‘The man on the right side of the wall reminds me of Kafka, the famous author of Der Pozess. I wonder how the mural has been painted. By one man or a collection of street painters, a guild of revolutionaries, on order or free of charge. I did not know Kafka wears big glasses when overseas. Wherever I see him, I’m always jealous of his full black hair. It is his best protection against all odds and the source of his endless writing about man who lost his way in his own human and dehumanized labyrinth. His hair that stands for ever, gives his eyes a dreamlike, absent, almost staring look. No, a dreamlike amazement as if the world will never end and does not show where it begins. Clearly, Kafka is lost and nearly bewildered although restraint just like the fat woman with her shopping bag is in front of him on the sidewalk. Not knowing she is fat and lost. Waiting as the boy and the man in the side alley. Waiting as if nothing happens in town. As if there is no process going on, for decades and even almost a century.

The mural is his dream. A colorful, dynamic and vital dream, turning over and over in his unconscious mind. It is the man on his back on the stone bench beneath the mural who is the core of the picture. He is right in the middle however not intrusive. Look how calm and motionless he lies on the bench. His name and his secret is Marcovaldo? He is lost in his dream of the countryside, the land and the animals. Or he is just tired of his job as a night guard in a ten stories appartment? Soon he will awake, stand up and walk into the street, into the crowd. It will be too hot in the sun, the dream will be over. Who will recognize him, when he enters the big building and says hello to his wife even when she is not at home. He will turn on the music and think of his dream. He will try to remember what the dream was about. When the rain comes down like a drizzle, the paint will drip, the dream be gone?

I see the bells swing in the tower. No, that is a lie. The first thing is the sound of the bells I hear when I walk over the square. Then I see the swing. A man asks me where I come from. I love the church taken too close by and the bells hanging still. Somebody in the tower has a duty to ring bells every hour. He will be deaf or become deaf of the bells. Or he is blind as many muezzin are? The church is too big for the small digital camera? I like the thick walls and the dark entrances which cover the people who come in and will loose their soul for a moment. The dark will veil your sin and open your heart. The holy is separated from the secular by the dark entrance. Will I climb the stairs? I love the paint and plaster coming down from the walls. It makes the church even more solid and absorbs better the sound of the bells. Nobody minds what I think.

They look square as they are. Townsmen, officials, burocrats or doctors Marcovaldo would think.
See how they wear their costumes, look at their shoes.
It makes them cool. It is a privilege to look at us, they seem to say. They communicate with each other as they always have done, no emotions and reticent upon common people.
This is a well organized society with a hierarchy of professions and persons, important and less important. We are the intellectuals, we wear glasses. Backs turned to each other, they transform the space into a square and shape their mind and their manners. Gentlemen of standing, impressive and strict. They dislike noisy street life and boisterous men of the street. They are honored not loved, I think.