I was invited as a copywriter in a project called Musica Impossibile. It was aiming to create a different kind of event: a party that is free of the limitations of a social cirlce and trends; a place where people come to discover new music from faraway lands and meet people they never thought they have anything in common.
We were going to have our first event in March 2020 in Milan, and I think you know why we couldn’t. The project was discontinued under the many external ans internal tensions – but I still like those few things I wrote for them.
Below the texts as they were posted on social media and used for ads (in Italian) and their translation in English.
You see, in the beginning there was a word. And the word sounded, sang, throbbing, beating with wild rythms, reverberating through the empty universe. The word had no language, no voice, no race, no class, it didn’t even have a meaning – apart from a primary, fierce joy to be alive.
From the drums around primal bonfires to to the electric beats of a metropolis, this rhythm flows through each and everyone of us. No matter the walls we build, images we create, rules we make up, goals we set. It’s right there, under your skin, as unreasonable and unstoppable as happiness, beating through as you dance alone in the kitchen.
And it’s time to respond its call.
This is how we walk out of this – knowing that nothing is for certain; that orders fall and empires crumble; that the race we are running in can change direction overnight.
This is how we proceed – walking gently on the ground that never stops turning; knowing that the wind, the sun, and the friend’s shoulder close to yours are not a given, but a luxury.
This is how we advance – getting comfortable being turned upside down; learning what (and who) is essential to our happiness; finding quiet in the storm, joy in stillness, love and care – for our closest friends and perfect strangers alike. Wondering – if anything can change, why even bother with the rules?
Because the only thing we can really have is is that beat, that call inside. And the music. And each other.
I’ve had this idea for a while, and than I listened to that passage of “4-hour workweek” bwhere Tim Ferris tells about his experiments of outsourcing literally everything, from work to visits to therapist and the worries itself.
There’s a thing about worries: no matter how torturing and even nonsense they are, many people actually wouldn’t willingly give them away. Worrying gives us a sense of control, makes us feeling that we have all the dangers in check by thinking about them constantly, and dismounting this vigilance system would take time and effort.
I wanted to make something simple instead.
So I called my dad, who is a developer and UX specialist, and pitched the idea. Together we made an automatic service that babysits your worries while you are away focusing on the important stuff, and delivers them safe and well-fed back to your inbox afterwards.
As I’m a bit of a privacy freak, and GDPR watches us all anyway, the website doesn’t store ANY of the user data, safe from generic, non-identifying analytics.
I consider it an experimental art project dressed as a service design project, but I think it should become a paid service, you know, to fully convey my artistic idea to the masses.
I read a lot about media echo chambers, survivorship bias and other cognitive distortions. Looks like people can only take in account what is the most visible, and overlook the giant load of things they don’t see, know or understand. I wondered if there’s a way to draw people’s attention to Emptiness.
This was a group work for an architect contest called “120 Hours” (because it lasts for just 120 hours) in 2015, that got a honorable mention. The topic was an abandoned town in a breathtaking location on Norway’s shore, and the challenge was: how do we preserve it, and how can we rethink architectural preservation as a whole?