The physical death, just like the birth has always been for the man a mystery as much natural as ineluctable; that is why it was always accepted, and it will always be. But what the man cannot surrender is his second death: the forgetfulness, the slow forgetfulness where he inevitably is intended to go into.

The man is still alive in the tragedy of the death, but he is really dead in the slowness of the silence, in the cold immobility of the forgetfulness. Once forgotten there is no man anymore, as if he had never existed. The emptiness is in his place, like the one before his birth. It is not the death then, but the forgetfulness that shows us the caducity of the human life, in spite of all that it has built, created, taken with itself or left behind.

The man, since the birth of times, has tried by all possible means to fight, not against the death, but against the forgetfulness, up to the point of using The Christian religion. Our tombs, with their sculptures, the stone, and epitaphs represent the tentative end of the memory. But the man perhaps is dedicated not to be remembered.

This is what the characters of Raúl Martinetto's picture testify: the forgetfulness, ineluctable as much as the death, but more imperceptible than it.
But what is more painful than a tragedy that cannot happen anymore? What is more tragic than a scream in the silence, never heard by anybody?

PAOLA RAFFO

 

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