#marcomazziartist

[marcomazzistudio]

marco mazzi - (green archive) - 2023

[marcomazzistudio]

marco mazzi - (green archive) - 2023

[marcomazzistudio]

marco mazzi - (green archive) - 2023

[marcomazzistudio]

marco mazzi - (green archive) - 2023

[marcomazzistudio]

marco mazzi - (green archive) - 2023

[marcomazzistudio]

marco mazzi - (green archive) - 2023

[marcomazzistudio]

marco mazzi - (green archive) - 2023

[marcomazzistudio]

marco mazzi - (green archive) - 2023

[marcomazzistudio]

marco mazzi - (green archive 04) - 2023

[marcomazzistudio]

marco mazzi - (green archive 03) - 2023

[marcomazzistudio]

marco mazzi - (green archive 02) - 2023

[marcomazzistudio]

marco mazzi - (green archive 01) - 2023

[marcomazzistudio]

marco mazzi - (green archive) - 2023

[marcomazzistudio]

Marco Mazzi. Albania, 2016. #marcomazzi #marcomazziartist

[marcomazzistudio]

marco mazzi, soundscape (landscape theory), 2022. mixed media, 100x120 cm. 

Rather than filming the subject of his film—a recently arrested 19 year old serial killer—Masao Adachi turned the camera 180 degrees, and instead, decided to film the landscapes seen by the subject over the course of his life. The resulting film, A.K.A. Serial Killer (1969) introduced the so-called landscape theory, fukeiron in Japanese. This gesture raises many questions: what can a camera, filming a landscape, reveal about the social and political structures of a given place at a given time? And what does this context tell us about the kind of alienation that can lead to violence?

Nature is generally seen as precisely that which cannot be produced; it is the antithesis of human productive activity. In its most immediate appearance, the natural landscape presents itself to us as the material substratum of daily life, the realm of use-values rather than exchange-values. As such it is highly differentiated along any number of axes. But with the progress of capital accumulation and the expansion of economic development, this material substratum is more and more the product of social production, and the dominant axes of differentiation are increasingly societal in origin.

[marcomazzistudio]

1997 crash (transcription, transcription, recapitulation)

1997 crash (transcription, transcription, recapitulation) 

translated by brenda porster 

01

a dark-haired apprentice nurse came into the ward. the metal hooks of her bra, a medallion of meat. 

a girl incapable of smiling. the mark of elastic, under her breast, with particular caresses, on the furrows. in a trance, she asked me to help her. rows of nightgowns opposite the rehearsal room. I’m here, now. a mistaken calculation, a drug addict. me, a hot liquid, a defective image.

they pretend there’s nothing wrong. there’s a molecule, in the drug, that eliminates fat. they sweep up, your thirsty face, no wounds. see, here, they try to hit arms and feet. dressing rooms, closets, the frequency of the drugs. a hooked fish, dry thirst, a strange feeling in the abdomen. 

hands surface again with something in the fist. you put them in your pocket. only a part to make up the whole, an inanimate object. you’re trying to upset me with the sad details of the sexual abuse you’ve suffered. some rare porno films, with boys. you’d like to do a lot more things to me than to her. you’re a heroin dealer. you’re not able to think, you’re not able to saturate your consciousness. a fine ray penetrates the box. you see, I don’t sleep enough. the eyes, I saw you fall. you can’t understand the vastness and range of my power.

I am the inside window of your eye. I’m a dimension, a labyrinthine tangle, a wax house. my seed, here. my sperm is in the cranium, at the moment of impact. my hands, lips and teeth. sweat drags the world along. a vampire, I am, or a shell fossil. here’s my emptied skin, my breasts. I, my body, a stain of vomit on the lapel of my leather jacket. you see, we lay together. my first sexual act is thought, or cigarette smoke. I imitated the sound of airplanes. 

I saw you, in our bed. I saw you, you don’t know, you don’t want to. the new technologies between the teeth. the unique taste of your body, a child’s smell. it touched my arm, a cement parapet. I touched her on the right hip. the fragments of the windshield flash in the sun. I remember, the sperm began to come up out of my penis. the cement bridges, the desire to resist, the place of the accident and the image of my muscles. 

you see, you can see. my eyes burn, the skin shines, in the capsule. you see, the sculpture garden, the automatic vendor, the unconsciousness of weapons. violence, television, sexual elements, war cemeteries. the wind, back and forth, the video studio. you see, I can go on. I know, I saw. the absence of screams is a torture. the fishermen are asleep. a wound in the sky, my confused hunt, my fingers. 

her, a weak bladder, intestines, with their enemas. I’ve come out of the rehearsal booth. 

the booths have a precise purpose, once in a while. I asked myself how come. my childhood, a long sequence of anesthetics. it was a chess game. the helicopter went under the control tower. you see, her movements make up a sonorous body. 

you see, the screen of the open-air cinema is the extension of a fabric. the screen dissolved to the last drop, the cinema screen goes to pieces. like ice around the face. in an instant. the car-park, the conscious evocation of chance. her, between the rails. her, total sexual incapacity. think of two bodies, think of the metallic light that’s about to disappear in the sand. think of the hidden key of your sexuality. the truck is loaded with vats of petrol. 

the truck looks calm. you see, murder is a conceptual act, the bodies on the ambulance stretchers are invisible beings. you see, you can see, the movements of the pupil. sex takes on a beneficial role, or at least natural. a spurt of steam, a rainy night. solitary phrases, at the mirror. the stem, the roots, armpits. my long hair, the green sky towards evening, a cabin, a pond. her, a line of demarcation. 

I created you, you see. I made you see the last light of the explosion. I smell a cold drink. fractures of the thighs, these fantasies of violence. I created you, I dragged you onto the strip of asphalt, a scenario of veins and nerves. I created you, the sodomized body, you found shelter in an empty stadium. here, the city is built on a vast muddy plane. one of the subjects interviewed said the operation is illegal.

I turned around to look at the sepia-colored bed. I listened to the radio, my heart pulsing at the base of my spine, to the neck of my prick. a couple of lizards, forgotten magazines and novels, letters. I  have no experience as a private investigator. I only know you have to talk, to breathe and say: this is the high point of life. repeat: this is the high point of life.