editorial POP GOES THE EASEL. The POPDAM adventure goes on! We are ready to show you our stuff because you sent us yours. We were so happy that you enjoyed the last edition of Popdam as much as we loved finding the newest most interesting work to showcase in it. The latest POPDAM has a new section dedicated to sport. We have added sport as we believe in life, energy and we find sport not only physical but accomplishes an important mission to educate people of all ages to live on through a complex issues by looking to higher life goals. Enjoy the ride and feel free to join our eclectic, pulsating fizz. Send us your work. P. S. If you are interested to get a printed copy of POPDAM Magazine, contact us.
POPDAM Magazine Viale Pasubio 12 20154 Milano
Editor Daniela Iraci
Art Director Veronica Pirazzini
e-mail firstname.lastname@example.org web www.popdam.org
ETICHETTA by Andrea Ballarini photoÂŠRosetta Gittu model Selim Redzepi
veva deciso di farla finita. Prese una risma di carta nuova, la stilografica e si sedette al suo posto preferito, sul divano, davanti al caminetto. Come cominciare? Caro? No, caro un corno. Ci voleva qualcosa di più incisivo, più sferzante. Ecco cosa ci voleva: un bel bicchiere di vino. Un buon vino l’avrebbe aiutata a trovare le parole. Scese in cantina e scelse una delle bottiglie che conservava per le grandi occasioni. Bè, questa lo era una grande occasione: di nuovo libera dopo dieci anni, era insindacabilmente una grande occasione. Stappò il Barolo di Mascarello del ‘90 con gesti opportuni ed esattissimi, ne versò un mezzo bicchiere, ne scrutò il colore, ne ammirò la limpidezza, ne annusò il profumo dopo averlo fatto ruotare come gli aveva insegnato lui, ché lei prima di conoscerlo era un’appassionata dell’Agricolo (mezzo bianchino, mezzo Campari), e infine lo gustò con supremo godimento. Rotondo, pieno, corposo, elegante, deciso, armonioso. Magnifico: dieci anni di invecchiamento gli avevano solo giovato. I matrimoni dovrebbero essere come il vino, il suo invece si era comportato come la CocaCola aperta dimenticata nel frigo. Bah! Lode a Bartolo Mascarello! Forse adesso sapeva come cominciare.
Sublime rompiballe, ti lascio. Dopo dieci anni mi sono rotta. Hai finito di ammorbarmi l’anima. Me ne vado. Trovati un’altra a cui sfelicitare la vita con quelle crisi da pazzo isterico. Addio. Infernizza l’esistenza a un’altra vittima. Torno da mia madre, che, fra l’altro, oltre a non avvelenarmi ogni giorno che Dio manda in terra, cucina anche meglio di te. Addio, sesquipedale stronzo.
Là. Quando ci vuole, ci vuole, pensò. Come questo maestoso Barolo. Se ne concesse un altro generoso sorso. Ambrosia. Rileggiamo un po’. Be’, d’accordo, lui è scarnante, però un buon divorzio deve durare tutta la vita: vale la pena di uscire di scena con classe; senza offendere. E poi sesquipedale no, mica lo sa cosa vuol dire. Magari una misura più contenuta, meno inacidita: educata.
Francesco, è giunto il momento di guardare in faccia la realtà: io e te siamo incompatibili…. Finì il bicchiere e continuò: è doloroso ammetterlo, ma è meglio così. Meglio che ci lasciamo ora per non distruggere almeno il ricordo di quello che fu il nostro meraviglioso amore. Perché lo fu, meraviglioso.
Si versò dell’altro vino, ma questa volta riempì il calice un po’ più di quanto avrebbe approvato il suo ormai futuro ex-marito. E chi se ne frega, si disse con un’alzata di spalle. Però, scritto in questo modo suona come un rimpianto. No, ci vuole un tono dolente ma fermo; il tono della donna cosciente di andare a straziarsi le budella, ma che ciononostante è determinata a fare fino in fondo ciò che va fatto.
Caro Francesco, non siamo stati capaci. L’amore è finito ma dirselo è duro.
Sì, ma così sembra un verso dei Pooh. Oh, Muse venitemi in aiuto! E buttò giù un’altra sorsata. Un po’ da camionista quel modo di bere, ma vuoi mettere la soddisfazione? Da capo, da capo. Bisogna esprimere dolore, ma con dignità. Contemporaneamente, però, deve essere chiaro che la decisione è irrevocabile.
Caro Francesco, è con il cuore straziato che ti svelo i più intimi recessi del mio animo. Abbiamo percorso un lungo tratto di strada insieme nel corso di quell ’estenuante approssimazione per difetto che è la vita, ma da troppo tempo i nostri percorsi hanno divertito… Divertito? Diverso. Diverto? Ma come caspita è il participio passato? L’italiano è veramente una lingua infida. E consacrò l’amara riflessione con un ulteriore tributo a Bacco.
…i nostri percorsi hanno preso a divergere fino a scorrere in vallate separate da invalicabili catene montuose. Possiamo continuare a recitare questo copione ormai consunto? No. No. No. Certo che no. Fa schifo e non si capisce un’ostrega! Un’orgia di metafore sbilenche. Altro che sassi che il mare ha consumato le mie parole d’amore per te, qui siamo più dalle parti di Nek. Però, che corpo ‘sto Barolo! No. Meglio essere freddi, a costo di risultare impersonali, ma inequivocabili.
Gentile Francesco, facendo seguito alle nostre recenti conversazioni telefoniche, questa mia per dirti che a partire da oggi la relazione intercorsa tra noi è giunta a scadenza. Pertanto ne consegue che in data odierna…
Disgustoso. Con costernazione si accorse che era arrivata al fondo della bottiglia e si alzò per andarla a gettare nel bidone della spazzatura. Alla faccia della raccolta differenziata del vetro! Quel vino andava giù come l’acqua. Con quello che l’aveva pagato era il minimo. Chissà perché del vino buono si dice che va giù
come l’acqua? Forse perché la gente non è mai contenta di quello che ha. Sì, deve essere così e lo si capisce anche da come parla: guarda me, lui mi portava a casa le rose e per fargli capire che mi erano piaciute gli dicevo “Che belle, sembrano finte.” Invece, al cimitero, quando lui portava le margherite di seta sulla tomba di sua madre diceva “Che belle, sembrano vere.” Non eravamo mai contenti perché ci mancavano le parole per esserlo, rifletteva, mentre in cantina spiccava dalla rastrelliera un’altra bottiglia di riguardo. Anzi, altre due bottiglie, perché insieme allo Chablis Gran Cru di Drouhin, Les Preuses del ’90 prese anche un bel Brunello Biondi Santi del ‘98, caso mai la lettera andasse per le lunghe. Francesco rientrò molto tardi dal ristorante. Nell’aria un’odore strano, un misto di legna e carta bruciata: il caminetto non tirava più bene, bisognava farlo pulire. Poi la vide. Addormentata sul divano: una gamba abbandonata sulla moquette, la testa su un bracciolo, bocca aperta, stilografica nella mano destra. Sul tavolino davanti a lei un foglio, un pacco smezzato di extra-strong, un calice riverso. Abbandonata sul pavimento una bottiglia di Chablis quasi vuota. Lesse l’etichetta: grande produttore, grande annata, grande scelta. Poi lesse anche le due righe scritte sul foglio.
