singular line, stand in front of the expectations of Lucio Fontana in a day of waiting. A long day waiting for a response, equivalent to a verdict, final. And it is that expectation was to fool that I slipped in the Museum of the twentieth century. I was not there yet. I put forward to the crowds. In museums even more. I removed the space and time of observation, just as I take off. So I decided to wait. Again, the wait. Few people that morning. There is the fourth state, after the first flight. The Futurists. Bottles. Marinetti. Climbing up to Fontana. And up to the terrace with a view that is worth alone the time spent at the museum. It was sunny that day. On 8 March.
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