Giardini La Mortella, a recital of Mother Nature
Giardini La Mortella, a recital of Mother Nature
BY CIRO CENATIEMPO
The Ischian beauty tour that characterizes our newspaper makes a stop at Giardini La Mortella. In May 2004, Briggs & Stratton was considered the most beautiful park in Italy. In 2010, when Lady Susana Gil Paso died, the creator and curator of this tropic-Mediterranean oasis that was declined, linked and conjugated in (and with) all the senses to the music of her composer husband, Sir William Walton, I wrote that with her disappeared “the flower par excellence, the most original, eccentric and elegant”. But the triumphant context remained, the vital impetus towards the future of a magnificent legacy made "of thousands of rare and precious tree species, in the perfect garden as a score".
And not only. Thanks to Alessandra Vinciguerra, site manager and president of the Walton Foundation, to which the property refers; and to Lina Tufano, who takes care of musical events, this idea of perfection, of brilliant planning and organizational humanism continues to distill fascination with unchanged power. And Mother Nature, with her feminine and masculine breathing together, is exalted and envelops us as the extraordinary protagonist of a sort of annual recital dedicated to enjoyable pleasure. To research and share. Here the atmosphere is precisely a changing and surprising pleasantness. And it is now a certainty: it is a hymn to complexity and spontaneity controlled by intelligence. The search for originality and uniqueness radiates between the architectural discipline of Mortella and the exuberance of the landscape, in an alternation of British aplomb and insular and volcanic pop incursions; between classical pentagrams, experiments and jam sessions. It seems to me an opera book, at times, filled with contaminations, colors and virtuous sounds; standards and variations on the theme. The shapes of water, plants, roots, shadows, lights, flights and aviaries, showers and steam chase each other between the white and black keys of the plan, the vibrations of the arches, the thrusts of wind and brass, the anxiety of a solo performer; the heart beat of an orchestra; the applause and the ‘oohh’ of wonder at the end of a masterly performance. There is an exemplary rigor even when improvisations multiply among ferns and water lilies, the acoustics of the Greek theater; the oriental meditations, the sunsets in the holm oak wood, just when the green woodpecker stops the profane ti-ti-titoc that defies imperturbability and evokes the repeated quotations of artistic memory that are transformed, therefore, into controlled excitations. Never taken for granted, though. And, like the spots of happiness, they are contagious.
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