I had a dream: the floor had been made of sand, and the severed bodies, the trunks of the corpse and me, were rolling there in a kind of gloomy sumo, a ritual combat antithetical to the essence of Japanese sumo, in which the fight has the duration of a spark and the drama has no time to be born, the marvelous does not linger to be, and does not die.

In this dream, the trait of thrust was replaced by that of strenuous dragging, by the clinging of mutilated bodies in a motionless war, in an endless conflict.

And this is what Carlo Ragliani's second work, La carne (The Flesh), which follows Lo stigma (italic, 2019), suggests to me: the asphyxiation of an ibex, a falling-fall, a falling into the fall whose trepidations imprint on its image a harnessed, and for that very powerful, movement (Ianus Pravo).