CIRCUS: Annunciation to Federico (Fellini)

WITH THE 1987 BIANCA SFORNI’s photographs  and her text about ZINGARO, THE GIPSY CARAVAN TRANSFORMED BY BARTABAS INTO A CIRCUS IN 1984, PARIS-AUBERVILLIERS

“The visionary is the only true realist, who told it? As a matter of fact the visionary gives evidence to events that are his own reality, the most real among existing things.

A circus is not only a show: it’s a way of traveling through our own life.

It’s a fairy tale, the falling short of meanings frozen by our intellect.”

FEDERICO FELLINI

BIANCA SFORNI, Circus 1987 Courtesy of the artist

BIANCA SFORNI, Circus 1987. Hand colored gelatin silver print,  17.5 x 23 cm.
Courtesy of the artist

BIANCA SFORNI, Circus 1987 Courtesy of the wrist

BIANCA SFORNI, Circus 1987. Hand colored gelatin silver print, 17.5 x 23 cm.
Courtesy of the artist

BIANCA SFORNI, Circus 1987 Courtesy of the artist

BIANCA SFORNI, Circus 1987. Hand colored gelatin silver print, 17.5 x 23 cm.
Courtesy of the artist

BIANCA SFORNI, Circus 1987 Courtesy of the artis

BIANCA SFORNI, Circus 1987. Hand colored gelatin silver print,  23 x 17.5 cm.
Courtesy of the artist

BIANCA SFORNI. Circus 1987 Courtesy of the artist

BIANCA SFORNI, Circus 1987. Hand colored gelatin silver print,  23 x 17.5 cm.
Courtesy of the artist

BIANCA SFORNI, Circus 1987 Courtesy of the artist

BIANCA SFORNI, Circus 1987. Hand colored gelatin silver print, 23 x 17.5 cm.
Courtesy of the artist

Horses are the true protagonists: Andalusian, Arab, Breton heavy pullers. There is no style in their performances. ZINGARO is not only an equestrian show: Bartabas stages his own life. “There is no torero who is a torero only in the arena” – he tells me – “If you really are a torero, you remain a torero twenty four hours out of twenty four; it even shows in the way you smoke a cigarette.”

“Every day performances change. I hate either repetition or archaism in this kind of show.”

And every day I saw something different, according to the actors’ mood or inspiration.

BIANCA SFORNI

Like the butterfly of an Indian song, in the coming breeze of the night I stood there. My countryside circus was so small that thirty chairs under the tent were many. I was six, or seven, I don’t know. The white horse ran around so close to the chairs I could smell his sweat. Terrified, I couldn’t move. For the first time I had met a real monster, and the risk of a martyrdom that was not sanctified.

ROSANNA ALBERTINI