Caro Francesco, stiamo insieme da dieci anni e…
Un’ondata di tenerezza lo travolse. Il loro decimo anniversario: sì, l’evento meritava quel vino. Per quanto, lui avrebbe preferito un Mascarello del ‘90. Però, che tenera: mi stava scrivendo una lettera. Che cara. Come potrò mai dirle che non l’amo più senza offenderla? Forse è perché è una scrittrice che non troverò mai le parole giuste, si disse. Si versò quel che restava dello Chablis Gran Cru di Drouhin, Les Preuses del ‘90. Prosit.
OLO EXHIBITION by Gu Zheng - www.ofoto-gallery.com publications The World History of Nude Photography - No Truth Behind All Truth: The Practices of 20th Century Modern Photography Expression of the City: 20th Century Urban Photography - A world history of photography
THROUGH THE WINDOW direction & editing Michel Vandelli photo & lighting Mario Mattioli actress Melanie Moir - www.joymodels.com styling Sabrina Querci hair & make-up Isabella Sabbioni thanks to Elio Ferarro Gallery/Store - www.elioferraro.com
BEFORE LVIS photo©André Luetzen - www.andreluetzen.de
...THERE WAS NOTHING
When asked for his opinion on music and culture in America, John Lennon replied, â€œBefore Elvis there was nothing.â€?
Fifty years after Robert Frank’s photo book “The Americans” and Jack Kerouac’s novel “On the Road”, both books that upturned the then prevailing image of America, I set off on my own odyssey through everyday life in America.
I was interested in the country and its people at the end of the Bush era. My intention wasn’t to copy Robert Frank or simulate his path through the States. I wanted to make my own entirely personal, contemporary and polarizing account just as Frank did in the 1950s. A road movie in pictures, alive with atmosphere and movement. Images playing with existing clichés, highlighting the ordinary and abstracting the American dream. Rather than seeking out the big cities to probe the current mood of the American people, my loosely charted journey was staged in between the intellectual and cultural centres of the coastal cities – through small unremarkable places in Nevada, California, Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Louisiana and Mississippi. 28
Local events like Â rodeos, powwows, or the Memorial Day gave me opportunities to become immersed in everyday life. What I encountered were scenarios that surprised me, from a country which felt familiar yet was peculiarly alien.
â€œIs this really the Mississippi and not perhaps the Congo or the Mekong? Unexpected exoticism. This here has nothing in common with the country I thought I knew so well from Hollywood movies.â€?
WITH ANE photoÂŠDaniele Tamagni - www.photodantam.com stylist Susan Susceptible make up and hair Marianna Falci model Jane Baldwin - www.beatricemodels.it
MEXICO CITY photoÂŠAlmerina Colzada e.mail email@example.com
BLACK SHAPES photoÂŠDaniela Iraci - www.danielairaci.com stylist Linda Loef - www.lindaloef.nl hair and make up Isabella Sabbioni - www.freelancer.it model Alina Preiss and Heidi Dyck - www.mpmanagement.com
Shoes by Cinzia Araia at G.A.R.B.O. Knee-guard by PLANO
Tanktop by Tuscia at G.A.R.B.O. Trousers by dMajuscule at And Studio Shoes by Cinzia Araia at G.A.R.B.O.
Trousers and top by Liviani Conti at Domingo Communication Papillon by Cor Sine Labe Doli at G.A.R.B.O. Shoes by Paul Smith
Cardigan by Babbu at G.A.R.B.O.
Dress by Vanet at G.A.R.B.O.
Trousers and top by Liviani Conti at Domingo Communication Papillon by Cor Sine Labe Doli at G.A.R.B.O. Shoes by Paul Smith
Skirt by Paul Smith
Jumpsuit by Liviani Conti at Domingo Communication Hat by Melegari Shoes by Cinzia Araia at G.A.R.B.O. 61
Cape by Guardaroba at And Studio Shoes by Pedro Garcia
Hat by Borsalino Dress by Tuscia at G.A.R.B.O. Shoes by Cinzia Araia at G.A.R.B.O.
IL CAIRO photoÂŠMario Mattioli - www.mariomattioli.com
LIFE IN A WALL: RED photoÂŠDario Piacentini - www.dariopiacentini.net
IL TRIANGOLO D’ORO photo©Fabio Gianbrocono
Siamo nel 1980. Allora avevo circa 20 anni. Con una ragazza alta e bionda decidiamo di avventurarci in Thailandia, allora appena toccata dal turismo di massa.
Arriviamo fino alla città di Chiang Rai . Siamo gli unici turisti. Purtroppo in questa città non esistono ancora alberghi. Esiste solo un hotel in costruzione che si chiama Wiang Inn. Due stanze a piano terra sono fruibili. Questo cantiere sarà la nostra base per visitare il Triangolo d’Oro. In albergo ci dicono che, per prima cosa, dobbiamo procurarci una guida con un fuoristrada che ci possa far entrare nei villaggi. Il fuoristrada è un pick up sgangherato, la guida è un ragazzino della tribù Karen. Le tribù sono sostanzialmente tre: gli H’mong chiamati anche con disprezzo Meo… i Karen ed i Lisu. Seppur in modi diversi tutte e tre le tribù si dedicano alla produzione dell’oppio. Coltivano i papaveri da oppio e ottengono una sostanza collosa che è la brown paste, alla base della catena di raffinazione. La vendita è a un intermediario obbligato. Questi intermediari sono i reduci sbandati dell’esercito di Chiang Kai-Sheck.
