Filippo Brancoli Pantera

Flying Carpets [Edition of 5+2 ap, 70x90 cm.]

Exhibition Tappeti Volanti @ Festival del Possibile (Lucca, Italy) 2021

This work began in a particular period – March 2020 – when travelling was impossible and the new frontier had become the threshold of one’s home.

Yet, in the drawer of events, alongside the negative ones, there are often others that are not at all unpleasant, such as the ability to observe the world around us with renewed attention.

It seems that Thales was the first to pronounce the famous phrase “know yourself”. According to tradition, it referred to the limits of our human condition, to the recognition of the measure that defines who we are. In this sense, the inscription appeared on the temple of Apollo at Delphi. But every boundary, if accepted, can also become a vantage point: a border which, instead of closing things off, guides our gaze. Thus, knowing oneself can also mean knowing the territory that surrounds us, the space within which our experience takes shape. For a small fragment of the world to be interesting, it does not necessarily have to be far away: it is enough to inhabit what is near to us with care, to recognise the value of what constitutes and shelters us. Beauty is all around us; we only need to know how to look at it.

So I began to look with ever greater curiosity at the trees I encountered and, above all, to raise my head whenever I walked beneath them; what had at first appeared to me as an intricate and chaotic tangle of branches and foliage turned into a colourful and elegant pattern that reminded me of Persian carpet motifs. From there, it was only a short step to seeing what I observed as flying carpets: after all, imagination is a way of knowing the world better rather than escaping from it.

As the research progressed, the discourse became richer with new discoveries and ancient connections: our culture is in fact so closely bound up with the use of plants that, among the foliage of trees, one can travel back in time, following the threads of our history just as one might do with a manual.

Just think of oaks: there is not a single great society of the past that developed without the help of these trees; they populate the space around us as much as they line the trail of time we leave behind. Yet they also hide in our pockets – just take a look: the copper-coloured euro cents minted in Germany bear their image, as does the emblematic coat of arms of France.

In Sanskrit there is a word – duir – which in Italian can be translated with two meanings: “oak” or simply “tree”, without making any distinction, because none is needed: this is the tree. Celtic languages adopted the term, which is why the oak is called dru and the druids are called druids. In Greek, instead, it is drys, like the dryads, the nymphs believed to be immortal, just like these trees that were sacred to Zeus (and then to Jupiter, and later also to Thor). They have always been regarded as symbols of strength and wisdom, like that of Elzéard Bouffier, the protagonist of Jean Giono’s story The Man Who Planted Trees, a few pages that, once read, will stay with you forever, like the oaks themselves.

Speaking of oaks without mentioning lindens would be something of a discourtesy, at least according to the classics, who were often right. These trees, in one way or another, always do good to what surrounds them, even to the soil in which they are planted; this is why they were sacred to Aphrodite (Venus for the Romans, Freyja for the Norse), the goddess of love. Among the many stories told by Ovid, there is one in Book VIII of the Metamorphoses in which Zeus and Hermes wander through Phrygia disguised as beggars; they wanted to find out whether human beings were good or evil. So the gods knocked on door after door, always being refused lodging, until they reached the humble hut where Philemon and Baucis lived, a couple who led a very simple life and just as simply offered them everything they had. Pleased with the treatment he had received, Zeus decided he would grant them a wish, and the couple asked only to remain united even in death. At the appointed time Philemon and Baucis were transformed respectively into an oak and a linden, yet joined together in a single trunk. Zeus’s generosity was a rare thing, and he therefore gave pride of place to the tree sacred to him, the oak. To Baucis he wished instead to give the form of a linden, in some way underlining the importance of bonds and affections: the horizontal one that linked the two human beings and the vertical one that bound him to Aphrodite, his daughter (according to Homer’s account), to whom the linden was dedicated. Whether it is Zeus, Jupiter or Thor, they will always be represented by an oak; beside Aphrodite, Venus or Freyja, instead, there will always be a linden.

Even the days of the week preserve a trace of these stories: in Italian, the day called Friday (venerdì) takes its name from Venus (Venere), while in the Germanic languages the same day is linked to Freyja – hence the English Friday and the German Freitag – which is fascinating, because in every case the reference ultimately leads back to the same day, Friday.

