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There is no reason for the duck to be there.
Perhaps it’s the balance between gleaming surfaces and childlike forms.
An entire generation learned contemporary art from homeopathic remedy leaflets—
only to discover, too late, that Apollo was not a god,
but a plastic box with a glossy finish.
Carota is not a title; it’s a sound.
Try saying it with your eyes closed, and you’ll picture the wrong color.
The installation only reveals itself to a distracted gaze.
The Duplo duck watches, as if it knows where you’ve been.
That book will never be read; it’s part of the landscape now.
“Occhio, Malocchio, Prezzemolo e Carota” is a broken spell.
The work produces a spectral noise, like an appliance running in another room.
The visitor’s task is not interpretation.
It’s simpler than that:
a lit-up word,
colored plastic,
eyes—keep your eyes on me—
and a misplaced god.
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Press Release
There is no reason for the duck to be there.
Perhaps it’s the balance between gleaming surfaces and childlike forms.
An entire generation learned contemporary art from homeopathic remedy leaflets—
only to discover, too late, that Apollo was not a god,
but a plastic box with a glossy finish.
Carota is not a title; it’s a sound.
Try saying it with your eyes closed, and you’ll picture the wrong color.
The installation only reveals itself to a distracted gaze.
The Duplo duck watches, as if it knows where you’ve been.
That book will never be read; it’s part of the landscape now.
“Occhio, Malocchio, Prezzemolo e Carota” is a broken spell.
The work produces a spectral noise, like an appliance running in another room.
The visitor’s task is not interpretation.
It’s simpler than that:
a lit-up word,
colored plastic,
eyes—keep your eyes on me—
and a misplaced god.
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