Il campo Marianne mirage shot by Michele Rossetti
Sifting through with magnifying lenses and strumming the strings of grass, the fields of Emilia Romagna turned into a skating rink of earth. I gave meaning to my best outfit and once again had the honor of entering Marianne’s mind-home. But this time, it was a real home, not just a metaphorical one.
Every time I mentally interview the artists I encounter, it’s a pleasure. But getting to know their scarlet worlds through their glassy eyes fascinates me even more.
Together with her producer and partner Marquis, we feasted in celebration of curiosity, indulging in meaningful food and important drinks. I also had the pleasure of meeting her lovely parents, elves with wide-open eyes and the childlike curiosity of those raised gathering figs and walking diagonally across perpendicular fields.
When I first heard the song “Il campo” (The Field), I was enchanted and wanted to know more. The field, for a landlocked sailor like me, is like the sea for a mermaid widow of a foggy lighthouse.
Marianne suggested we shoot the photos right where she grew up, behind her house, where tamed fields let old bicycles swim undisturbed, where rabbits dart to and fro, and where chickens play hide-and-seek with fate.
When we arrived, Anna’s geese raised their voices in bark-like cries, forgetting that Marianne, with her swan song, could rival even the wildest and most unruly roosters. I was no less fierce. Raised on Lake Maggiore, I made a dance move, and the confused geese scattered, speckled and flustered.
Anna, the elderly woman the song speaks of, seemed like a child wearing a mask of wrinkles. Her back curved diagonally, her legs standing straight like the lines of a football formation or an architectural tool. But this team is led by her alone. She conducts an orchestra of animals and timid creatures.
Anna still works to this day, even though dear Aldo no longer walks the fields. Yet his presence lingers, like the ghostly clanking of his old tractor echoing in the distance.
Anna smiles and hides, but the beauty of the wrinkled tunnels across her face only deepens the curiosity of a trotting cowboy like me.
That day, Marianne wasn’t in the mood to pose. We all have those moments. But luckily, she agreed to go and see what might unfold. Il campo is something tangible, real, visceral. A sweet lullaby, not to fall asleep to, but to wake up with—like the cooing of doves, the bickering of swallows, the tip-tap of cicadas.
Marianne climbs onto her rustic, hybrid, two-legged bicycle with Marquis, and they disappear into the horizon. Perhaps it was a tribute to Anna and her Aldo, fading together into the sunlight, backlit at the edge of the day.
