Soft Waters

Soft water

This place in the Italian mountains smells of earth and plants, shrouded in mist by a cloud resting on the ground. I have been visiting my friend here regularly for ten years; I am given an insight and allowed to participate. Much of what we eat comes from our cultivation; the soil here is cool and nutrient-rich. It takes and gives, and what grows here tastes wild and full of love.

Mountains have a way of leading upwards. They climb along rivers that do what they do best, through forests that mock our mortality, over rocks that will never give way, and the only thing left to do is ascent. You hear yourself so clearly and sink into evenings with music and people you love. You dance or are silent together: around the chapel and the cemetery, at weddings and funerals. You think about family and tradition, red wine and olive oil, and friendship. Will I recognise myself when I get to the top? Will it be high enough there?

Just before the summit lies the Santuario di Oropa, also known as the shrine between heaven and earth, a place of pilgrimage where the Black Madonna lives. The surrounding rocks whisper of the local textile and rice trade, architecture and prayers, droughts and storms. They know everything that binds and destroys us, making us friends or enemies. To be mist once, intangible and defying everything, just floating. But what would I be missing?

Text: Torsten Schwick, Berlin 2024