FABIO NOVEMBRE

Shoes and bags resting on shelves, just a step away from me. It seems as though someone is going to come to take them, or rather, the items will let themselves be taken by someone.
Certainly, it is part of a ritual: a multitude of things evoking a multitude of people, and judging from what they wear, everybody is different. I ask myself if the young woman with the red shoes is dating the man with the white moccasin loafers, or if that black purse belongs to the lady wearing the black boots. I try to imagine these people: their faces, their names, their scents, and their stories.
In someway they intersect my story, which here, is only a step away from these individuals. These individuals and the gold that envelops this spatial situation are like notes of baroque music on the pentagram of a Zen garden. The noise of my footsteps on the wooden walkway almost spoils the feeling of peace that you breathe in this place: a preamble of a temple or perhaps a temple itself, where feet have roots like the legs of tables. It is where he who enters will recognize the shoes he had left to meditate for awhile, will put them back on, and will begin to walk again.