The human being is born squeezed between two infinities; the reality that surrounds him and the dream that lives in his thoughts. Disoriented by the dramatic dissonance of these two dimensions, he wanders aimlessly, getting lost in the paths of consciousness, hitten by the unexpected happening of events.
Upon the marble altar of Church St. Rita in Rome, the artist Zaelia Bishop immolates a cherry tree for all his aborted desires and blind illusions. The gnarled roots cling to blurred chilhood memories, digging in the contingency of our lives, while the branches desperately aspire to the sky, trying to reach an impossible transcendence. Without any hope of redemption nor integrity, the adult man is alone into a labyrinth of burned book, stories in which he acts, chasing ephemeral passions that everytime lead him into dead ends and he finds his hands emty, facing his eternal condemnation: the immanence. Bruised heroes of the earth, we painfully recognize our finitude, raising together with Bishop the cenotaph of our Promethean aspirations, of all the fantasies that we drunk, looking from a distance at everything that we haven’t done, but maybe we wanted to do.
Accepted the casualness of existence, we flame in the present and continue to wander, hoping that the two worlds, the inner and the external one, will eventually meet into an epiphanic instant that will give a sense to our mortal lives.