Tapropane Art is exhited to announce our first exhibition in Rome, Untold Stories. We live immersed in stories, wherever there is a human being there is a story. The methods and means to tell them change, but at the origin of every narration there is always the innate need to feed on the story. We are a species that tells, that tells itself, we have always done it, in various forms and with various languages. We have created multiform imaginaries, which constitute the richness, representation and history of mankind.

Thus was born this series of exhibitions, desired and created by Rossocinabro and created by Tapropane, the new online platform dedicated to art and everything that surrounds it. ‘Untold stories’, artists tell or divulge a story through their works.

The exhibition will allow artists to reconsider their work in a no-private context. Telling something through the artwork  aims  to open the works to different interpretations and perspectives.

The artists will speak for themselves through their own writings, images, works and notebooks. This is magic!

The exhibition will run from 5^th – 30^th Sept, with an opening reception on Mon-Sat 10:30AM-1PM  3-6PM

The artworks come from: Europe, UK, USA, Japan, Indonesia, South Korea, Australia, China, Center and South America, Canada

Artists:  Sergio Alessandrini, Brian Avadka Colez, Nicola Barth, Jonathan Berkh,  Marta Carceller, Emma Chandrima Dutta, Wenjun Fu, Palina Kasino, Ivan Klymenko, Larz, Loberg, Roberta Matera,  Moniqqques, Danilo Pignataro, Piero Romagnoli, Natalia Schaefer,  Romano Tomassini, Maria Tsormpatzoglou, Elisabeth Turci, Yeliz Çağla

Venue: Il Leone Art Gallery –  Rome, Via Aleardo Aleardi 12 Mon-Sat 10:30AM-1PM  3-6PM

Untold stories by Jonathan Berkh

Do you remember the story that I didn’t tell you? You know, the one about … Do you remember what we did not talk about? Do you remember the sunrise we didn’t see, the forest we didn’t walk, all the songs we didn’t sing?

Do you remember? I do, I remember.

And I also remember all the untold stories I did not paint. I did not paint them because I did not want their colors on my canvases. Because I did not want anyone to see them. There are some colors that I do not want anyone to see. And then there are some colors that are so amazingly beautiful, that just want to keep them to myself.

Maybe some other day I will dedicate canvases to all the untold stories, but then again why should I? Once a story is told it never ever again can be an untold one. One cannot undo that. One can change an untold story to a told one, but no one ever can reverse a told story to be an untold one. And then all the mysteries would be gone.

———-

Walkingonice by Palina Kasino
First the ice.
Then the noise.
The walking drags on.

The separation of the cliff holds you.
A walk.
A balancing act.
A growing.

Pushing in and out.
The arms get lost as they plumb.
There is no foothold.
The ice is merciless.
Or is there merci just deep down?
A wave to the reflection body.
To the one running underneath.
Each step blends in the golden middle.
A walk and a gap.
One step and the ice slips.

One step and the ice blurs.
Between exhilaration and struggle.
The ice gives in here and pushes off there.
All at once the flow, all at once the separation.

The cold slipperiness makes it hard.
A short crack, a loud echo.
Delicate crackling in the blue.
The competition of the shapes.
Flowing into all its parts.
Where is the hold in the gap?
Disperse there, a wave of icy delight.
No matter where to.
Keep a firm grip on the specter.
A story about growing is a long story.
A rush along the smooth surface.
The patterns grow dull.
Your face fades.
A shadow embraces you, leaving a luminous frame.
Slide away and hold onto the undertow.
A walking on stilts.
A standing in the middle of walking.

Fuck the sunshine, I am walking on ice.
And it’s time to feel numb.
Like Missy Elliot said: “Automatic, supersonic, hypnotic, funky fresh”.
Come as you are, but don’t push me.
Does the hard line or the flowing surface separate us?
A gentle line runs along and
the signing breaks in the icy expanse of nothingness.
Forgotten the stolen words,

Forgotten every path traversed,

Every effort, every struggle.
Let us melt in the cold of insignificance of our frozen bodies.
Where are the ice skates when you need them?