The Joy of Scopa
Cooperation with Scopa / De Renava Art Biennale / Bonifacio Corsica / 2022
That day, I handed the lens to Scopa. The Corsican wind ran through its fur, stirring my memories into disarray. It dashed across the wilds, grasslands and stony shores blurring beneath its feet, sheep dissolving into white mist in the corner of its eye, birds streaking past like shadows of a dream too brief to bid farewell. The frame trembled, a heartbeat, time flowing through its gaze. Freedom, I thought, must be this—no past, no future, just the now, racing with the wind, breathing as one with the wild. What it saw, that untamed purity—was it the light I’d long forgotten?
It turned into Bonifacio’s alleys. The ice cream man tossed it a cone, Ange from the café brushed its head, a woman stared too long, her eyes a confession that never came. Scopa didn’t pause—it sniffed the air and ran on. Those who called its name, their laughter, their lingering glances, were scratches on old film, faint yet sharp. It moved through them with ease, a silent pact between them, precise and tender as the ticking of a clock’s gears. They say loneliness is the city’s curse, but Scopa’s wagging tail shattered that lie. It spoke no words, yet they all understood
Then it wandered into the biennale. The cold glare of new art fell on its fur, a strange snow. The lens flickered back—tides, birds, the summer I knelt to tie my laces and felt its breath against my face. Darkness came, a tunnel stretched ahead, faint light pulsing at its end, washing over its eyes like a tide. A voice whispered: “Did I dream of Scopa, or did Scopa dream me into being?” It stopped. I couldn’t step out. In that moment, I lost track—was it watching me, or was I the one gazing back?
Scopa doesn’t ponder these things. It just runs—through heaven and earth, through the throng, into that dream without answers.