Vengono considerati una tribù essi stessi chiamata Kuomintang. Questo non è altro che il nome dell’esercito cinese nazionalista sconfitto da Mao Tse Thung all’alba della rivoluzione cinese. Molti di questi militari si sono insediati in Thailandia e non si mescolano con popolazioni locali. Il commercio dell’oppio è diretto verso la Cina a dorso di mulo. Da qui se ne perdono le tracce. Solo i militari di Chiang KaiSheck possono trasportare questo oppio verso la Cina. Hanno un loro villaggio, che chiediamo di andare a visitare. Nei villaggi tribali troviamo sostanzialmente vecchi e bambini. Resto colpito dagli anziani o meglio dalle donne anziane che hanno un’età indefinita. Le rughe solcano i loro volti ed immancabile una pipa viene portata alla bocca. Mi ricordano la mamma di “Braccio di Ferro”. In questi villaggi solo i vecchi fumano l’oppio. Fumare oppio per un giovane è follia. L’oppio è un conforto per chi non ha più nulla da dare, una specie di ospizio...
Cercano di venderci le loro cose. Scegliamo delle gonnellone a ruota ricamate con i colori del clan che sono stese su dei fili ad asciugare. Subito una ragazza giovane si materializza cercando di venderci una pipa da oppio in stile cinese. Le case sono rialzate dal terreno come palafitte e sotto, all’ombra, dormono grossi maiali. Questi contribuiscono al riscaldamento delle abitazioni. Ogni donna è armata di un lungo coltello, probabilmente per raccogliere oppio. I Karen sono più dedicati alla tessitura mentre i H’mong fabbricano cappellini con appese mille monetine. Una nostra giacca a vento leggera dei Giants di New York viene subito indicata da tutti come oggetto di desiderio. La barattiamo con due cappellini e dobbiamo aggiungere qualche soldino. Qui iniziamo a vedere gli uomini che, con una gerla in spalla, portano
l’oppio verso il villaggio dei Nazionalisti cinesi. L’oppio è coperto da foglie, probabilmente di banano, con le quali fanno dei grossi rotoli. Sono tutti diretti verso il villaggio dei militari e noi proviamo a seguire una carovana ….ci chiedono per favore di non fotografarla ….arriviamo nel villaggio dei militari ……e qui tutto cambia. Gli uomini giovani sono molti e ancora in divisa (dell’esercito cinese regolare). Portano i gradi…. ai piedi dei grossi anfibi che molto presto si stampano con violenza sul mio sedere mentre la mia compagna viene strattonata finendo nel fango. Scattiamo uno o due foto di straforo, nessuna possibilità di entrare nel villaggio …soltanto la guida rimane indenne dalle “cortesie” dei militari sbandati. Evidentemente nessuno vuole macchine fotografiche laddove si carica oppio. Dopo una paura terribile, ci sentiamo un pò sperduti così giovani e lontani da casa.
Le emozioni sono molto forti e ci rendiamo conto di vivere un mondo molto distante da noi. I bambini corrono seminudi dove i maiali hanno pascolato poco prima e una bella ragazza, poco più che adolescente, ci onora con una civettuola ruota della gonna, orgogliosissima dei suoi colori “sociali”. Non sappiamo come comportarci con queste persone che ci guardano con più curiosità di quanta noi ne dedichiamo a loro. Le differenze tra le tribù sono decisamente culturali. Qualcuno originariamente filava mentre altri erano degli allevatori ma adesso, la coltivazione e la “cultura” dell’oppio hanno reso tutti uguali. Non c’è nessun prodotto orticolo che possa essere paragonato al papavero quanto a resa. Le tribù sono pacifiche ma solo apparentemente.
La sera ci attende un ristorante particolare …. una terrazza galleggiante sul fiume Mae Kong, la piattaforma è incoronata da 1000 candeline… l’elettricità è solo in città. Arriviamo dopo un’ora circa di viaggio su di un calesse trainato da un bue …..La ricordo come la cena più romantica della mia vita, cucinata interamente sui carboni. Paghiamo l’equivalente di 600 lire . Scattiamo una foto con i proprietari. Circa 25 anni dopo, mio padre dietro mio consiglio, si reca allo stesso ristorante-parcheggio in mezzo a 100 pullman pieni di turisti. Mangia molto male ma, esibita la nostra foto scattata 25 anni prima, tutto il suo tavolo non paga il conto. I gestori ci riconoscono come la prima coppia di “stranieri” che ha dato inizio alla loro fortuna turistica. 94
THE CELLO SUITES
by Eric Siblin - www.ericsiblin.com
t was a leisurely stroll through the streets of Barcelona, past the heroic monuments and ﬂower stalls, the Gothic arches and fashionable cafés, that rescued the world’s greatest cello music from obscurity. To imagine the scene, which took place one afternoon sometime in 1890, we have to picture Pablo Casals and his father walking along the Ramblas, the city’s most celebrated avenue, shaded by plane trees, lined with neoclassical mansions, and teeming with markets selling fresh ﬂowers, local produce, and birds in cages. At thirteen, Pablo was small for his age, shorter even than the cello he was carrying, with close-cropped black hair, searching blue eyes, and a serious expression out of synch with his youth. His father, visiting from Vendrell, had a few hours to spend with the young cellist who was making a name for himself in the big city — they called him , “the kid.” Pablo, who preferred his Catalan name of Pau, was working seven nights a week in a trio at the Café Tost, which was well known for its coffee and thick hot chocolate beverages. Earlier in the day Carlos had bought Pablo his ﬁrst adult-sized cello, and the two had their eyes open for sheet music the boy could use for his café concerts. They strolled in the vicinity of the Columbus monument, towering sixty-two metres above the eight bronze lions at its base. It was a ﬁercely proud Columbus, the world’s highest, clutching a parchment in one hand and pointing to the Mediterranean with the other, as if suggesting future discoveries. At some point Pablo and his father would have left the singing birds of the Ramblas and entered the tangle of narrow, twisting streets near the waterfront. Ironwork balconies were draped with laundry and ﬂowers. The occasional stone gargoyle screamed mutely. There was a faint smell of the sea.
Father and son made their way through the cramped streets to one second-hand store after another, rummaging for cello music. On Carrer Ample they went into another music shop. As they rustled through the musty bundles of sheet music, some Beethoven cello sonatas were located. But what’s this? A tobacco-coloured cover page inscribed with fanciful black lettering: . Was this what it appeared to be? The immortal Bach composed music for cello alone? Pesetas were paid for the sheet music. Pablo could not unglue his eyes from the pages, beginning with the ﬁrst movement, the prelude to everything. He glided home through the twisting streets to the rhythm of a music that was taking shape in his imagination, the sensual mathematics of the score ﬁlling him from footsteps to ﬁngertips. He would have heard the ﬁrst prelude as an opening statement, improvisatory, like a leisurely stroll that ends serendipitously. The ground is prepared for all that follows: structure, character, narrative. The comfortable pulse undulates into more intricate passages. The baritone soliloquy grows in intensity, solidifying, gathering strength, ascending a great height where a vast panorama reveals itself. The stakes are raised. Struggle is pressed into service. In time, a satisfying denouement. Pablo looked again at the score. He would practise it every day for twelve years before mustering the courage to play the suites in public. [...]
