and so, maybe: maybe metal hides some other way of Expression. Maybe: in seeing it move under the hammer blows, in colours that change at the heat of the fire; in the forcing of bends, or tips or blades inside it - or against it. In taking it out of the acid, matt - silvery. In polishing it with Love. In letting it standing out strong, and contrasting, against fabric and skin and hair: extending lines of force, pushing the beholder's eyes - or yours - deeper, Inside.
It's an Art by itself - even if "minor" and mistreated: and she needs affection. Yes - affection.
Hi!, I'm Davide. I try to be a metalsmith. My other vices was good prose, and is powerlifting.
Now scroll down, pliiz.


So, tomorrow the 4th of april 2013, my piece "Learning the Language - Rough Sketch #2" will be shown at Amaranto Joies in Barcellone (SP), together with 54 other works of 54 talented artist. Emotion level suddenly raises, and expectations, and everything else. Shrapnels of information follows:

~ here's the full list - complete with pictures - of the works:

~ these are Philip Sajet's words about the show's concept:

“There are as many butterflies as that are people, probably even many more.
Mystica tells us, that departed souls sometimes return as butterflies to comfort and reasure us.
But whatever the case, one thing is sure in this life they live short.
They are light and extremely agile and in the eyes of some are considered as very beautiful
The only animal who looks alive while not being it.
That is their tragedy. To be pinned on a board. 
The butterfly for the artist is also a metaphor for life.
How big or small, how light or heavy do you make it?
It was my personal curiosity to ask artists whose work fascinate / intrigue me to show me their Butterfly.
Yes almost as intimate as this question sounds, so intimate in a way it is.”

~ this is my piece's info sheet:

"Learning the language - Rough sketch #2"
2013, h 50 mm, dia 18 mm
Sterling silver, shakudo, amethyst
"Accumulations of one's possessions, personal memories, useless things, are sometimes forgotten by the hoarder him/herself: being dislocated through time or space. This particolar heap was left somewhere in the wilderness, for the butterflies to quietly swarm upon."

I'll be in Barcellona 'till saturnday morning. Yaii!

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