It was an event more radical than has ever been organized before, spread throughout the year only through their own social media and newsletter. Almost completely off the map of Bushwick Open Studios and any other artistic district of Brooklyn, the event was held in a semi-abandoned venue that required the commitment of construction more stoic than epicurean, in a block-ghetto totally disconnected from other contests of its nature.

The title, “The Rebirth of Wonder”, desired to be an invitation to an effort of depth and that was the selection matrix of the selected works. Above all, the search for conversations elected through an international call, a question of evidence and tracks times to respond to an inner need of my staff.

If I chose to write this experience without subjectivism, I should not write anything.

Whether standing alone when the doors were closed or among the many guests who arrived from countries and cities’ far and wide, from the sparse characters of the neighborhood who visited the exhibition to every other body there, I got to meet almost all. This includes the winning artists of the contest; talking with them about the stories of their works, especially watching them install, watching and hearing them stay close to their work, hearing and watching while they conversed in their language of origin with their friends and relatives. All of this allowed me to experience the freshness of the organizational approach. I took this as the serious genuineness of the experiences that I collected.

If there is joy in waiting for such a benevolent event, then the shock of the encounter is really where the wonder lives. And this shock was not found by talking, but we need to anticipate it in his breath, in the perception of his expectation, therefore, accept it. Among the episodes that happened, I want to remember that of the beggar and his naturally submissive gaze, his smile stumbled through his teeth while he beckoned me. “I can sit?” he asked (or as far as my improvised Spanish could gather), our mutual sense of shame in our differences. His ’cause you did? My ’cause I lost the wonder. His and you came to look for him in front of my house? Our fight hand, our greeting, get away, suddenly slow, suddenly brisk. His shaking his head laughing aloud. My thinking about him now. The wonder knows also arise from actions tiny, just to be great the intentions.

Article by Alessandro Berni