Alejo Dillor

Stink and greatness. The anachronism and stillness in the boys portrayed by Alejo Dillor.

Suburb;
Tamed lambs,
On a plaza bench,
stillness is broken.

From the trash a whispering comes, boys talking while the bell rings. Memory exercise. Long ago Pasolini gave us the ability to hear and see in the shadows. He points out the flight of the last swallow and invites us to a confession that presumes secularity. But the sincere gaze of the boys is more sacred than any relic in the world.

Like a feeling.
A soft smell of you.
Noble calm in the warm folds of your sport short.
On your mobile screen,
we look at a painting by Tiziano that bores me.
Dead pixels as fascists.
Stink and greatness
Or stink and dumps?
- It's the same, I tell you it's the same.
Smells like warm rags,
like your feet,
And like no one but the two of us.

The cities are left behind. The sun is already down and then… the boys arrive to overthrow all these temples once and for all. Shameless in troops and serpentines, riding their bikes. They have lighters in their backpacks to set everything on fire.

Rude, sincere,
Masculinity is not hegemony,
they predict,
what will come.

Identical to those who in another time and place wore fancy for Sunday parties are those who today share a warm beer on the side of the skatepark with their destroyed sneakers.

… Lontano fanciullo peccatore.

Times are crowding together and Ale – a faithful witness to this loveless epic – knows it. He knows the secret behind the dirty faces of these tired boys.

The beast rises from below.
Wreck by investing in shields that are not worth a Tiziano.
Saint Mark’s and the Walking Dead
And guys
Only have the loyalty of the other
And so…
Beaten
—Late Neo-Barroso—
They breakthrough.

Forbidden strokes that escape from their mouths. The cellphone in the pocket that does not stop ringing, ruining the moment. The pocket has a mixed perfume between football and friends. The jacket, where the oil from the French fries is cleaned. A drop of dirty sweat running down his thighs competes with the beer bottle in his hand.

Both boys aren’t sitting on a plaza bench. No. They are laying over the remains of the Laocoon they just destroyed. Now everything is dust. They talk about their girlfriends but they are not there. They are alone. Their cellphone no longer ring. There are no more Caravaggio memes.

The miracle comes when they look at each other in the dark.

Fabro Tranchida

Venice, August 2019.