Trame di Luna
Antonio Forte
Sep 1
5 min read
Moon Wefts. When one weaves on a warp-weighted loom, perhaps as the ancient Samnites did, there are vertical threads called warps, and horizontal threads called wefts. Words are the warps and wefts of language; language the tapestry stretching backwards into the mists of our collective cultural stories, and growing forwards into the future we are all constructing together. Language is a living organism. It hungers, it thirsts, it moves, it changes, and if neglected it dies. To prevent ‘language death,’ it is simple: speak, listen, play, sing, read, write.
One of the intentions that has emerged over the past several years of my research and creative activities based on the ancient Samnites, is to shed a bit of light upon their 'dead' language, to bring it back into the light of a public consciousness (the light of the sun, the light of the moon, any light will do). And what better way to do this than in Samnium itself, Sannio, modern-day Molise. For the second year in a row I was invited to participate in the annual Trame di Luna Festival d'arte in natura ('Festival of Art in Nature'), art exhibition in the village of Filignano, in Molise, Italy. The title means 'moon wefts,' or 'wefts of the moon.' Last year I contributed a video piece, which explained the origin and creative process behind my musical score and computer instrument based on the stone walls of Pietrabbondante's Samnite theatre, called KÚMBENNIEÍS SAFINIM FÚRTIS. This year, the festival's second, I came up with the idea to engage the community directly with the Oscan language, shedding a little moonlight on the Samnites' words in the process.
I set out early one morning in search of rocks, limestone rocks, the same material that the walls at Pietrabbondante were made from. I collected twenty-one rocks in all, one for each letter of the Oscan alphabet. While searching for the stones, I made sure to take a walking stick with me, as is customary for both aesthetic and utilitarian reasons: one never knows when one will cross paths with any of the local fauna: cinghiali (wild boars), orse (bears), volpi (foxes), lupi (wolves), or scorpioni (scorpions).
I've come across scorpioni in the past. Once, waiting for me on the front doorstep, and another time hiding inside a shoebox I was saving to ship some dried clay to a ceramicist in London. I had even found a tiny, white baby scorpion, no bigger than the nail of my pinky finger, sitting on a pair of pants that had not made it out of my luggage (luckily I had found it before repacking...disaster averted).
So I began turning over rocks using the end of my walking stick. Sure enough, lo and behold, one appeared, posturing itself defensively at my brazen intrusion into its home. Mi dispiace, I muttered ('I'm sorry'). I quickly grabbed a small twig and gently ushered it away, hoping it would find another, more suitable domicile (no scorpions were harmed in the making of this work).
[Caption: A scorpion under a limestone rock.]
[Caption: A scorpion on the doorstep.]
[Caption: A scorpion in a shoebox.]
My astrological sign is Scorpio, so I suppose there is little wonder that I've come across several in the past, all in the name of art. Who knows...maybe the moons knows...maybe the stones know...
[Caption: Sketch for my installation for the Trame di Luna show.]
Scorpions aside, after I had collected all twenty-one stones (they were heavy, and the Molisan sun was hot, so I took several trips up and down the mountainous trails), I lined them up on the floor of the studio---affectionately called la cantina---leaning against the wall and against each other. In the spirit of the ancient Samnites, and in the spirit of Experimental Archaeology, I thought what better way to capture their alphabet than with materials they would have used: I manufactured some oak gall ink, using locally-foraged oak galls.
There is a certain species of wasp which lays its eggs under the bark on oak branches. As the larva grows it secretes a chemical which the tree reacts to by forming a growth around it, called a gall. Once the gall falls to the ground, and the young wasp burrows out and flies away, they are ready to harvest (no wasps were harmed in the making of this work).
It is easy to make oak gall ink. One starts by crushing up the oak galls (a hammer, or even a flat rock should do the trick). The pulverized galls are then placed in a glass jar and submerged in water, like steeping tea or coffee. Next...waiting. The longer one waits, letting the oak galls steep, the darker the ink. Finally, the solids are strained, and the deep, coffee-brown liquid that remains is ready to use.
Because my time was limited between the start of my oak gall ink-making endeavor and the installation date, I ended up borrowing some previously-made oak gall ink, generously lent by Tracy Mackenna. Upon the surface of each limestone rock, I began painting each letter of the Oscan alphabet. In an effort to be further 'authentic' to the tools and materials available to the Samnites, I used a natural animal-hair ink brush with reed handle that I had brought with me.
[Caption: Time-lapse video of the Oscan alphabet, painted with oak gall ink on limestone. The music is also an original piece by me, titled Un'altro flauto ('Another flute').]
I did not simply want to represent the Oscan alphabet to the public, but make it accessible, let it out of the research books, break free of the museum vitrines, and relinquish itself from the digital archives which I had been seeing it in for so long, and jump back into peoples' hands; in other words re-present it, bring it out of the past and back into the present. To further this intention, I invited the exhibition-goers to write their names in Oscan, the majority of whom were inhabitants of Collemacchia, Filignano, and the many other neighboring villages...villages that today rest upon the same ground that so many centuries, so many millennia ago felt the feet and heard the words of the Samnites.
[Caption: Left: work by artist Emma Loy. Center: 2D and 3D works by several local artists. Right: work by artist Kevin Gilmore.]
The Trame di Luna show took place in Filignano's former elementary school. Sadly, because of changes in population and local budgets, it was recently closed down and the students now attend the school in a larger neighboring town. Myself and several of the participating artists joined the group of locals to clean, prepare, and install the entire ground floor, transforming the classrooms, corridors, and courtyard into an art gallery.
[Caption: Several video pieces, sculptures, hand-crafted instruments, a description of the GPS-scavenger-hunt installation around Collemacchia/Filignano titled 'Restituzione' by artist Nick Disaster (bottom right), and even a Virtual Reality piece by VR artist Riccardo Galdenzi (bottom left).]
[Caption: A projection mapping piece using audio-reactive video manipulation by artist Kevin Gilmore, entitled 'Blurring my thoughts of "here" + "there"'.]
[Caption: Putting the final touches on my installation.]
[Caption: Limestone is such a porous material--multiple coats of oak gall ink were needed.]
[Caption: Several views of my installation titled 'L'alfabeto dei Sanniti (la lingua Osca)' (The Alphabet of the Samnites (the Oscan Language)).]
[Caption: Several people writing their names in Oscan.]
[Caption: DJ Old Bob spinning some danceable tunes at Trame di Luna.]
A very special mille grazie ('thousand thanks') to the tireless and indomitable Pierluigi Iannarelli for organizing the Trame di Luna, bringing such vibrant art, experiences, and community together. And thank you also to Tracy Mackenna for her boundless generosity and guidance, and for inviting me to participate and engage with the community.
And now it's your turn: I invite you to write your name in Oscan (*remember to write right-to-left), and upload a photo in the comments below.
[Caption: My hand-drawn Oscan alphabet, with Latinized phonetic equivalent underneath.]
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