Two teddy bears and a Barbie doll, her head held together with tape, amuse themselves in a surreal Déjeuner sur l’Herbe that seems painted by Jacques Tati. Playing seriously, when play becomes the only serious thing that can save us from the seriousness of life. Games played by two modern Candides, somewhere between Cochi and Renato, Laurel and Hardy, in the theatres of Marcel Marceau and Merce Cunningham—dressed like gentle village lunatics, wearing berets with earflaps, the kind worn by World War I pilots in peacetime.

Hats designed for flying without leaving the ground. At most, gliding with the engine off, carried by the air—easy as a Sunday morning. “Zerogrammi”: a weightless dance. Light. A dance made for flying—the flight without take-off we spoke of—and then gliding, and gliding once again through everyday life, through the small things we must not forget. Remember to breathe.

Gliding along, carried by the wind of our lightness—yes, let’s also call it frivolity—so that breathing becomes easier and vision clearer, since we hover just a few centimetres above the grass of ordinary days: days that come once a week, yet are unique, made of minimal games and innocent squabbles, moments in which it is possible to be two clowns.

Two mimes and contemporary dancers, or even tango dancers if Besame Mucho happens to be playing on the radio; actors, too; or simply two ordinary people wearing ridiculous hats and funny sweaters. (…)

Two clowns in a performance as light as love at its beginning, as gentle as the softest breeze on a spring evening—back when the seasons still existed in between. Beautiful and delicate, like that someone each of us has, or waits for, to share those carefree, luminous moments. Moments without whose memory we could not live.

(Sergio Gilles Lacavalla)