Mastro Peppino
was winter and the sun had already gone to bed for a while ', we stood next to his old cast-iron stove as the mother hen chicks. A few blocks of wood and a beautiful warmth to talk. Here's a picture of Master Peppino dearest to me in my scrapbook.
When you are thinning the last echoes of the show in August, sobered file crowd of endless explanations, photos, signatures, interviews, resume sleepless vigils worn by lathe of an idea, a realization drawn in the mind, but his hands have not yet given birth. Anxiety wins the sunrises, the beats on time because every pregnancy desires his birth. Then return your hands to the wood of olive, chestnut, walnut instruments resound their cadence, revives the potiχa: Peppino is the master work.
he sat in the square his well-earned rest, with cronies to disentangle the intricate Sipala village of discussions, the background noise of 'Amelle. One day master Peppino companions and leave the square and dates back to ancient words potiχa family, sweeping away the dust and neglect inertia and gets back to work.
is a return. In his job at the school of his father, the frame of the mother, catus plot of the long braids and cannavu jìnestra patient goes to roost, trades disuse disused instruments, saitta to the mill, the coaming of trappeto, the chariot, the pirùaci, to touch, to load at the Solomon's knot, masterfully chained to the rings, the oldest memories, with the most intimate, to their loved ones.
Wood is the raw material, work in the power waiting to be pulled out of his shell, art hidden under the persistent bark that surrounds it. The consummate skill of the wood weighs hands, eyes will study the veins and with painstaking thoroughness, one touch at a time, the task is accomplished.
potiχa The master of Peppino faces the street and with its top open Menzino is an open window on a world now gone, on hard work and skills lost, abandoned along the trail up memories of the time. Even the old great-uncle, who died prematurely, living a second life to make up for the first negatagli by fate. A sketch on a simple and fragile piece of paper ripped from oblivion a face, it has saved the contours otherwise deleted. Condemned to be forgotten before the others and more than others, they survived.
Life has handed over to witness this great-grandson, has made himself a witness to the world and master Peppino, with consciousness and stubbornness, plays his role to the end. Let us pause at this winter's evening advanced, its potiχa, warmed our hearts the warmth of a time that has been and may continue to be.
His works in wood need a last step: the wood worm against the indifference and forgetfulness. A 'last hand that it is for us to give, and then, only then, the work of master Peppino will be fully accomplished.
August 2010 Mimmo Catania
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