“The Rim” is a meditation on the fragility of hope, on the subtle border between light and darkness, on testing the balance, on seeing and not seeing. Holding a candle in my left hand, I move in a space defined by a circle of mirrors and lenses, reflecting and diffracting the light coming from above. I create a dance, with different speeds, exploring the limits of balance, of my ability to hold this light as a sign, at times crystallizing a single, steady image. The warm wax of the candle flows on my left arm, weaving roots, rivers and solid concretions, an azure flower on the flesh. Over my right eye, I wear a post-surgery plastic patch, to which I attached five dried orchid flowers: a memory of fragility, and of the time of darkness. The performance takes a hint from a biographical memory, dating back to October 2018 when my mother had her eye operated on just three days before a huge storm hit my hometown, with the wind destroying the woods and the flood claiming the streets: we remained one week without electricity, in a house that is already quite dark in itself, my mother had to wear sunglasses to protect her eyes during the day, and the only source of light that we, like everybody, were able to find were cemetery candles. A surreal situation, on the background of a catastrophe. When the candle flame goes out, I compose a final image lying on the floor with the mirrors placed on my body and singing as a mantra a single line of a song, All of no man’s land is ours.