In The Immaterial Biography of Dreams I recount my dreams in a strictly descriptive manner—and in an attempted chronological order—to the rock I took from a public beach in the island of Lido di Venezia.

My impressions and insights about the dreams are written with black ink on an acrylic tray filled with water. If an inscription is a way to overcome time and memory, in this work this assumption is dissolved: by writing on water, I’m also dissolving language and memory. The transparency of the water becomes darker, full of insights that were  inspired by what was revealed to—or born from—my imagination in the nights
I dreamed. The water and my insights turn into one substance.

In Immaterial Biography I am the agent affecting  a constant transference between
the incorporeal substances of my dreams, the dissolution of writing/language, and the materiality of the rock, the metal quill, and the ink. Untold dreams and nightmares are spoken, transformed in sound frequency and emanated to the rock—a matter that pertains to the natural world for far longer than my existence.

When the performance comes to an end, I wrap the rock in black velvet and carry it with me from the performance space to my hotel. Placing it on my pillow, I sleep and dream with my head over the wrapped rock. On the following day, I travel back to the beach in Lido. I unwrap the rock and place it close to the shore, over other rocks, where it will be washed by the sea when the tide is high.

In The Immaterial Biography of Dreams I recount my dreams in
a strictly descriptive manner—and in an attempted chronological order—to the rock I took from a public beach in the island of Lido
di Venezia.

My impressions and insights about the dreams are written with black ink on an acrylic tray filled with water. If an inscription is a way to overcome time and memory, in this work this assumption
is dissolved: by writing on water, I’m also dissolving language and memory. The transparency of the water becomes darker, full of insights that were  inspired by what was revealed to—or born from—my imagination in the nights I dreamed. The water and my insights turn into one substance.

In Immaterial Biography I am the agent affecting  a constant transference between the incorporeal substances of my dreams,
the dissolution of writing/language, and the materiality of the rock, the metal quill, and the ink. Untold dreams and nightmares are spoken, transformed in sound frequency and emanated to the rock—a matter that pertains to the natural world for far longer than
my existence.

When the performance comes to an end, I wrap the rock in black velvet and carry it with me from the performance space to my hotel. Placing it on my pillow, I sleep and dream with my head over the wrapped rock. On the following day, I travel back to the beach in Lido. I unwrap the rock and place it close to the shore, over other rocks, where it will be washed by the sea when the tide is high.

In The Immaterial Biography of Dreams I recount my dreams in a strictly descriptive manner—and in an attempted chronological order—to the rock I took from a public beach in the island of Lido di Venezia.

My impressions and insights about the dreams are written with black ink on an acrylic tray filled with water. If an inscription is a way to overcome time and memory, in this work this assumption is dissolved: by writing on water, I’m also dissolving language and memory.
The transparency of the water becomes darker, full of insights that were  inspired by what was revealed to—
or born from—my imagination in the nights I dreamed.
The water and my insights turn into one substance.

In Immaterial Biography I am the agent affecting  a constant transference between the incorporeal substances of my dreams, the dissolution of writing/language, and the materiality of the rock, the metal quill, and the ink. Untold dreams and nightmares are spoken, transformed in sound frequency and emanated to the rock—a matter that pertains to the natural world for far longer than
my existence.

When the performance comes to an end, I wrap the rock in black velvet and carry it with me from the performance space to my hotel. Placing it on my pillow, I sleep and dream with my head over the wrapped rock. On the following day, I travel back to the beach in Lido. I unwrap the rock and place it close to the shore, over other rocks, where it will be washed by the sea when the tide is high.

In The Immaterial Biography of Dreams I recount my dreams in a strictly descriptive manner—and in an attempted chronological order—to the rock I took from a public beach in the island of Lido di Venezia.

My impressions and insights about the dreams are written with black ink on an acrylic tray filled with water. If an inscription is a way to overcome time and memory, in this work this assumption is dissolved: by writing on water, I’m also dissolving language and memory. The transparency of the water becomes darker, full of insights that were  inspired by what was revealed to—or born from—my imagination in the nights I dreamed.
The water and my insights turn into one substance.

In Immaterial Biography I am the agent affecting  a constant transference between the incorporeal substances of my dreams, the dissolution of writing/language, and the materiality of the rock, the metal quill, and the ink. Untold dreams and nightmares are spoken, transformed in sound frequency and emanated to the rock—a matter that pertains to the natural world for far longer than my existence.

When the performance comes to an end, I wrap the rock in black velvet and carry it with me from the performance space to my hotel. Placing it on my pillow, I sleep and dream with my head over the wrapped rock. On the following day, I travel back to the beach in Lido. I unwrap the rock and place it close to the shore, over other rocks, where it will be washed by the sea when the tide is high.