Carlo Michele Schirinzi

No synopsis available yet.

There's something wrong with the way things are perceived. A different, unfriendly view is to stand out among individuals as their own maker is spelling the rules from a tv set for them to keep on living or to die. No longer than a blow-up such an illusion will survive...

The strict quarantine in the spring of 2020 reduced the living space of hundreds of millions of people down to just a few square meters. The horizon was limited to the view from the window, boredom permeated the days, and an endless stream of catastrophic rumors emanated from the radio and television. Against the backdrop of his own mental and physical discomfort, the director begins to shoot a video diary. The similarly non-existent static camera records existential monologues as well as activities serving basic bodily needs. This philosophical essay is woven from reflections on the coming transformation of the world and the images that try to capture it.

They say hell resembles a crater. But those who have eroded the mirror through relentless refraction know that a navel is all it takes for an individual to sink. This is what happens to the film’s sulfurous soul, in its attempt to entomb its own conscience beneath molten flows of imagery. And yet we see it – the soul, immensenseless – unearthed again, savoring the fleeting chance to begin anew, to reappear in the world, to (be)come into it. Rebirth is not possible; and as for never being born, it’s too late for that. The true state of nature is Nothingness. So let’s lie down and corrode in peace. And in the meantime, let’s not forget to dis-appear, to re-emerge, to plunge and then resurface, vanish, and unwind. Valgus humanity: life is not worth living. The more cheerful among us might object. Isn’t it a sin? To let yourself be crushed by the leaden sky? To sink into the scalding, stitched aluminum of the Mediterranean? The answer is given by the sullen moon.

Virgin wheat like a prologue in two acts broken by Artaud’s words: “Why does a man fight outside? Because inside, it is his anatomy to make him war”.

A moist fresco of the act and the viewing of masturbation. Master where are you. Not shouted research, but instead a telluric implosion, the observation of a disappearance, a useless SOS hurled among paper notebooks, protective nature, cars whose motors are turned off, and forgotten nests.

No synopsis available yet.

No synopsis available yet.

There's something wrong with the way things are perceived. A different, unfriendly view is to stand out among individuals as their own maker is spelling the rules from a tv set for them to keep on living or to die. No longer than a blow-up such an illusion will survive...

There's something wrong with the way things are perceived. A different, unfriendly view is to stand out among individuals as their own maker is spelling the rules from a tv set for them to keep on living or to die. No longer than a blow-up such an illusion will survive...

They say hell resembles a crater. But those who have eroded the mirror through relentless refraction know that a navel is all it takes for an individual to sink. This is what happens to the film’s sulfurous soul, in its attempt to entomb its own conscience beneath molten flows of imagery. And yet we see it – the soul, immensenseless – unearthed again, savoring the fleeting chance to begin anew, to reappear in the world, to (be)come into it. Rebirth is not possible; and as for never being born, it’s too late for that. The true state of nature is Nothingness. So let’s lie down and corrode in peace. And in the meantime, let’s not forget to dis-appear, to re-emerge, to plunge and then resurface, vanish, and unwind. Valgus humanity: life is not worth living. The more cheerful among us might object. Isn’t it a sin? To let yourself be crushed by the leaden sky? To sink into the scalding, stitched aluminum of the Mediterranean? The answer is given by the sullen moon.

Virgin wheat like a prologue in two acts broken by Artaud’s words: “Why does a man fight outside? Because inside, it is his anatomy to make him war”.

A moist fresco of the act and the viewing of masturbation. Master where are you. Not shouted research, but instead a telluric implosion, the observation of a disappearance, a useless SOS hurled among paper notebooks, protective nature, cars whose motors are turned off, and forgotten nests.

A moist fresco of the act and the viewing of masturbation. Master where are you. Not shouted research, but instead a telluric implosion, the observation of a disappearance, a useless SOS hurled among paper notebooks, protective nature, cars whose motors are turned off, and forgotten nests.

An irruption in an ex-factory brings to light memories that were buried there. From the walls, custodians of years of stories and silent witnesses of an out-of-time life, human echoes and rustles resurface, winning over the oblivion in which History seems to have fallen.

Morse code to the void, silent scream is consuming (itself) inside. By burning scratches torn, darker and deeper couldn’t be the black.