Giuseppe Papallo - Scylla et Charybdis

In the deep south of Italy, among the ancient olive trees and the prickly pears, the Greek ruins and the Norman castles, time flows slowly.

White cotton blankets dry in the summer sun, which burns the air and yellows the tomatoes’ leaves, while the village enjoys its ritualistic afternoon nap. In the kitchen, sacred temple of the meridional philosophy, the sea breeze brings in the smell of oregano and basil, and the muffled bubbling of the ragù cooking in a terracotta pot beats the unhurried rhythm of life.

Coffee rumbling on the stove now breaks the silence and gives birth to the afternoon. The characters regain their position and recreate a scene that seems lost in time: the nonna's sit on wicker chairs balanced on the partial shadow of their doorstep, conversing, gossiping, waving to the known faces and suspiciously staring at the unknown ones; the old men sit at the bar, slapping loudly, with the thick hands hardened by decades of work in the fields, the cards on the plastic table, shouting, drinking beer and snacking on lupini. Others just rest on the benches under the trees, observing the world and patiently practicing the art of waiting.

They appear indifferent to change, even though deep down they are probably aware that they may be the last actors of this play that has been presented for centuries. The steady flow of emigration in the past few decades has created a generational vacuum in those small villages which aren’t famous touristic spots. The elderly are the only ones left for most of the year. And as they get older, and pass away, the fields stop being cultivated, the houses are slowly abandoned and ancient traditions begin to fade.

Summer is a breath of fresh air in the small towns: those who had left, come back to their roots to spend the holidays with their families. And with them come their children, born and raised in the richer cities of the north, far away from the land of their ancestors in where now they are living a portion of a life that could have been theirs. That land that they first met through stories and old photographs, now becomes real and vivid. The streets rejoice with life, as the carefree kids run around and kick their footballs in the dirt. For a moment, things seem anachronistic and immutable, in this land, made of millennia of invasions, conquests and migrations, capable of swallowing anyone who draws too near.

This story is a collection of these moments, seen through the eyes of one of these children, trying to capture the memories of a nostalgic past, before they evaporate.