Wooden boats have always been extraordinarily fascinating to me. I think it is from many reasons, some of them definitely personal, like my family history, as it was told, or my boy's readings.
But many of us endure the spell of old boats, and it's intriguing to look for this seduction's magic: their aspect is what strikes photographers' hearts, and their non-euclidean rigorous geometry, obviously complying to rules hard to be sensed by our right-angles-addicted eyes.
In a cavern, on the beach where so many of us have grown up by the sea, the smell of brackish tuff rock and just sawed wood takes the breath off, as to remind that this is a different world's entrance.
For as long as human memory goes, this cavern has housed boats, even its shape has been carved according to the sea crafts' evolution. Galleys, feluccas, gozzos, speedboats, lateen sails and outboard engines, and the whole paraphernalia of equipment used for their construction and maintenance, have required adjustments, carvings, reinforcements or modifications.
The vault still shows pickaxes scars, in some point blackened by oil lamps smoke, where now pipes and wires hang loosely.
As sleds remaining from a ice age, cradles are queued along the cavern's slope, that was accurately carved for them, loade with boats of any kind.
In such a place a friend of mine, a carpenter, has called me back to my forgotten childhood's feelings, and to smells, efforts, initiations from others' forgotten lives.
He told me about his dream, and asked me to tell how it will come true.
In a cavern, on the beach where so many of us have grown up by the sea, the smell of brackish tuff rock and just sawed wood takes the breath off, as to remind that this is a different world's entrance.
For as long as human memory goes, this cavern has housed boats, even its shape has been carved according to the sea crafts' evolution. Galleys, feluccas, gozzos, speedboats, lateen sails and outboard engines, and the whole paraphernalia of equipment used for their construction and maintenance, have required adjustments, carvings, reinforcements or modifications.
The vault still shows pickaxes scars, in some point blackened by oil lamps smoke, where now pipes and wires hang loosely.
As sleds remaining from a ice age, cradles are queued along the cavern's slope, that was accurately carved for them, loade with boats of any kind.
In such a place a friend of mine, a carpenter, has called me back to my forgotten childhood's feelings, and to smells, efforts, initiations from others' forgotten lives.
He told me about his dream, and asked me to tell how it will come true.
Nessun commento:
Posta un commento