I loathe containers. Not the Tupperware ones for chopped carrots or Ikea storage bins for wool sweaters. I’m talking about those metal, windowless rectangular vats that superheroes fall into from skyscrapers or that transport an international move overseas.
Over the past eight years, my family and I have moved to and from three different countries. On each occasion, a container bursting with accumulated, unnecessary stuff has left a street I loved, traveled on a freight ship across the Mediterranean, and ended up spilling out my old life onto a new street that I grow to love.
I am fully aware of my luxurious problem: a shipped container enables carrying my home with me each time I set up a new house, like a privileged turtle. But every time that anaconda of aluminum rounds the bend of the street that I have to leave, I cringe. To me, it represents change, transition, goodbyes, starting over, and turning a family upside down.
–
Cellini’s installation-container made its first appearance at the Mikser Festival in Serbia in 2013 and, more recently, at Torino’s Museo di Arte Contemporanea Castello di Rivoli in May 2014. It will be on display at the MAXXI until January 21st as a clunky reminder of how difficult the immigration issue is to capture — either at sea or in a container.
This post originally appeared on HuffPost Italy.
