Short Story by Martin Cid about a photography by Davide Luciano exposed in Smile Gallery, NYC
Where is the eye of the rabbit? Where are you going to spend the rest of your life? 12/12/12. It’s Wednesday and it’s cold here. I am looking a nice photography by a good friend, Davide Luciano. No, I am not looking for more. I found it? I don’t know why but I was here before, beyond the mirror of my future. There’s something mysterious in this photo, something about beauty and something special. I know that street in New York but there is something different now. I was there, and Alice is still there. She is a pretty blonde hair girl nicely blue dressed. There is a contrast between her innocence and the prolific narrative of a cruelty prolific city. Why am I here? Why I can still leave this strange place? I know the artist but I don’t know the person. I can feel Alice and I can feel the strange irony in his photography. Is this real? I can feel the scenes passing, I can feel my fingers and I can try to feel my brain like holes, like sections inside myself. We are all blue and Alice is inside of me. I can feel her and I can now feel this photo. I’m outside. It’s cold in New York, it’s cold in my mind, it is a creepy cold inside here but I cannot feel it. Why, Alice? Why did you betray your convictions? Why did you leave the rabbit there? Why did you grow up? We have no option, writer. How? Strange question, no answer. I am the girl in blue, and you know dreams are dyed in dark blue. Somehow, I found her mark, somehow I found her in New York City on 12-12-12, the day when the world would end. But something went wrong and we are still here, in this cold night of dreams and broken dreams and, overall, the photo that remains me there was a different world waiting for our future, spending the past, confiding in everyone else. Am I not clear? Isn’t my name Alice, stupid writer? You were the girl caught in a different book.. Kiddy tales, kiddy stories, kidding and loosing, loosing and fearing. Isn’t it the essence of childhood? I am reading his name now, Davide Luciano, the photographer and the irony in this eternal Alice, in her supreme mature innocence, in her nonsense, in her female mouth, in your tempting lips. What do you want, writer? I want to win the chess game, Alice, I want to solve this uncertain problem and I cannot find its beginning. Where is Davide? There are people here but I cannot find him, where has he gone? I can feel the silence, writer. Why I cannot move? Why? Tell me. Do you think you are real, Alice? Davide caught your moment and, you know, a moment can be lived as a life and now you have no escape. Feedback, Alice. Mr. Carrol created you and Davide Luciano caught you. Did you think you could be real? Smile gallery, New York City. Davide Luciano Exhibition. 12-12-12. You die. Any option? No options, Alice. Yes, Mr. Carrol imagined me and probably he invented me but… have you got any reason to say I am not real? Are your words real or are you imagining them in this cruel moment of your existence? I can be as real as you and I can escape from this photographer when I want. Yes, he knows as you know. How can a photographer catch your soul? Might be a moment trapped? Might be a soul imagined? Might be a person created? Might be a tale wrong? Might be a story invented? We are here now, writer, in New York City or anywhere else and, finally, we are trapped by the words of the Muse. Look at me, writer, you are mine and you cannot stop looking at me… my bright eyes and my blue dress in the darkest city of your mind. Do you think still I am not real, stupid writer? He did and you cannot do it. May you trap my essence in this precise moment? May you catch time, words whisperer? I am here and I will be here for the rest of the existence. I am her and I am you and I am inside you. I am Alice through the looking glass and I am, finally, eternal.