Six Sonates ou Suites pour Violoncelle Seul by Johann Sebastian Bach
The Cello Suites:
From J.S. Bach, Pablo Casals, and the Search for a Baroque Masterpiece Reprinted by permission of House of Anansi Press 101
Lâ€™OPRA AL NERO by Alma Carrara - www.qwertyadv.com
Sei invitato a venire a vedere quanto sono invisibili le donne italiane.
BESPOKE ARCHITECTURE by Paul Cha - www.paulchaarchitect.com
Paul Cha Architect envisions architecture as the spatial framework for domestic lifestyles, as well as public interactions. His work achieves the serene spatial sensibilities of Zen with attention to precise detailing and craftsmanship. Using architectural components in their simplest and purest forms, Paul Cha Architect creates timeless sophisticated spaces where it is possible to enjoy form, texture, proportion, color, light and tranquility.
MAD HOUSE photoÂŠBoris Ovini - www.auraphotoagency.com stylist Ines Fendri hair and make up Aude Durocher model Mara Zampariolo
hats, belts, bows, necklaces by lookbook Baptiste Viry S S 2010 pants and tank top vintage 121
“Una piccola matrioska di legno per i Bambini di Cernobyl”
Photo©MDA Studio Fotografia Laboratorio di Ricerca - Prof. Pier Luigi Buglioni@Accademia di Brera di Milano
Carlo Alessandrelli 123
Simona Robbiani 125
NiccolĂ˛ Casati 127
Daniele Bragnolo 129
Marta Bocenti 131
VE’S DIARY by Mark Twain
SATURDAY I am almost a whole day old, now. I arrived yesterday. That is as it seems to me. And it must be so, for if there was a day-before-yesterday I was not there when it happened, or I should remember it. It could be, of course, that it did happen, and that I was not noticing. Very well; I will be very watchful now, and if any day-before-yesterdays happen I will make a note of it. It will be best to start right and not let the record get confused, for some instinct tells me that these details are going to be important to the historian some day. For I feel like an experiment, I feel exactly like an experiment; it would be impossible for a person to feel more like an experiment than I do, and so I am coming to feel convinced that that is what I AM an experiment; just an experiment, and nothing more. Then if I am an experiment, am I the whole of it? No, I think not; I think the rest of it is part of it. I am the main part of it, but I think the rest of it has its share in the matter. Is my position assured, or do I have to watch it and take care of it? The latter, perhaps. Some instinct tells me that eternal vigilance is the price of supremacy. (That is a good phrase, I think, for one so young). Everything looks better today than it did yesterday. In the rush of finishing up yesterday, the mountains were left in a ragged condition, and some of the plains were so cluttered with rubbish and remnants that the aspects were quite distressing. Noble and beautiful works of art should not be subjected to haste; and this majestic new world is indeed a most noble and beautiful work. And certainly marvelously near to being perfect, notwithstanding the shortness of the time. There are too many stars in some places and not enough in others, but that can be remedied presently, no doubt. The moon got loose last night, and slid down and fell out of the scheme -a very great loss; it breaks my heart to think of it. There isn’t another thing among the ornaments and decorations that is comparable to it for beauty and finish. It should have been fastened better. If we can only get it back again- But of course there is no telling where it went to. And besides, whoever gets it will hide it; I know it because I would do it myself. I believe I can be honest in all other matters, but I already begin to realize that the core and center of my nature is love of the beautiful, a passion for the beautiful, and that it would not be safe to trust me with a moon that belonged to another person and that person didn’t know I had it. I could give up a moon that I found in the daytime, because I should be afraid some one was looking; but if I found it in the dark, I am sure I should find some kind of an excuse for not saying anything about it. For I do love moons, they are so pretty and so romantic. I wish we had five or six; I would never go to bed; I should never get tired lying on the moss-bank and looking up at them. Stars are good, too. I wish I could get some to put in my hair. But I suppose I never can. You would be surprised to
find how far off they are, for they do not look it. When they first showed, last night, I tried to knock some down with a pole, but it didn’t reach, which astonished me; then I tried clods till I was all tired out, but I never got one. It was because I am left-handed and cannot throw good. Even when I aimed at the one I wasn’t after I couldn’t hit the other one, though I did make some close shots, for I saw the black blot of the clod sail right into the midst of the golden clusters forty or fifty times, just barely missing them, and if I could have held out a little longer maybe I could have got one. So I cried a little, which was natural, I suppose, for one of my age, and after I was rested I got a basket and started for a place on the extreme rim of the circle, where the stars were close to the ground and I could get them with my hands, which would be better, anyway, because I could gather them tenderly then, and not break them. But it was farther than I thought, and at last I had go give it up; I was so tired I couldn’t drag my feet another step; and besides, they were sore and hurt me very much. I couldn’t get back home; it was too far and turning cold; but I found some tigers and nestled in among them and was most adorably comfortable, and their breath was sweet and pleasant, because they live on strawberries. I had never seen a tiger before, but I knew them in a minute by the stripes. If I could have one of those skins, it would make a lovely gown.Today I am getting better ideas about distances. I was so eager to get hold of every pretty thing that I giddily grabbed for it, sometimes when it was too far off, and sometimes when it was but six inches away but seemed a foot-alas, with thorns between! I learned a lesson; also I made an axiom, all out of my own head -my very first one; THE SCRATCHED EXPERIMENT SHUNS THE THORN. I think it is a very good one for one so young. I followed the other Experiment around, yesterday afternoon, at a distance, to see what it might be for, if I could. But I was not able to make out. I think it is a man. I had never seen a man, but it looked like one, and I feel sure that that is what it is. I realize that I feel more curiosity about it than about any of the other reptiles. If it is a reptile, and I suppose it is; for it has frowzy hair and blue eyes, and looks like a reptile. It has no hips; it tapers like a carrot; when it stands, it spreads itself apart like a derrick; so I think it is a reptile, though it may be architecture. I was afraid of it at first, and started to run every time it turned around, for I thought it was going to chase me; but by and by I found it was only trying to get away, so after that I was not timid any more, but tracked it along, several hours, about twenty yards behind, which made it nervous and unhappy. At last it was a good deal worried, and climbed a tree. I waited a good while, then gave it up and went home. Today the same thing over. I’ve got it up the tree again. 133
