http://cargocollective.com CUCCURUCU Sat, 18 May 2013 12:41:56 +0000 http://cargocollective.com en http://cargocollective.com/CUCCURUCU/Crystal-Delays-teaser http://cargocollective.com/CUCCURUCU/following/CUCCURUCU/Crystal-Delays-teaser Sat, 18 May 2013 12:41:56 +0000 CUCCURUCU 5640178 Crystal Delays teaser from Marta Di Francesco on Vimeo. Crystal Delays teaser from Marta Di Francesco on Vimeo. http://cargocollective.com/CUCCURUCU/Poetry http://cargocollective.com/CUCCURUCU/following/CUCCURUCU/Poetry Tue, 30 Apr 2013 11:46:11 +0000 CUCCURUCU 2179600 Through walking through sewers of people in moments hours, giant devouring throats a thread of sorrow uncoiling from eye to eye of the passers by. a familiar sorrow a song heard once a blind hole a handshake from the past. your eyes gates to a frozen garden of crushed collapsing bodies crystallised lies innocent guilts. Cenere e Profumo (Dust & Perfume) Mi vesto di novita’ intorno ad una tranquillita’circospetta. Sulla soglia, afflitta da reumatici ricordi, un arco d’aria. Blu sintetici paradigmi, tentativi di sincopatica premura: solidale, precoce e severa; una temuta premura. Parvenza di aspetti scomodi ma docili, vaghe introspezioni. perdite di tempo alate, appaltate e ricostruite. Volteggia lo stremato accolto fervore delle notti passate in un palmo di sereno silenzio all’alba il primo raggio di sole non duole. Scattered Scattered & disregarded pasted and not copied just rammed into an empty space that doesn’t want to be filled.Around & set. Sharp inclined & forbidden. Hurtful resonance, irritable memories. Regurgitation. Reason gets fucked by dirty nails of instinct/ Licked by the spikey tongue of treason.Dressed up to go nowhere. Soffocata da un afa esistenziale decise di di fare una passeggiata nel giardino botanico. Li’ la pesante umidita’ avrebbe almeno avuto l’odore di una foresta tropicale.L’illusione del movimento non la esentava da una fatica secolare.Era come se fosse se quella passeggiata fosse uno sforzo improponibile. L’ombra delle piante rendeva la timida brezza ancora piu’ piacevole. Pregnant with procrastination she kicked off in a moment of folly. Posticipato da un’algoritmica sincope si precipito’ catapuldandosi in una rocambolesca vertigine di fretta ignorando patriottiche restaurazioni di pensiero. Un algido graffio di incerta precarieta’ penetro’ la giornata Scansandosi lentamente dai suoi pensieri si cullava via dall’amaro oblio del tardo pomeriggio, gravido di pallore e procrastinazione. Lo sgargiante invito del caos Dischiuso Moribondo e Circonciso in una pendente burocrazia. In una acrobazia di allucinanti conseguenze si mise ad ottenere senza chiedere e ricevette improvvisamente condoni a lungo termine un senso di colpa abbreviato da un colpo di grazia che lo investi’. Coney Island Beautiful & melancholic like the eyes of a russian woman. Old men resting on a line of benches along the boardwalk old women with coloured hair reading poetry russian men jogging in pijamas laughing in a loud slow russian howl . Sun setting down on an empty fair decoloured rides, more rides than human beings. One fat old man walks to the shore & takes a bath in the freezing water. Some sicilian family strolls down the pier pushing grandpa on the weelchair. Generations of Russian, Italian, Polish eyes consumed by too many sunsets in Coney Island. Removing myself from the removable digesting of the future Ancient sweetness. The first & the last thing my would ever wish to see is my mother eyes. Like marching soldiers, those stupid laughs are bombarding my ears Carcasse arrancano storpie e distorte, distolte, distratte dalla cupa giostra di vermi intorno alla grande corrotta mela americana. Sucking succulent seducing syrup from the seedy soup of the servant saliva Poetry is exactness. processing is exactness. Pending voracious cervixes unattended losely placed at ususpectable hours Unguarded & voracious muddy gel of tentacles to swallow you in. A broken hint a phantom end a gullible bracket a periodical lie. Nerves in a fist of electricity Hands like horses. Through walking through sewers of people in moments hours, giant devouring throats a thread of sorrow uncoiling from eye to eye of the passers by. a familiar sorrow... http://cargocollective.com/CUCCURUCU/Drawings http://cargocollective.com/CUCCURUCU/following/CUCCURUCU/Drawings Tue, 30 Apr 2013 06:07:04 +0000 CUCCURUCU 2178275 <img src="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/4/159806/2178275/tumblr_ld40p0vFPh1qctnhc.png" width="500" height="692" width_o="500" height_o="692" src_o="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/4/159806/2178275/tumblr_ld40p0vFPh1qctnhc_o.png" data-mid="10887846" border="0" align="left"/> <img