Figura (figure) is an Italian word of Latin derivation that shares the very same etymology with fingere (to pretend), which used to mean to mould, originally. Its primary meaning concerns the appearance of something, but it is also adopted in physics, geometry, and often art — as ‘Landscape with figures’ exemplifies. However, when it comes to Mara Palena’s work, the most immediate meaning that comes to my mind is to dance, as figure (figures) — and I thank Treccani’s accuracy — also stand for “a series of harmonious movements in time and space, either of a whole person or just one body part (e.g. arms, legs, torso, head, and so on). Each figure is governed by the laws of cadence, rhythm, and proportion, and bears a particular name.” Such harmonious movements are not to be seen here: you will only glimpse, behind opaque glass and grill-protected openings, a few gestures. Or rather, each of us will see different things by observing this choreography’s figures, where we are the actual dancers. We dance in space, we move to the sounds of the artist’s memory, trying to interpret the unknown, recognize words, identify sources. When there’s nothing to look at, you may see yourself. You may listen to the sound of the sea despite the city out there, feel your feet wetting, and hear the waves crashing on the rocks. What’s the difference between your body and those rocks? A seagull afar. I look at the ceiling and see a plane. Crickets chirp outside the window, yet it’s November in Milan. I always hear them as I cycle along the disused tram tracks; they hide amid the fallow grass, they hide in my hair. I move my hands messily to try to shoo a fly, push your voice away, push the memory of you away. One two three four five six seven. I’ve even searched for hypnotic techniques to try to sleep, to shut off my thoughts, as sorry as I am that you are alone and sad. Hearing you laugh comforts me, lifts me up, but that accordion is a bad omen, the even stronger misery of your loneliness. It’s the misery for the passing of time, of people, for that amazement, carefreeness, courage you only have in your teenage years. And if a straight line is an infinite set of aligned points, with neither beginning nor end, extending endlessly in both directions, having one dimension only, the length, always straight and with no thickness, then I know that, as I follow this choreography, I’d rather go astray. I’d rather go astray. M1arta Cereda