waiting room, no go areas, dreams abroad, nomans land
light object made of photographical prints, wood, acrylic, electrical light system, soft mirrors
3 sculptures made of iron, plaster and coloured pigments, copper
In Bologna, there stood a so-called “temporary” immigration reception centre, uncomfortably close to an active tobacco factory. The factory’s toxic fumes began to invade the lives of those seeking refuge, their hopes quickly turning to despair. The youngest among them were hit the hardest, their delicate lungs struggling to cope. Within just three months, half of the residents – already worn down by hardship – showed the first signs of asthma. The heartbreaking reality? Italians who had lived there before were forced to leave for the very same reason.
In 2001, a powerful demonstration for immigrant rights emerged, drawing attention not just to this inhumane situation, but to the broader struggles of immigrants who faced injustice, discrimination, and neglect. It was a call to acknowledge their suffering, their humanity. The fumes, the living conditions, the violations – they were all part of a much larger issue, one that could no longer be ignored.
Yet, it wasn’t until a decade later that the immigration centre was finally dismantled – ten years of painful silence, of lives left to endure the unbearable, before any real change came to pass. The voices of the marginalized had been heard, but only after years of struggle and sorrow.
somewhere else | in color and b-w, stereo, 4:3 PAL | 5’41” | © 2005 Bologna/Italy
When I watch the video after 20 years, it feels more like a document than a documentary. It shows how cameras have almost completely disappeared from our society, how the hunt for sensational images has not ceased, and how the demonstrations ultimately led to very little. Despite the video now being a historical document, it remains more relevant than ever in political discourse.
or Easter Holiday in Bologna
photographical installation with 55 printed b-w pictures
We are all nomads and no longer even have tents, as we once did. We don’t know where our home is, whether it’s where we study or work, or where we grew up, or on the street, in bars, on the bus, or on the train. The asphalt “grows” and becomes the surface beneath our steps, over nature, under our wheels. Meanwhile, we travel on the asphalt as if it were water, which has always represented the surface of the depths.
