THE MOTHER-OF-PEARL’S KNIFE - ROSSELLA DOLCE - 04-03-04
“I saw your eyes empty of you,
and i was afraid.
No more since that time
When i reflected myself
In the mirror of your absence.”
I like knives, since the beginning, i like studing their peculiarity, to know how they have been made, with what materials, to mantein them in perfect conditions.
I have always considered them like small objects of art, every knife has a different meaning, its own significance, able, for example, to take me to the mountain with a sheperd who is carving the handle leaned against a rock; or in China, into the dojo’s misterious and respectous silence of a martial art’s sensei; or in a boat of a sailor who is preparing his fishing-line with precision, lost in his thinking in the middle of a lake.
In a particular moment of my teenage, neverless, i felt myself so fragile and confused, unable to communicate what i was, so i took my knife from my collection and i put it into my pocket, to feel more safe.
I told myself that if i was feeling better, everything should have gone all right, but everything was going worst, that knife had lost the meaning i gave it at the beginning, it raised violent and unpredictable characteristics, ‘cause i was feeling the same, like my unsecurity. I felt it like it was foreign to what i was and i put it again into my collection.
I never brought it with me again, and so i recognize it; it’s a hooligan’s jack knife, perfect in its potencial offence, always sharpened and brilliant.
It has a peculiarity, its mother-of-pearl handle: this gracefully feminine characteristic gives it a special look, for me is the evil’s fascination, the anger’s power, the wisdom’s consciousness, the quiet of control, the security in seeing all this things pertaining to one shape only.
Elena M.