src="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/4/159806/2178275/tumblr_ld4077W4ua1qcjnyo.png" width="470" height="700" width_o="470" height_o="700" src_o="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/4/159806/2178275/tumblr_ld4077W4ua1qcjnyo_o.png" data-mid="10887848" border="0" align="left"/> <img src="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/4/159806/2178275/tumblr_lniczjHjO51qctnhc.png" width="350" height="477" width_o="350" height_o="477" src_o="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/4/159806/2178275/tumblr_lniczjHjO51qctnhc_o.png" data-mid="10887851" border="0" align="left"/> {image 11} <img src="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/4/159806/2178275/sad.png" width="266" height="399" width_o="266" height_o="399" src_o="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/4/159806/2178275/sad_o.png" data-mid="11068989" border="0" align="left"/> <img src="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/4/159806/2178275/sit.png" width="257" height="342" width_o="257" height_o="342" src_o="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/4/159806/2178275/sit_o.png" data-mid="11068994" border="0" align="left"/> http://cargocollective.com/CUCCURUCU/Folkland http://cargocollective.com/CUCCURUCU/following/CUCCURUCU/Folkland Wed, 29 Aug 2012 10:22:16 +0000 CUCCURUCU 3992034 Interactive Storytelling. Folkland is a tale, created to be experienced on the iPad that uses music reacting code generated animation. This is a selection of images from the original film development I pitched to Warp Films. Some of the images I used below, belong to other artists and have only being used as references. <img src="http://payload84.cargocollective.com/1/4/159806/3992034/iPad2_1_905.png" width="670" height="459" width_o="700" height_o="480" src_o="http://payload84.cargocollective.com/1/4/159806/3992034/iPad2_1_905_o.png" data-mid="22041369" border="0" align="left"/> <img src="http://payload84.cargocollective.com/1/4/159806/3992034/9.png" width="670" height="472" width_o="974" height_o="687" src_o="http://payload84.cargocollective.com/1/4/159806/3992034/9_o.png" data-mid="25733687" border="0" align="left"/> <img src="http://payload84.cargocollective.com/1/4/159806/3992034/1.png" width="670" height="472" width_o="973" height_o="686" src_o="http://payload84.cargocollective.com/1/4/159806/3992034/1_o.png" data-mid="25733657" border="0" align="left"/><img src="http://payload84.cargocollective.com/1/4/159806/3992034/2.png" width="670" height="473" width_o="974" height_o="689" src_o="http://payload84.cargocollective.com/1/4/159806/3992034/2_o.png" data-mid="25733661" border="0" align="left"/><img src="http://payload84.cargocollective.com/1/4/159806/3992034/4.png" width="670" height="474" width_o="974" height_o="690" src_o="http://payload84.cargocollective.com/1/4/159806/3992034/4_o.png" data-mid="25733670" border="0" align="left"/><img src="http://payload84.cargocollective.com/1/4/159806/3992034/6.png" width="670" height="474" width_o="975" height_o="690" src_o="http://payload84.cargocollective.com/1/4/159806/3992034/6_o.png" data-mid="25733674" border="0" align="left"/><img src="http://payload84.cargocollective.com/1/4/159806/3992034/5.png" width="670" height="472" width_o="975" height_o="688" src_o="http://payload84.cargocollective.com/1/4/159806/3992034/5_o.png" data-mid="25733672" border="0" align="left"/><img src="http://payload84.cargocollective.com/1/4/159806/3992034/8.png" width="670" height="473" width_o="974" height_o="689" src_o="http://payload84.cargocollective.com/1/4/159806/3992034/8_o.png" data-mid="25733682" border="0" align="left"/> <img src="http://payload84.cargocollective.com/1/4/159806/3992034/7.png" width="670" height="471" width_o="974" height_o="686" src_o="http://payload84.cargocollective.com/1/4/159806/3992034/7_o.png" data-mid="25733677" border="0" align="left"/><img src="http://payload84.cargocollective.com/1/4/159806/3992034/10.png" width="670" height="472" width_o="973" height_o="686" src_o="http://payload84.cargocollective.com/1/4/159806/3992034/10_o.png" data-mid="25733689" border="0" align="left"/> Interactive Storytelling. Folkland is a tale, created to be experienced on the iPad that uses music reacting code generated animation. This is a selection of... http://cargocollective.com/CUCCURUCU/Some-words http://cargocollective.com/CUCCURUCU/following/CUCCURUCU/Some-words Tue, 21 Feb 2012 15:38:35 +0000 CUCCURUCU 2179653 Our existence is screen deep From e-mail to I-phone from text to twitter and status updates, everything is reduced to a single sentence, a snapshot, a video, a thumbnail or emotion. Lack of depth, the old literary masters turning in their graves, having liberated an army of superficial first glance pop up culture