Against a bitingly white sky, contorted black wires pile one atop another amongst rough concrete blocks from a demolished industrial site. They are signs in a flux of dynamic contortion that expand into space, move, and metamorphose. There is no human subject (apart from the fleeting appearance of Giacomelli reflected in a mirror fragment nestled in the rubble), and yet the series feels alive.
‘It is up to your imagination to construct a story using your own personal resonances.’
(Mario Giacomelli, in G Celant, Mario Giacomelli, Ed. Photology-Logos, 2001 / A. Crawford, Mario Giacomelli, Phaidon 2001)