SUNDAY. It is up there yet. Resting, apparently. But that is a subterfuge: Sunday isn’t the day of rest; Saturday is appointed for that. It looks to me like a creature that is more interested in resting than it anything else. It would tire me to rest so much. It tires me just to sit around and watch the tree. I do wonder what it is for; I never see it do anything. They returned the moon last night, and I was SO happy! I think it is very honest of them. It slid down and fell off again, but I was not distressed; there is no need to worry when one has that kind of neighbors; they will fetch it back. I wish I could do something to show my appreciation. I would like to send them some stars, for we have more than we can use. I mean I, not we, for I can see that the reptile cares nothing for such things. It has low tastes, and is not kind. When I went there yesterday evening in the gloaming it had crept down and was trying to catch the little speckled fishes that play in the pool, and I had to clod it to make it go up the tree again and let them alone. I wonder if THAT is what it is for? Hasn’t it any heart? Hasn’t it any compassion for those little creature? Can it be that it was designed and manufactured for such ungentle work? It has the look of it. One of the clods took it back of the ear, and it used language. It gave me a thrill, for it was the first time I had ever heard speech, except my own. I did not understand the words, but they seemed expressive. When I found it could talk I felt a new interest in it, for I love to talk; I talk, all day, and in my sleep, too, and I am very interesting, but if I had another to talk to I could be twice as interesting, and would never stop, if desired. If this reptile is a man, it isn’t an IT, is it? That wouldn’t be grammatical, would it? I think it would be HE. I think so. In that case one would parse it thus: nominative, HE; dative, HIM; possessive, HIS’N. Well, I will consider it a man and call it he until it turns out to be something else. This will be handier than having so many uncertainties. NEXT WEEK SUNDAY. All the week I tagged around after him and tried to get acquainted. I had to do the talking, because he was shy, but I didn’t mind it. He seemed pleased to have me around, and I used the sociable “we” a good deal, because it seemed to flatter him to be included. WEDNESDAY. We are getting along very well indeed, now, and getting better and better acquainted. He does not try to avoid me any more, which is a good sign, and shows that he likes to have me with him. That pleases me, and I study to be useful to him in every way I can, so as to increase his regard. During the last day
or two I have taken all the work of naming things off his hands, and this has been a great relief to him, for he has no gift in that line, and is evidently very grateful. He can’t think of a rational name to save him, but I do not let him see that I am aware of his defect. Whenever a new creature comes along I name it before he has time to expose himself by an awkward silence. In this way I have saved him many embarrassments. I have no defect like this. The minute I set eyes on an animal I know what it is. I don’t have to reflect a moment; the right name comes out instantly, just as if it were an inspiration, as no doubt it is, for I am sure it wasn’t in me half a minute before. I seem to know just by the shape of the creature and the way it acts what animal it is. When the dodo came along he thought it was a wildcat-I saw it in his eye. But I saved him. And I was careful not to do it in a way that could hurt his pride. I just spoke up in a quite natural way of pleasing surprise, and not as if I was dreaming of conveying information, and said, “Well, I do declare, if there isn’t the dodo!” I explained-without seeming to be explaining -how I know it for a dodo, and although I thought maybe he was a little piqued that I knew the creature when he didn’t, it was quite evident that he admired me. That was very agreeable, and I thought of it more than once with gratification before I slept. How little a thing can make us happy when we feel that we have earned it! THURSDAY. My first sorrow. Yesterday he avoided me and seemed to wish I would not talk to him. I could not believe it, and thought there was some mistake, for I loved to be with him, and loved to hear him talk, and so how could it be that he could feel unkind toward me when I had not done anything? But at last it seemed true, so I went away and sat lonely in the place where I first saw him the morning that we were made and I did not know what he was and was indifferent about him; but now it was a mournful place, and every little think spoke of him, and my heart was very sore. I did not know why very clearly, for it was a new feeling; I had not experienced it before, and it was all a mystery, and I could not make it out. But when night came I could not bear the lonesomeness, and went to the new shelter which he has built, to ask him what I had done that was wrong and how I could mend it and get back his kindness again; but he put me out in the rain, and it was my first sorrow. SUNDAY. It is pleasant again, now, and I am happy; but those were heavy days; I do not think of them when I can help it. 134 I tried to get him some of those apples, but I cannot learn to throw straight. I
failed, but I think the good intention pleased him. They are forbidden, and he says I shall come to harm; but so I come to harm through pleasing him, why shall I care for that harm? MONDAY. This morning I told him my name, hoping it would interest him. But he did not care for it. It is strange. If he should tell me his name, I would care. I think it would be pleasanter in my ears than any other sound. He talks very little. Perhaps it is because he is not bright, and is sensitive about it and wishes to conceal it. It is such a pity that he should feel so, for brightness is nothing; it is in the heart that the values lie. I wish I could make him understand that a loving good heart is riches, and riches enough, and that without it intellect is poverty. Although he talks so little, he has quite a considerable vocabulary. This morning he used a surprisingly good word. He evidently recognized, himself, that it was a good one, for he worked in in twice afterward, casually. It was good casual art, still it showed that he possesses a certain quality of perception. Without a doubt that seed can be made to grow, if cultivated. Where did he get that word? I do not think I have ever used it. No, he took no interest in my name. I tried to hide my disappointment, but I suppose I did not succeed. I went away and sat on the moss-bank with my feet in the water. It is where I go when I hunger for companionship, some one to look at, some one to talk to. It is not enough-that lovely white body painted there in the pool -but it is something, and something is better than utter loneliness. It talks when I talk; it is sad when I am sad; it comforts me with its sympathy; it says, “Do not be downhearted, you poor friendless girl; I will be your friend.” It IS a good friend to me, and my only one; it is my sister. That first time that she forsook me! ah, I shall never forget that -never, never. My heart was lead in my body! I said, “She was all I had, and now she is gone!” In my despair I said, “Break, my heart; I cannot bear my life any more!” and hid my face in my hands, and there was no solace for me. And when I took them away, after a little, there she was again, white and shining and beautiful, and I sprang into her arms! That was perfect happiness; I had known happiness before, but it was not like this, which was ecstasy. I never doubted her afterward. Sometimes she stayed away-maybe an hour, maybe almost the whole day, but I waited and did not doubt; I said, “She is busy, or she is gone on a journey, but she will come.” And it was so: she always did. At night she would not come if it was dark, for she was a timid little thing; but if there was a moon she would come. I am not afraid of the