That there are very many species of linden, and that they hybridise with one another very easily, is not all that surprising, given the divinity to whom they are linked. In Italy the most widespread species are the small-leaved linden (Tilia cordata) and the large-leaved linden (Tilia platyphyllos); when hybridised they give rise to the so‑called European linden (Tilia × europaea), one of the most frequent inhabitants of our streets. Unlike other trees, the linden is marked by a gentle underlying constancy that is evident in every aspect of its being, including its growth, slow yet relentless; it can live for a thousand years, but it does so unhurriedly: until about 150 years of age it grows slowly and upward, then it begins to spread out. This is why it is rare to find it in woods, where species with faster rhythms easily gain the upper hand. It is also for this reason that it is often planted along city streets, in addition to the fact that it can tolerate car traffic. The linden has immense patience and puts up with many things without complaint; it is no coincidence that infusions made from its blossoms have calming effects.

The word papyrus comes from an Egyptian term meaning “the royal one”, and it is a plant that grows in the wetlands of the Middle East and Africa; in Italy it still grows spontaneously in the province of Syracuse. From the processing of its pith, sheets were produced and glued one after another so as to form a long rolled strip: the Latin name of these rolls was volumen (when they extended horizontally – hence the use of the term “volume” for books) or rotulus (when they were vertical and shorter).

Beyond being a writing support, papyrus has been used for countless other purposes: it can in fact be eaten, drunk, and used to make objects, boats, scepters and magic wands. Our bond with papyrus is so close that in English (paper), Spanish (papel), French and German (papier), the word for “paper” derives directly from this plant. In Italian, although a different word is used, the origin is quite similar; carta comes from the Latin charta, a term that indicated a single sheet – obviously of papyrus.

To understand how important papyrus has been in our culture, a simple comparison is enough: if you are fairly tech‑savvy, it is likely that around ten years have passed since you started using phones, tablets or similar devices that require you to move a finger across a screen. This way of writing now feels completely natural, yet only a few years have gone by – nothing compared with the four thousand years during which papyrus was used for writing, from the third millennium BCE up to the year 1057, when the papal chancery produced the last document on this medium. One of the problems was its poor affinity with the European territory, especially the continental area; the new civilisation that was taking shape felt more at ease there than on the southern coasts of the Mediterranean, and this obviously made both the production and preservation of the material problematic.

This is the main reason why, little by little, parchment (of animal origin) and then modern paper (of vegetable origin, developed in China and brought to Europe by way of the Arabs) came to be used instead. Yet the fact remains that the writing support that accompanied us for the longest span of time since we began to write is still – by far – papyrus.

For its symbolic value – as well as for its extraordinary beauty – the water‑lily flower (Nymphaea alba) has long since left the narrow space of ponds to conquer the decorative programmes of church façades, capitals and baptismal fonts, in order to express as clearly as possible the idea of unblemished purity; this flower is not stained by earth or dust, it simply grows there, on the image that the sky gives to the water below.

The Nymphaea alba is not only an extraordinary hymn to beauty; over the centuries it has also been used for two entirely different practical purposes. From its petals and roots it is possible to extract a large quantity of alkaloids (nupharine and nymphaeine), so much so that a substance was obtained from it which monks used – together with wine, of course – for its sedative and anaphrodisiac effects.

There are, however, those who claim that its effects may be of the opposite kind, namely aphrodisiac; it is not clear which of the two versions is true, and one would need to try it out, although it may well be that the most decisive factors lie in the respective desires each of us carries within.

Perhaps it is precisely to keep hot blood under control that the Nymphaea alba is often found together with Nuphar lutea, the spatterdock, commonly known as the yellow water‑lily. Its leaves are very similar to those of the white water‑lily, as is the presence of alkaloids. Here the association with alcohol is so evident – it is said that you understand why as soon as you smell it – that in English the plant is colloquially called “brandy bottle”; however, the intended recipients of these olfactory messages are not the clientele of British pubs but rather the insects that thereby ensure its pollination.

Ancient European medicine maintained that Nuphar lutea could eliminate any sexual appetite, so it is no surprise that in the language of flowers it has come to stand for impotence. This interpretation greatly appealed to the medieval clergy who, perhaps for fear of yielding to exceptional offers made by the devil, were careful to display this fine flower as a symbol of celibacy in two of the most important sites of insular Christianity: Westminster Abbey and the cornices of Bristol Cathedral. It is no coincidence that in the very centuries in which these two extraordinary buildings were erected, the eleventh and twelfth, clerical celibacy was under intense pressure, both from its opponents and from its supporters.

This shows once again how vegetal elements – real or sculpted – can preserve some of the most important traces of our cultural history.

Monet knew this very well. From 1905 onwards, the French painter devoted no fewer than 250 canvases to the theme of water‑lilies – and to the constant transformation of light reflected on the water – creating one of the most important series in all modern art and, moreover, a crucial passage from modern art to the contemporary.