addicts. Books are surviving dinosaurs, the old ever saviors of imagination, and yet procrastination is worsened by one click applications that swear to save time in your life… yeah but for what? Emotionally raped by an inescapable long-term involvement with cultural objects, we are dragged into orgies of interactive collaborations, simultaneous responses and collective discourses. Our personal lives are dispersed mixed blurred and digitalised fragments, stored on hard drives and casually commented on. Nothing is permanent, everything is immediately rolled down and out of screen by a new update. A fast changing, restless interface. How does our emotional life keep up with so much change? Are we lacking depth and time or are technologies simply accelerating until we swallow themselves? Is the loss of big narratives in our lives and the volatile nature of modern gadgets just a coincidence? The touch & go quality of values that are exchangeable, competitive and unstable is influencing the way we feel about our lives and us. I sense this is not heading the way I would like it to go. If it’s true that technology is making us realize how futile, dispersed and chaotic our lives are, is it not just simply lifting a veil that has been cast over us for hundreds of years? It is true that these gadgets can put us in touch with millions of other people, but is it not simply making us feel more and more alone, insignificant? With technologies ever advancing and self challenging, I feel there is a difficulty in maintaining one’s life in smooth coherence. Its true that life is but a series of moments stuck together but also true that gadgets are disintegrating these moments in hundreds of micro fragments, crystallising the most minuscule of feelings into tweets,status updates or video texts. Secrets best kept secret. “Anonymous people send in homemade postcards that reveal their darkest secrets for the world to see. The secrets can range from shocking to depressing to funny to lame.” And that is exactly my point. There are no secrets anymore. This melee of social sharing that has has now encompassed brands, people and robots alike. And to me it feels wrong. A loss of innocence perhaps? The Guardian wrote this weekend about the sexualization of the young (http://bit.ly/c8ODqB) and I think there is a link with this trend, and our increased hunger for social sharing (or ‘networking’ but thats another discussion). Ignorance is bliss, and blessed are the young, but not in this day and age. Knowledge is power but it also represents a lack of innocence. If I would be to choose, I would choose to not know everything, to ‘unknow’ even, if that were possible. Forget, later in life, some of the ugly lessons my run in with reality has taught me so far. Cherish your ignorance, you will never get I back. Feelings all around the world. are they making us less lonely? Or are we more prone to comparing? are these just overwhelming signals of individuality? As opposed to a sense of unity. Is it really reassuring to know that absolutely everyone is feeling exactly how we feel? A sense of dispersion, easy communicability but still communication breakdown. Will the film of the future portray people constantly on their twitters, i-phones, facebook? Digital gadgets stress our need to be always somewhere else. Being us the one ones who need to be hoping and dreaming always of something else. Tweeting instead of living. Updating instead of thinking. Missing out. Constantly. Not on other events, but on our own life. Loss of meaning by over saturation. I am sobering for an unnecessary dysfunctional circus of distractions, constantly stimulated by external visual attacks. I can’t feel any more. My skin is cold like a screen. All I can but react in a defensive manner to a prestipulated concussion of ideals, minced meat hailing on my head, scratching abrasively my eyes. Our existence is screen deep From e-mail to I-phone from text to twitter and status updates, everything is reduced to a single sentence, a snapshot, a video, a... http://cargocollective.com/CUCCURUCU/CliffHouse http://cargocollective.com/CUCCURUCU/following/CUCCURUCU/CliffHouse Wed, 02 Nov 2011 13:15:49 +0000 CUCCURUCU 2242690 A cross platform interactive short story. <img src="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/4/159806/2242690/Chouse.jpg" width="670" height="493" width_o="890" height_o="656" src_o="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/4/159806/2242690/Chouse_o.jpg" data-mid="11347723" border="0" align="left"/> Prologue He no longer missed the regular coffee place. On a rainy monday morning the first place where he had his first coffee when he moved in the area, felt cozy, warm and welcoming. Now the rain started falling a lot