dark, but she is younger than I am; she was born after I was. Many and many are the visits I have paid her; she is my comfort and my refuge when my life is hard-and it is mainly that. TUESDAY All the morning I was at work improving the estate; and I purposely kept away from him in the hope that he would get lonely and come. But he did not. At noon I stopped for the day and took my recreation by flitting all about with the bees and the butterflies and reveling in the flowers, those beautiful creatures that catch the smile of God out of the sky and preserve it! I gathered them, and made them into wreaths and garlands and clothed myself in them while I ate my luncheon -apples, of course; then I sat in the shade and wished and waited. But he did not come. But no matter. Nothing would have come of it, for he does not care for flowers. He called them rubbish, and cannot tell one from another, and thinks it is superior to feel like that. He does not care for me, he does not care for flowers, he does not care for the painted sky at eventide-is there anything he does care for, except building shacks to coop himself up in from the good clean rain, and thumping the melons, and sampling the grapes, and fingering the fruit on the trees, to see how those properties are coming along? I laid a dry stick on the ground and tried to bore a hole in it with another one, in order to carry out a scheme that I had, and soon I got an awful fright. A thin, transparent bluish film rose out of the hole, and I dropped everything and ran! I thought it was a spirit, and I WAS so frightened! But I looked back, and it was not coming; so I leaned against a rock and rested and panted, and let my limps go on trembling until they got steady again; then I crept warily back, alert, watching, and ready to fly if there was occasion; and when I was come near, I parted the branches of a rose-bush and peeped through-wishing the man was about, I was looking so cunning and pretty-but the sprite was gone. I went there, and there was a pinch of delicate pink dust in the hole. I put my finger in, to feel it, and said OUCH! and took it out again. It was a cruel pain. I put my finger in my mouth; and by standing first on one foot and then the other, and grunting, I presently eased my misery; then I was full of interest, and began to examine. I was curious to know what the pink dust was. Suddenly the name of it occurred to me, though I had never heard of it before. It was FIRE! I was as certain of it as a person could be of anything in the world. So without hesitation I named it that-fire. I had created something that didn’t exist before; I had added a new thing to the world’s uncountable properties; I realized this, and was proud of my achievement, and was going to run and find him and tell him about it, thinking to raise myself in his esteem -but I reflected, and did not do it. No-he would not care for it. He would
ask what it was good for, and what could I answer? for if it was not GOOD for something, but only beautiful, merely beautiful- So I sighed, and did not go. For it wasn’t good for anything; it could not build a shack, it could not improve melons, it could not hurry a fruit crop; it was useless, it was a foolishness and a vanity; he would despise it and say cutting words. But to me it was not despicable; I said, “Oh, you fire, I love you, you dainty pink creature, for you are BEAUTIFUL-and that is enough!” and was going to gather it to my breast. But refrained. Then I made another maxim out of my head, though it was so nearly like the first one that I was afraid it was only a plagiarism: “THE BURNT EXPERIMENT SHUNS THE FIRE.” I wrought again; and when I had made a good deal of fire-dust I emptied it into a handful of dry brown grass, intending to carry it home and keep it always and play with it; but the wind struck it and it sprayed up and spat out at me fiercely, and I dropped it and ran. When I looked back the blue spirit was towering up and stretching and rolling away like a cloud, and instantly I thought of the name of it SMOKE! - though, upon my word, I had never heard of smoke before. Soon brilliant yellow and red flares shot up through the smoke, and I named them in an instant - FLAMES - and I was right, too, though these were the very first flames that had ever been in the world. They climbed the trees, then flashed splendidly in and out of the vast and increasing volume of tumbling smoke, and I had to clap my hands and laugh and dance in my rapture, it was so new and strange and so wonderful and so beautiful! He came running, and stopped and gazed, and said not a word for many minutes. Then he asked what it was. Ah, it was too bad that he should ask such a direct question. I had to answer it, of course, and I did. I said it was fire. If it annoyed him that I should know and he must ask; that was not my fault; I had no desire to annoy him. After a pause he asked: “How did it come?” Another direct question, and it also had to have a direct answer. “I made it.” The fire was traveling farther and farther off. He went to the edge of the burned place and stood looking down, and said: “What are these?” “Fire-coals.” He picked up one to examine it, but changed his mind and put it down again. Then he went away. NOTHING interests him. But I was interested. There were ashes, gray and soft and delicate and pretty-I knew what they were at once. And the embers; I knew the embers, too. I found
my apples, and raked them out, and was glad; for I am very young and my appetite is active. But I was disappointed; they were all burst open and spoiled. Spoiled apparently; but it was not so; they were better than raw ones. Fire is beautiful; some day it will be useful, I think. FRIDAY I saw him again, for a moment, last Monday at nightfall, but only for a moment. I was hoping he would praise me for trying to improve the estate, for I had meant well and had worked hard. But he was not pleased, and turned away and left me. He was also displeased on another account: I tried once more to persuade him to stop going over the Falls. That was because the fire had revealed to me a new passion-quite new, and distinctly different from love, grief, and those others which I had already discovered-FEAR. And it is horrible!-I wish I had never discovered it; it gives me dark moments, it spoils my happiness, it makes me shiver and tremble and shudder. But I could not persuade him, for he has not discovered fear yet, and so he could not understand me. Extract from Adam’s Diary Perhaps I ought to remember that she is very young, a mere girl and make allowances. She is all interest, eagerness, vivacity, the world is to her a charm, a wonder, a mystery, a joy; she can’t speak for delight when she finds a new flower, she must pet it and caress it and smell it and talk to it, and pour out endearing names upon it. And she is color-mad: brown rocks, yellow sand, gray moss, green foliage, blue sky; the pearl of the dawn, the purple shadows on the mountains, the golden islands floating in crimson seas at sunset, the pallid moon sailing through the shredded cloud-rack, the star-jewels glittering in the wastes of space-none of them is of any practical value, so far as I can see, but because they have color and majesty, that is enough for her, and she loses her mind over them. If she could quiet down and keep still a couple minutes at a time, it would be a reposeful spectacle. In that case I think I could enjoy looking at her; indeed I am sure I could, for I am coming to realize that she is a quite remarkably comely creature -lithe, slender, trim, rounded, shapely, nimble, graceful; and once when she was standing marble-white and sun-drenched on a boulder, with her young head tilted back and her hand shading her eyes, watching the flight of a bird in the sky, I recognized that she was beautiful. MONDAY NOON If there is anything on the planet that she is not interested in it is not in my list. There are animals that I am indifferent to, but it is not so with her. She has no discrimination, she takes to all of them, she thinks they are all136 treasures, every new one is welcome.
