“Like shadows of life, on a battlefield, the three dancers—suspended souls, poised in lucid sleepwalking—reveal themselves through visible and hidden layers in a symphony of actions that unfolds
like a forest of signs and meanings.
They are portraits suspended between identity display and visual exuberance. A carnal femininity, yet detached from the absolute protagonism of human matter, leaving room for the immaterial.
The subject becomes object, and only then is its sovereign status recognised.
Along the thread of detail and particularity, we brush traces, clots, and transparencies, disarticulating the sense that details embody within life.
Gesture points and suggests without stating—an expression of an almost pictorial thought, unsettling and charged with emotional intensity.
The dramaturgy concentrates on micro-moments; within an apparent chaos, it unfolds in chapters of an exploded book.
Appearances and disappearances, as if within a spatial trap, in a black that is the colour in which everything is generated—the colour from which we come into the world and to which we will return.
A non-place that is a room, a labyrinth of rooms dissolving into one another, an entire house, the world; hyper-frames that function through images and feed on pauses.”

— Antonella Bertoni

“Three women deep in my heart came to me.
A room of one’s own—the women’s corner. Scalene: needless to say. A testing box of total negation of secure grounding in space, where the female body manifests itself in an unconditional, shameless surrender to perspectival dystopia.
Women in pieces and pieces of women, inside a box of arts that—like a single organism—breathes, reproduces, and collapses: the disarmed creativity of bodies returned, in the end, becomes its sign.
From the trinity to the one, and from the one to a thousand feminine forms—far from flat, rich instead with folds and pleats that, like a pin-cushion, pierce the scene. Blade-bodies, glimmers, and coquetries compose a texture of appearance in which the warp becomes an act of seeing and fixing a first point—a cross-stitch, naturally—of beginning and stumbling, held together by a single thread of glory.
Now that women discover that man is no longer God, we hallucinate here an ideal recomposition of their scattered pieces.”

“Three women deep in my heart came to me: thanks to the generosity and unconditional trust of Valentina, Ludovica, and Sara.”

— Michele Abbondanza