AGOSTO ©2020

Tomba Brion for Onorina & Giuseppe Brion and then, posthumously, himself c/o Carlo Scarpa

On the last day of summer I ventured from the beaches and the coast to somewhere in northern Italy; left everyone and went alone, on what I called a pilgrimage: I told them my sole purpose was to go witness greatness; to see firsthand how one could take something as forever as concrete and sew with it; to frame and found and compose with it; to empathise with dust with it; to write with it a work of Art. I was being super sincere (as per usual.)

I thought about time: how my favourite thinkers of the screen and page made it their subject. How just outside that slanted concrete fence everything changes by the second—especially so this year—but how inside here you feel instead time as a Big Thing, as a quality, as something enduring with its constancy, its quiet, its heft.

Re-framed, re-focused, re-placed myself for this last one at least dozen times. In the end this seemed the inevitable and somehow only way to remember such a simple, modest resting place—for an anything-but-simple figure.