In his old age, Guglielmo Marconi believed that the sounds of the world would never disappear and would continue forever in progressively quieter sound waves. The human ear would not be able to detect these frequencies that would be lost in time but never in space.
"Far, far away,..." The horizontal line crosses the vertical line, they meet here to distance themselves more and more. We understand that the eyes can never be the landscape's frame, as it goes beyond the cardinal points and repeats "far, far away,..." Man is just the axis, the compass in his hands. The antenna searches for the other who, next to his antenna, searches for the other. The landscape communicates itself to another landscape, describes us its meanderings and the grooves that revolve it. The ritual that heals the distance's wound begins. The antenna produces the movement from its apparent stillness: it draws the 360º that surround it and goes on an upward movement. This disconic movement with two bars does not forget the root that keeps it attached to the soil. It is from this root that the anxiety for transmission comes from. An interrupted transmission, human then imperfect. The voice one hears from the other side has the name of contingency and sometimes becomes rough, hurting like the landscape itself.
To glimpse the shelter is to find the landscape's code. Each element is a repetitive noise, as the landscape is a repetitions' orchestra, just like the seed joins one other seed so that together they can better devour the soil. The noise is the event's affirmation: event-tree, event-stone, event-soil. The melody is atonal and its pace does not belong to us. The sound draws the landscape. The landscape draws the sound. The landscape-noise is heard through the feet which, on the ground, draw new lines and track the landscape until where it says "I do not end."
