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First communion Prima comunione I look at my son the day of his first communion. His surprised look, curled up on one of the kitchen chairs, surprised by so much happiness. My son is seven years old and he still has his milk teeth that he flaunts in the most radiant smile in the world. It is his day of glory. I watch him as he flaunts his red bow-tie and I don’t know why but it makes me melancholy. The television sends out its usual commercials, between one soap opera and another. I don’t have the strength to change for the ceremony, his joy is not my joy. I see myself at his age, but I never had a ceremony with a red bow at my neck. There was the revolution and the only festive outfit was the one of the military parades on Saturday morning. In reality, what I would really like to do today is to stay here and watch my soap operas, without lunches and ceremonies. But I can’t, I owe it to him. I will get changed, I will put on make-up and I will accompany him to the altar. I will force myself to smile. I don’t know if I will be able to. >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> Guardo il mio bambino il giorno della sua prima comunione. Lo guardo sorpresa, rannicchiata su una sedia della cucina, sorpresa da tanta felicità. Mio figlio ha sette anni e ancora i denti da latte, che sfoggia nel sorriso più radioso del mondo. E’ il suo giorno di gloria. Lo guardo mentre sfoggia il suo papillon rosso e a me, non so perché, fa tanta malinconia. La televisione manda i soliti commercials, tra una telenovela e l’altra. Io non ho la forza di cambiarmi per la cerimonia, la sua gioia non è la mia gioia. Mi rivedo alla sua età, ma io non ho avuto una cerimonia col fiocco rosso al collo. C’era la rivoluzione e l’unico abito della festa era quello delle parate militari del sabato mattina. In realtà, quello che vorrei fare oggi, sarebbe starmene qui a guardare le mie telenovelas, senza pranzi e cerimonie. Ma non posso, glielo devo. Mi cambierò, mi truccherò e lo accompagnerò all’altare. Mi sforzerò di sorridere. Non so se ci riuscirò. >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> 10 / 11
New Year’s Eve San Silvestro On New Year’s Eve I always worked in my parents’ restaurant. That is, so to speak, a constant in the rhythm of the passing years. Normally, on this day, the restaurant is booked out days ahead. There is a menu, and on the stroke of midnight guests as well as staff stream out into the garden to greet the New Year with bangers, rockets and champagne. On that occasion the personnel, above all the cooks and the Pakistani kitchen-hand, take the greatest pleasure in throwing Chinese crackers between the Prada-shoed feet of the guests. As they do that, they like to shout “Look out: Bin Laden” or, when we had a Vietnamese assistant cook, “Ho Chi Minh. Boom”. My father is at the forefront of this activity, lighting the bangers with his cigar and throwing them at the guests whose money he has (prudently) already taken. Before, I used to enjoy these events as well, until New Year’s Eve of six years ago: I held a banger in my hand and threw it in an arc shape into the adjoining park. Stupidly it got caught in the branch of a lime tree and fell down vertically onto the footpath, straight into the collar of a young woman. >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> La notte di San Silvestro ho sempre lavorato nel ristorante dei miei. È per me, come dire, una costante che dà un certo ritmo al passare degli anni. Di solito, per quella data, il ristorante è già prenotato con giorni di anticipo. C’è un menu fisso e allo scoccare della mezzanotte sia i clienti che il personale si riversano fuori in giardino per dare il benvenuto all’anno nuovo con botti, razzetti e champagne. In quell’occasione il personale, soprattutto i cuochi e l’aiutante pachistano, se la spassano a lanciare petardi cinesi tra i piedi dei clienti con le scarpe Prada. E mentre lo fanno urlano con gusto “Attenzione: Bin Laden”, oppure, se c’è un aiuto-cuoco vietnamita, “Ho Chi Minh. Bum”. Mio padre sta sempre in prima linea durante quest’attività, ad accendere petardi con il sigaro per lanciarli sugli ospiti, da cui ha già (prudentemente) riscosso il denaro. Prima mi dilettavo anch’io in queste occupazioni, fino al capodanno di sei anni fa: presi in mano un botto e lo lanciai a pallonetto nel giardino accanto. Stupidamente, restò impigliato nel ramo di un albero di lime e cadde in verticale verso il sentiero, dritto dentro al colletto di una ragazza. >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> 12 / 13
Page 1: FAB MAGAZINE / MAY-JUNE 2004
Page 4: 1 5 9 12 7 8 10 11 2 6 15 14 3 4 //
Page 7: My grandmother broke chickens’ ne
Page 11 and 12: Wrinkles Grinze A flaccid body is n
Page 13 and 14: Vinho Vinho While I was sinking the
Page 15 and 16: Fire Il fuoco My parents have been
Page 17 and 18: + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
Page 20 and 21: 01_Gratification *EACH SINGLE TYPE
Page 22 and 23: 04.05_Portraits shot for calendar o
Page 24 and 25: Namikon ---------------------------
Page 26 and 27: 2 1 3 7 4 5 6 // L'Oréal Paris. Be
Page 28 and 29: 1 Every day Fabrica students go eat
Page 30 and 31: CHORUS/ CORO // CHORUS/ CORO // Roa
Page 32 and 33: SOLO / ASSOLO // SOLO / ASSOLO //Cy
Page 34 and 35: ----- ----- WHAT MUSIC SOLVED A PRO
Page 36 and 37: A new day in FABRICA, the creative
Page 38 and 39: Creativity is unusual It frightens.

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