When the mighty brontosaurus came striding into camp, she regarded it as an acquisition, I considered it a calamity; that is a good sample of the lack of harmony that prevails in our views of things. She wanted to domesticate it, I wanted to make it a present of the homestead and move out. She believed it could be tamed by kind treatment and would be a good pet; I said a pet twenty-one feet high and eighty-four feet long would be no proper thing to have about the place, because, even with the best intentions and without meaning any harm, it could sit down on the house and mash it, for any one could see by the look of its eye that it was absent-minded. Still, her heart was set upon having that monster, and she couldn’t give it up. She thought we could start a dairy with it, and wanted me to help milk it; but I wouldn’t; it was too risky. The sex wasn’t right, and we hadn’t any ladder anyway. Then she wanted to ride it, and look at the scenery. Thirty or forty feet of its tail was lying on the ground, like a fallen tree, and she thought she could climb it, but she was mistaken; when she got to the steep place it was too slick and down she came, and would have hurt herself but for me. Was she satisfied now? No. Nothing ever satisfies her but demonstration; untested theories are not in her line, and she won’t have them. It is the right spirit, I concede it; it attracts me; I feel the influence of it; if I were with her more I think I should take it up myself. Well, she had one theory remaining about this colossus: she thought that if we could tame it and make him friendly we could stand in the river and use him for a bridge. It turned out that he was already plenty tame enough-at least as far as she was concerned -so she tried her theory, but it failed: every time she got him properly placed in the river and went ashore to cross over him, he came out and followed her around like a pet mountain. Like the other animals. They all do that. FRIDAY Tuesday-Wednesday-Thursday-and today: all without seeing him. It is a long time to be alone; still, it is better to be alone than unwelcome. I HAD to have company-I was made for it, I think-so I made friends with the animals. They are just charming, and they have the kindest disposition and the politest ways; they never look sour, they never let you feel that you are intruding, they smile at you and wag their tail, if they’ve got one, and they are always ready for a romp or an excursion or anything you want to propose. I think they are perfect gentlemen. All these days we have had such good times, and it hasn’t been lonesome for me, ever. Lonesome! No, I should say not. Why, there’s always a swarm of them around -sometimes as much as four or five acres-you can’t count them; and when you stand on a rock in the midst and look out over the furry expanse it is so mottled and splashed and gay with color and frisking sheen and sun-flash, and so rippled
with stripes, that you might think it was a lake, only you know it isn’t; and there’s storms of sociable birds, and hurricanes of whirring wings; and when the sun strikes all that feathery commotion, you have a blazing up of all the colors you can think of, enough to put your eyes out. We have made long excursions, and I have seen a great deal of the world; almost all of it, I think; and so I am the first traveler, and the only one. When we are on the march, it is an imposing sight -there’s nothing like it anywhere. For comfort I ride a tiger or a leopard, because it is soft and has a round back that fits me, and because they are such pretty animals; but for long distance or for scenery I ride the elephant. He hoists me up with his trunk, but I can get off myself; when we are ready to camp, he sits and I slide down the back way. The birds and animals are all friendly to each other, and there are no disputes about anything. They all talk, and they all talk to me, but it must be a foreign language, for I cannot make out a word they say; yet they often understand me when I talk back, particularly the dog and the elephant. It makes me ashamed. It shows that they are brighter than I am, for I want to be the principal Experiment myself-and I intend to be, too. I have learned a number of things, and am educated, now, but I wasn’t at first. I was ignorant at first. At first it used to vex me because, with all my watching, I was never smart enough to be around when the water was running uphill; but now I do not mind it. I have experimented and experimented until now I know it never does run uphill, except in the dark. I know it does in the dark, because the pool never goes dry, which it would, of course, if the water didn’t come back in the night. It is best to prove things by actual experiment; then you KNOW; whereas if you depend on guessing and supposing and conjecturing, you never get educated. Some things you CAN’T find out; but you will never know you can’t by guessing and supposing: no, you have to be patient and go on experimenting until you find out that you can’t find out. And it is delightful to have it that way, it makes the world so interesting. If there wasn’t anything to find out, it would be dull. Even trying to find out and not finding out is just as interesting as trying to find out and finding out, and I don’t know but more so. The secret of the water was a treasure until I GOT it; then the excitement all went away, and I recognized a sense of loss. By experiment I know that wood swims, and dry leaves, and feathers, and plenty of other things; therefore by all that cumulative evidence you know that a rock will swim; but you have to put up with simply knowing it, for there isn’t any way to prove it-up to now. But I shall find a way-then THAT excitement will go. Such things make me sad; because by and by when I have found out everything there won’t be any more excitements, and I do love excitements so! The other night I couldn’t sleep
for thinking about it. At first I couldn’t make out what I was made for, but now I think it was to search out the secrets of this wonderful world and be happy and thank the Giver of it all for devising it. I think there are many things to learn yet-I hope so; and by economizing and not hurrying too fast I think they will last weeks and weeks. I hope so. When you cast up a feather it sails away on the air and goes out of sight; then you throw up a clod and it doesn’t. It comes down, every time. I have tried it and tried it, and it is always so. I wonder why it is? Of course it DOESN’T come down, but why should it SEEM to? I suppose it is an optical illusion. I mean, one of them is. I don’t know which one. It may be the feather, it may be the clod; I can’t prove which it is, I can only demonstrate that one or the other is a fake, and let a person take his choice. By watching, I know that the stars are not going to last. I have seen some of the best ones melt and run down the sky. Since one can melt, they can all melt; since they can all melt, they can all melt the same night. That sorrow will come-I know it. I mean to sit up every night and look at them as long as I can keep awake; and I will impress those sparkling fields on my memory, so that by and by when they are taken away I can by my fancy restore those lovely myriads to the black sky and make them sparkle again, and double them by the blur of my tears. After the Fall When I look back, the Garden is a dream to me. It was beautiful, surpassingly beautiful, enchantingly beautiful; and now it is lost, and I shall not see it any more. The Garden is lost, but I have found HIM, and am content. He loves me as well as he can; I love him with all the strength of my passionate nature, and this, I think, is proper to my youth and sex. If I ask myself why I love him, I find I do not know, and do not really much care to know; so I suppose that this kind of love is not a product of reasoning and statistics, like one’s love for other reptiles and animals. I think that this must be so. I love certain birds because of their song; but I do not love Adam on account of his singing-no, it is not that; the more he sings the more I do not get reconciled to it. Yet I ask him to sing, because I wish to learn to like everything he is interested in. I am sure I can learn, because at first I could not stand it, but now I can. It sours the milk, but it doesn’t matter; I can get used to that kind of milk. It is not on account of his brightness that I love him-no, it is not that. He is not to blame for his brightness, such as it is, for he did not make it himself; he is as God make him, and that is sufficient. There was a wise purpose in it, THAT I know. In time it will develop, though I think it will not be sudden; and besides, there is no hurry; he is well enough just as he is. It is not on account of his gracious and considerate ways and his delicacy that I