harder, the noise cancelling everything else.The coffee seemed a lot better than he used to remember. He almost could not believe he spent the last few months in the other cafe now. The people, the music, even the fittings were not what he would often like to describe in his way, more "honest". The fact that his own taste, his own likes and beliefs, his own judgement was shaken by this very realisation, was just a small significant sign of his situation. For him, the benefit of the doubt simply escalated to some gargantuous horrific proportions, taking over everything in his life. He was perpetually confronted by the very doubting of his own convictions - in some of the simplest of daily decisions - like on which side of the road to walk, which word to use, which shoes to wear and which ones to return after few minutes of purchase. Even the simplest of pleasures felt forever jeopardised. How long would that moment last? Was he really enjoying it or was he meant to be enjoying it? How long was an acceptable time to stay at a table in a coffee place without ordering? Was he crazy to worry or was he simply over caring and aware of people around him? Whilst lost in these thoughts, half of the people in the cafe left and a new crowd replaced the old one. He started looking at people, when his phone suddenly rung displaying Unknown as the caller. It was the wrong number, they were looking for George. It suddenly came to him how relaxing it was not to have any associations with that name. Taking a long breath, he retuned to his thoughts. His task for the day was: 1/ write a small story for his friend Michael, who run a boring blog on the side of his advertising job. 2/go for a run. 3/ tidy up the loft where his girlfriend threw all her stuff before taking a work trip to NY. She encouraged him to go through her stuff in the attempt of giving him something to do and try keep the mess to a minimum whilst she was away. He was looking forward to these things in approximately the opposite order. He kept procrastinating the writing of the article and was considering the rain as the perfect excuse for skipping the run. He spent few minutes looking a the newly formed crowd of people around him in the cafe. Picked his bag and started heading home, remembering after all that she was the reason why he stopped going to that cafe and started being a regular in the other one. With this thought nailed in his head, he was home quicker than said. He could not help but notice of one the boxes among all the others, the one containing old photos.They belonged to a time when she was still at university and most likely be a different person, with a different haircut, seeing other friends, going out with someone else.He didn't think much of it and started separating things in compartments. What he loved the most was to pile books by genre, classic, art, paperback, hardback. The simple pleasure of smelling dust and sneezing with books in his hands was enough to keep him busy and happy all afternoon.It was one of the largest book that grabbed his attention. His irregular size made it impossible to pile with the rest of the books, and even to his expert eye, he could not tell quickly by the cover what kind of book it was. The cover picture was kind of eerie/ it demanded a few more minutes focus on the photograph and the title. It read Cliffhouse Hotel. Coming Soon A cross platform interactive short story. Prologue He no longer missed the regular coffee place. On a rainy monday morning the first place where he had his... http://cargocollective.com/CUCCURUCU/DID-I-belong-to-U http://cargocollective.com/CUCCURUCU/following/CUCCURUCU/DID-I-belong-to-U Wed, 02 Nov 2011 12:39:54 +0000 CUCCURUCU 2242459 A teaser for DID latest single Belong To you out on Foolica Records on the 24th February. <img src="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/4/159806/2242459/Echoes.png" width="670" height="430" width_o="904" height_o="581" src_o="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/4/159806/2242459/Echoes_o.png" data-mid="11225196" border="0" align="left"/> A teaser for DID latest single Belong To you out on Foolica Records on the 24th February. http://cargocollective.com/CUCCURUCU/Twitter-Novel http://cargocollective.com/CUCCURUCU/following/CUCCURUCU/Twitter-Novel Thu, 20 Oct 2011 11:17:18 +0000 CUCCURUCU 2178277 A Twitter Novel. 