The sound of the curved line

by Jan Vermeer (Girl with the Pearl Earring)

pencil drawing on paper

by Sergio Celle

The sound of the curved line

‘Dedicated to all women of the world’

by Sergio Celle

It’s deep in the night.

The silence sorrounds me. A breath lighly whistles in the air: it’s me.

A breath which seems to be alive. I gradually feel my brain getting rid of the heavy burdens of daily noises and anxieties. Thus, the mind pulls off its heavy suit of hypocrisy. Willful like the armor of an ancient knight, skilfully built for any season. A changeable suit where the tonalities of a rich palette of colors are the background of the countless masks playing the wide comedy of life.  The thought gets undressed, chuckling, knowing that it soon be alone, talking to himself.   

It’s late in the night and I am alone with myself, shipwrecked in the wide ocean of the soul, wandering in its stormy waters. 

 I try to catch syllables and  weave them to build a genuine plot. I can hardly find the words, they don’t get well together, while my nervous hand draws meaningless, monotonous straight lines on the paper. Lines that join and separate, that braid and lose themselves, that meet again and then get lost.

A chaotic muddle reminding me of the intricate streets of a town.

Reminding me of sharp swords and knives’ blades. Vultures flying upon their prey. The iron of the gallows. The hatred, the injustice, the evil. The high skyscraper of consume. The scratching squeak of a door like the merciless hand of cruelty. The false laws. The simulating scream of hypocrisy. The deadly bullet that hits the heart.

The silent and cold door of indifference. The narrow corners of pain and sorrow. The emptiness of a loveless solitude. The power that divides and the horror sowing darkness. All this is a straight line. Corners against corners: the cynicism of disharmony. 

But I don’t like straight lines. I like curved lines. Round breasts, thoughtful bellies, hair in the wind, the sky vault, the stars, the moon, the clouds, the sea waves ant the seagull’s flight. And like the curves of a woman’s sweet body, I love the horizons, the core of the lily, the glass of pleasure. It’s a curve the love that turns uncertainty into a wrapping spell, like the kiss, a delightful turning.

As well as a caress and a silky touch. I love the curve. Endless rainbows, raindrops on the skin like tears on the face. Lips that open like flower petals. The beating of the heart like the smiling sun at dawn. The grain of sand and the large desert dune. It’s a tender curve, the birth of life. It’s a big curve, the music of heaven, as immense as the song of a poem. It’s an infinite curve, the puff of a voice: the voice of Beauty.

May all this come out by drawing signs on a sheet of paper? Why not?

It’s the sound coming from the voice of Beauty. It comes like a glance full of sweetness and tenderness. A sound that was felt and thought. Imagined, captured, and mould only by words. Little by little a body is outlined in the mind. And a face. A face where you can read poetry in every wrinkle. A body, where you can bathe in its flower and fall in the throat of life. A crystalline sound that I can listen to, though prisoner of a thick muddle of signs. Where it emerges, full of harmony. An everything is contained in a mysterious round sign. A curved line vibrating among the frequencies of an infinite harmony.

The Beauty, the Woman, the Feminine. That is what I have imagined tonight: the sound of the curved line.

translate by Nicoletta Densi
                                                                                         ©Sergio Dellestelle