“A journey in a journey. Where to the North I have known the origin of a Music. Because only if your skin is crossed by the icy wind of this river, you can say to have played too. Walking inside this wind, ploughing the stones scratched by unknown sounds and silently gather Ourselves in a nearly impassable condition. Improvisation is almost silent in flames, sometimes without any reasoning in the most intense truth of a language … as the very act of improvising is evocative, without showing up the feelings the atom, sound of love, closed to ourselves as its scent, insane wind that flows through the mighty and uninhibited space of the art. It is a music with a line, dressed in her true and essential values. It is the rediscovered language, the plant that needs thoughts to be huge, the speaking tree . It is the instant truth of every man. Symphonie-Passion speaks to all times because is inherently linked to a journey,, to a staircase of stones of a bell tower that climbs circular toward an endless gallery of feelings, that poetically engrave in the wood the name of the one who plays humble, but master that moves , surprising and wondering , in which every man should find himself to be aware of what he really is. The engine starts, eager to drop the sound infused of dusty woods and iron among the mathematical archways of the marble, among the ears waiting for that unpredictable harmony that unleash the illusion. This is the world of music: to get carried away by the skin, by the smile and by suffering, black tears of the infinite. As a wood of cedar moves the bank of the fund, majestic and powerful, prickly as its leaves, musically embodies embraced to the musk and the sandalwood. Passing the heart of Vetyver, together involved with the Cachemeran, in a combination of ancient symbolic and modern technology. Opens and concludes the Gregorian journey of the Passion, the olfactory concert of Lemon and Peony, the union among truth and sweetness, between the rupture and the chromatic caress. Symponie-Passion, the damp cement of the thought, deep echo among the archways that wrap, insatiable balm that screeches and welcomes The sonorous matter leavens, vision of the artefact that reassumes the depth of a handicraft melodic revolution, with the perfumed mantle of a step, gentle, aware of the revolution and illusion, noble anarchy of the rule, elegant neglect that elevate and suffers that in the reticulum of the musical idea it drug us in an inhuman dimension where the art is incessant, it is irreducible to the relative. The sound of the Ocean engraves in the perfume a signature, as a chisel in the wood of a harmonic box, where the magmatic equilibriums create streets to escape from what it is weak.
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