140 characters every day for a month. Slowly, unseen, she escaped from the crowd & walked to the middle of the large unnerving wooden hall, moving towards a small square window. She lifted her toes to peek through the window.A lush foliage claimed space in the yard.A man & an elderly woman were animatedly discussing. They stood still for one interminable moment.Then, he handed her a plastic bag with what looked like a woman’s long brown wig inside of it. The old woman was wealthy enough to look at least ten years younger if it wasn’t for her neck and her boney sun damaged hands giving away. The old woman left the young man standing there & then, as if he had been always aware of her presence, he turned his head & stared at her. She moved away & looked again.he was staring at her.from the yard. through the foliage,right into the small window.A doorbell made her turn. She remembered about the crowd she separated from earlier.the museum was closing.she had to leave by the front door & walk through the yard. She rejoined the group with a childlike feeling of excitement & guilt as they exited the yard,hiding between two tall brothers at the back. She walked on, her gaze focused on the cufflinks of the two twins, until she felt her hand brushed. Her heart stopped, his eyes stared. Her heart skipped a beat. she recognised his eyes from somewhere very familiar and daunting, they were piercing black like his corvine hair. She could not face looking longer at his eyes & instantly she remembered where she saw that face before: in one of her father’s work slides. Running quickly ahead of the crowd, she crossed the road and managed to get on the first bus. A hard piece of paper appeared in her pocket.. She wondered whether he could have slipped it in her pocket earlier. It had a name quickly scribbled with a pencil, on it. Henry de Ferrers. She promptly googled it & found not much beside the first google resulthttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_de_Ferrers. Not what she expected. After a quick scan, something stood out : “His family tree is well researched and various people are said to be descended from his line.” George the First, Lady Diana, George Washington and Winston Churchill, and likely the actress Mia Farrow.She kept reading & missed her stop. Walking back, she passed the villa of one of many extravagant neighbours: ornated with thousand fake flowers pots, was home to an old widow. She forgot for a moment about the events of the morning. The widow, endowed with the blondest wig, promptly waved from her colourful patio. She waved back, looked for keys in her pocket & found that paper.Once home, she walked into her dad’s studio to look for that familiar face. After digging the old carousel projector,she started looking for slides in the grey 50’s cabinet drowned in stickers from when she was a kid. A small rusty box was sitting on the bottom shelf wrapped in see through cellophane.If there is nothing to hide,why hiding? She grabbed it. Blinds down,room locked,she poured herself some whiskey & switched on the projector.The first batch of slides was marked in red, Winter1972. Curiosity was stronger than guilt.With no hesitation,the first slide was up. A group photo of high altitude skiers posing in a hotel lobby. They were toasting to something;the sunset was cutting through large windows casting a soft red surreal light.She couldn’t spot her father. He must have taken the photo. She recognised a woman, two twins to be precise; unable to make the connection, she moved onto the next slide. The twins were there. They reminded her of the Wurtele’shttp://t.co/hdoPqYy One was a brunette & one wore a handkerchief on her whole head. Only then, she realised one looked exactly like her neighbour next door, the one wearing the bleach blond wig. It was her & her twin sister. The next slide was up. Her father was standing at the bar next to a tall guy in a suit & a slightly older man with red duilio pointed shoes. In the back a hardly readable neon light sign reading “Harry-d…”She poured herself more whiskey. Could not have beenhttp://t.co/bM6XEgQ Then & only then, she remembered what she found written on that scribbled piece of paper, found in her pocket earlier : ” Henry de Ferrers”. Strange feeling to see her father /so young in those photos/so intimate with a group of people she never heard of, or recognised.A stranger. Still, the man she was looking for,wasn’t there. The whole thing started to feel like a childish waste of time. Until the next slide was up. In the same photo, the man with corvine hair she saw earlier in the day, one of the two twins & her father were laughing & dancing together. <img src="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/4/159806/2178277/tumblr_lniczjHjO51qctnhc.png" width="350" height="477" width_o="350" height_o="477" src_o="http://payload.cargocollective.com/1/4/159806/2178277/tumblr_lniczjHjO51qctnhc_o.png" data-mid="10887150" border="0" align="left"/> A Twitter Novel. 140 characters every day for a month. Slowly, unseen, she escaped from the crowd & walked to the middle of the large unnerving wooden hall,...