love him. No, he has lacks in this regard, but he is well enough just so, and is improving. It is not on account of his industry that I love him-no, it is not that. I think he has it in him, and I do not know why he conceals it from me. It is my only pain. Otherwise he is frank and open with me, now. I am sure he keeps nothing from me but this. It grieves me that he should have a secret from me, and sometimes it spoils my sleep, thinking of it, but I will put it out of my mind; it shall not trouble my happiness, which is otherwise full to overflowing. It is not on account of his education that I love him-no, it is not that. He is selfeducated, and does really know a multitude of things, but they are not so. It is not on account of his chivalry that I love him-no, it is not that. He told on me, but I do not blame him; it is a peculiarity of sex, I think, and he did not make his sex. Of course I would not have told on him, I would have perished first; but that is a peculiarity of sex, too, and I do not take credit for it, for I did not make my sex. Then why is it that I love him? MERELY BECAUSE HE IS MASCULINE, I think. At bottom he is good, and I love him for that, but I could love him without it. If he should beat me and abuse me, I should go on loving him. I know it. It is a matter of sex, I think. He is strong and handsome, and I love him for that, and I admire him and am proud of him, but I could love him without those qualities. He he were plain, I should love him; if he were a wreck, I should love him; and I would work for him, and slave over him, and pray for him, and watch by his bedside until I died. Yes, I think I love him merely because he is MINE and is MASCULINE. There is no other reason, I suppose. And so I think it is as I first said: that this kind of love is not a product of reasonings and statistics. It just COMES-none knows whence-and cannot explain itself. And doesn’t need to. It is what I think. But I am only a girl, the first that has examined this matter, and it may turn out that in my ignorance and inexperience I have not got it right. Forty Years Later It is my prayer, it is my longing, that we may pass from this life together-a longing which shall never perish from the earth, but shall have place in the heart of every wife that loves, until the end of time; and it shall be called by my name. But if one of us must go first, it is my prayer that it shall be I; for he is strong, I am weak, I am not so necessary to him as he is to me-life without him would not be life; now could I endure it? This prayer is also immortal, and will not cease from being offered up while my race continues. I am the first wife; and in the last wife I shall be repeated. At Eve’s Grave 138 ADAM: Wheresoever she was, THERE was Eden.
LOW COST LIFE
Photo©Carlo Bevilacqua - www.carlobevilacqua.com
Since about three years
I am engaged in a photographic research on the world of contemporary hermits. Gisbert Lippelt is the first I've met about three years ago. 141
Gisbert Lippelt Low Cost Life is unique photographic portrait of a former
German ship officer and the tale of his sustainable living in a cave at Filicudi, a small island in the middle of the Mediteranean sea.
This photo essay, already exhibited in various Festivals is part of a larger
project on the contemporary hermits, Into The Silence, which I have been working since about three years. Gisbert Lippelt is the first hermit, who I met, quite by accident.
years ago, Gisbert Lippelt decided to completely change his life and moved to Filicudi, a small island in the Aeolian Arcipelague near Sicily. In search of a sustainable and simple existence.
and art galleries. He eats only what grows wild isbert made his home in a cave on a top around him. Thus he has resolved the question of an hill, overlooking the see and making his of money and bills: the first isn’t needed because the second never arrive. dream of life in total accord with nature. Gisbert Lippelt, the “Cave Man,” is a German He’s become an expert in the archeology and history of the islands, knows hidden caves with former ship’s officer who fell in love with ancient instruments left from the old times, and Eolian Islands, located near Sicily, some 38 secret reservoirs of water. He knows forgotten years ago. He took an immediate decisionquit his job (second mate of a luxurious cruise paths which lead into the depth of a longlost past, further back than the Empire of the ship), gave away all his property to local peasants as a gesture of liberation, and began Caesars. The Eolian islands, in the meantime, have been a trip backwards into history, you might say “discovered” by executives from Rome and back to the future. Milan, whose villas dot (or rather mar) the He chose as his “professors” the oldest landscape. The standard of living has become peasants on the island and has determinedly high and most local peasants have forgotten studied their folk craft and ways of life. For a their roots. They live by tourism. Paradoxically, dwelling he has built a marvelous cave in the German Gisbert is the only knowledge keeper most beautiful part of the island, he lives by collecting rain water (there is no groundwater) of the rich, ancient peasant civilization of the place, where people once lived in harmony with and wood and herbs. Candle light and live nature. fire keep him company, beautifull view with Free adaption from a text of Lada Alekseychuk. numerous volcanoes substitute him theatre
THE HEROES photo©Daniela Iraci - www.danielairaci.com photo©Alessandro Lubisco press office Luciano Cotena - www.eventualmente.net music “Mandolini a Taormina” by Orchestra a Plettro di Taormina - Produzione e distribuzione FELICI8 - firstname.lastname@example.org thanks to Banco di Napoli - www.caprinapoli.com
SWIMMING FROM CAPRI TO NAPLES Capri, July 17th 2011
POOL TRAINING Naples, July 18th 2011
Capri, July 19th 2011
Capri 10.30 AM
Naples, the first arrival after 7 hours
www.paulsmith.co.uk www.vanet-collections.it www.domingocommunication.com www.corsinelabedoli.com www.dmajuscule.com www.andstudio.it www.nanni.it www.hm.com www.fiorentini-baker.com www.cappelleriamelegari.com www.ilovemodelsmanagement.com www.paulchaarchitect.com www.mariomattioli.com www.carlobevilacqua.com www.ericsiblin.com www.caprinapoli.com www.elioferraro.com www.baptisteviry.com www.accademiadibrera.milano.it
www.auraphotoagency.com www.andreluetzen.de www.photodantam.com www.beatricemodels.it www.ofoto-gallery.com www.dariopiacentini.net www.danielairaci.com www.lindaloef.nl www.freelancer.it www.mpmanagement.com www.borsalino.com www.pedrogarcia.com www.elioferraro.com www.joymodels.com www.qwertyadv.com www.eventualmente.net www.cinziaaraia.com www.garbo.biz www.babbu.it