Even Marzamemi, to be honest. And Palazzolo Acreide by tangentiality. But the pivot is Siracusa, between Palazzo Vermexio and the Temple of Athena, which has become almost intact, Santa Lucia, more a Baroque facade. So, with things having settled down, after a good few weeks' break from the event, I'm writing about it with great joy. Domenico Dolce and Stefano Gabbana belong to the Olympic category, the one where only a few can be, with Versace, Valentino, Armani, with the Fontana Sisters as their predecessors. Because they don't follow patterns, they dictate them, they interpret them, with strength, with enthusiasm.
They don't derive from anyone's method, but they invent, from everything and everyone, with exciting, exhilarating results, so much so that I'm tempted to steal from G.B. Marino, that “the poet's aim is wonder,” there are so many devices that leave one suspended and fascinated.
Ever since they were born – and Ferdinando Scianna announced them to me with a fascinating black stocking, which, instead of being covered by it, wrapped around a rough, any old box – they have been an expression of a windy genius loci, one that resides in myth, in festivals, in shows, in the folklore of a Sicily that is as real as it is spectral, in anabasis from a painful climb between profane love and sacred love and profane love, in an eternal quarrel in metaphor, of white and black and the most threatening and vibrant colours. July 2022, in the land of Archimedes, of Mithekos, of Bacchylides, a scene of elective affinities unfolded, where Apollo dressed as Dionysus and vice versa, a bit of both, ascending and descending an imposing, staged, ramparted staircase, and they animated dreams and desires, bringing the love of beauty as a gift from new Magi. Cuts and stitches, purples and shawls, naked and clothed, a cross-dressing of Venuses, Latonas, Narcissuses, Circes, white widows, Ciccina Circè's cloaks, Ndria Cambria's odysseys.
Lucifer, I say, who knows no setting... Joyce.
KLESSIDRA | EDITED BY FRANCESCO GALLO MAZZEO

