Federico Clavarino, from the series Italia O Italia, 2014, courtesy the artist

In kinder times we might have loved
you told me once before –
to kindle growth from years
that cling to us like folds of fat.
A flattened scene repeats the same – the mute
shells on which we stoop are ruins; and when
in the light and half light our train pulled in
a few minutes late, the flame cropped shadows
and snarled dogs. Then, the arch would slant
its dust-hunched praises at the Portbou smile
hugging our eyes. And though we loved like wasps –
your chin’s harp still cast the pale day
on sheets uncomplicated by the light –
we’d hoard our time in paint and greedy brick.
At times you’d say you wanted to return
but it wasn’t your country anymore.
Today’s mistake shaped yesterday’s fall. Nothing
happens: that might be what you failed to learn
though your verse sits still beside me
and mourns your hopeful limbs.

Sean Mark, 2014

 

 

Federico Clavarino, from the series Italia O Italia, 2014, courtesy the artist

In kinder times we might have loved
you told me once before –
to kindle growth from years
that cling to us like folds of fat.
A flattened scene repeats the same – the mute
shells on which we stoop are ruins; and when
in the light and half light our train pulled in
a few minutes late, the flame cropped shadows
and snarled dogs. Then, the arch would slant
its dust-hunched praises at the Portbou smile
hugging our eyes. And though we loved like wasps –
your chin’s harp still cast the pale day
on sheets uncomplicated by the light –
we’d hoard our time in paint and greedy brick.
At times you’d say you wanted to return
but it wasn’t your country anymore.
Today’s mistake shaped yesterday’s fall. Nothing
happens: that might be what you failed to learn
though your verse sits still beside me
and mourns your hopeful limbs.

Sean Mark, 2014

Federico Clavarino, from the series Italia O Italia, 2014, courtesy the artist

In kinder times we might have loved
you told me once before –
to kindle growth from years
that cling to us like folds of fat.
A flattened scene repeats the same – the mute
shells on which we stoop are ruins; and when
in the light and half light our train pulled in
a few minutes late, the flame cropped shadows
and snarled dogs. Then, the arch would slant
its dust-hunched praises at the Portbou smile
hugging our eyes. And though we loved like wasps –
your chin’s harp still cast the pale day
on sheets uncomplicated by the light –
we’d hoard our time in paint and greedy brick.
At times you’d say you wanted to return
but it wasn’t your country anymore.
Today’s mistake shaped yesterday’s fall. Nothing
happens: that might be what you failed to learn
though your verse sits still beside me
and mourns your hopeful limbs.

Sean Mark, 2014

Federico Clavarino, from the series Italia O Italia, 2014, courtesy the artist

In kinder times we might have loved
you told me once before –
to kindle growth from years
that cling to us like folds of fat.
A flattened scene repeats the same – the mute
shells on which we stoop are ruins; and when
in the light and half light our train pulled in
a few minutes late, the flame cropped shadows
and snarled dogs. Then, the arch would slant
its dust-hunched praises at the Portbou smile
hugging our eyes. And though we loved like wasps –
your chin’s harp still cast the pale day
on sheets uncomplicated by the light –
we’d hoard our time in paint and greedy brick.
At times you’d say you wanted to return
but it wasn’t your country anymore.
Today’s mistake shaped yesterday’s fall. Nothing
happens: that might be what you failed to learn
though your verse sits still beside me
and mourns your hopeful limbs.

Sean Mark, 2014

Federico Clavarino, from the series Italia O Italia, 2014, courtesy the artist

In kinder times we might have loved
you told me once before –
to kindle growth from years
that cling to us like folds of fat.
A flattened scene repeats the same – the mute
shells on which we stoop are ruins; and when
in the light and half light our train pulled in
a few minutes late, the flame cropped shadows
and snarled dogs. Then, the arch would slant
its dust-hunched praises at the Portbou smile
hugging our eyes. And though we loved like wasps –
your chin’s harp still cast the pale day
on sheets uncomplicated by the light –
we’d hoard our time in paint and greedy brick.
At times you’d say you wanted to return
but it wasn’t your country anymore.
Today’s mistake shaped yesterday’s fall. Nothing
happens: that might be what you failed to learn
though your verse sits still beside me
and mourns your hopeful limbs.

Sean Mark, 2014

Italia O Italia, by Federico Clavarino and Sean Mark

3 Jan 2015

A hand holding the innards of a broken watch invites you to open Federico Clavarino’s haunting and glorious photobook Italia O Italia. And the enigma overwhelms you, to the point that you almost feel like the victim of an enchanted snake. Italia O Italia is dark yet equally shrouded in a warm light, with a chromatic shade of ‘terracotta’ that is reminiscent of De Chirico’s metaphysical paintings. It’s blatant but also whispered, allusive and dense in mysterious references: fascism, Michelangelo’s fresco The Creation of Adam in the Sistine Chapel, the Roman Empire, Calvino’s Plunge Into Real Estate… It feels a bit neoclassic with a touch of decadence lust. Above all it’s an oxymoron, as is Italy. Perhaps the key is in the ‘O’ [Or]. On a more personal level it is a moving collection of all the most visceral reasons why one cannot live in Italy at the moment but nor can one live without Italy.

Delightfully there is no text whatsoever in the book Italia O Italia and the Photocaptionist couldn’t resist commissioning poet and contributor Sean Mark to respond to Clavarino’s visionary work.

Federica Chiocchetti

Federico Clavarino was born in Turin, Italy, in 1984, where he studied literature and creative writing at Alessandro Baricco’s Scuola Holden. He then moved to Madrid in 2007 and started studying documentary photography at BlankPaper Escuela, where he currently teaches. Italia o Italia is Clavarino’s third photobook, published by Akina Books after “La Vertigine” (Fiesta Ediciones, 2010) and “Ukraina Passport” (Fiesta Ediciones, 2011).