, not Air- was to be
our Element
So our mothers sewed a little red pouch
and poured in a pinch of Earth
our Land
lest we forget
and never come back
Some of us were held tight in an embrace
a sorrowful leave taking
Others, we snuck away under the cover of dark
lest they chain us
to that accursed land
Never would they have allowed us
to go
The seams of our jackets laden
with rolled up photos, seeds
pieces of the Coran, charms,
report cards,
letters
address books
Proof that we existed
had connections
could even thrive
And the fishermen of men
who glimpsed us sitting by
the side of the road
where it forks
between Life and Death
told us theirs was no inflatable plastic dinghy
but a respectable, seaworthy
if rusty
fishing vessel from the Horn:
for years its nets had dragged in tunas
from the fish rich
Red Sea
And was now ready to drag us
to a new Cape of Good Hope
marked by the North Star.
And so we went, curators
with no cure
for our definitive malady
you who display
this Object of Beauty
as the Big ships sail on by
towering over your Arsenal and Gardens
A sure promise and reminder
that your City too
soon shall sink
How dare you
Curator from a landlocked nation
call it “Barca Nostra”- Our Boat
this sacred relic of ours
leaving us there naked
next to crane
not a single word spent on us
out of the thousands
you bestow on the plastic figments
sitting in your pavilions
paining to recreate reality?
We weren’t sailing
through a mythological Sea the color of wine
but a transparent one the color of Amnesia and Denial
Imbued with our screams
as our breath was knocked out
Some of you wistfully claim
that pain can generate Art
and that Art can awaken the conscience
we don’t ask you to provide a baroque reliquary
for our Sacred Relic,
but demand a measly plexiglass panel
between us and the Viewers and their selfies
with words not drenched in your theories
but shards of our stories
to stab the World As It Is.
Pina Piccolo, listening to the voices emanating from the relic.
Written after accidentally bumping into the fishing vessel turned migrant boat exhibited next to the bar at the Arsenale site, while visiting the Venice Biennale on May 26, 2019. I was one of those hundreds of thousands of visitors from all over the world who did not buy the catalog, which devotes a few words to the “exhibit” nor did I receive his press release explaining the significance of “Barca Nostra”. Biennale visitors were laughing and taking selfies around it. Only a group of three German visitors knew what it was, because one of them worked with asylum seekers, and he was going around discouraging people from taking selfies and telling them the story of the vessel. I experienced a great emotion as one could still capture the pain and sorrow emanating from the relic.
Photo gallery by Pina Piccolo
For more information about the boat and its circumstances:
Story about the 14 year old boy from mali who drowned in the hold, sewn in the seam of his jacket the forensic doctors found his report card. When the story was released in the press several schools in Italy took initiative to symbolically acknowledge the boy, his death and circumstances.
Article about the book by Cristina Cattaneo, the volunteer forensic doctor, who assembled a volunteer team of doctors to identify the remains still present in the hold, once the boat was recovered, several month after it sank.
Premio Galileo: vincono i “Naufraghi senza volto” di Cristina Cattaneo
