Nothing in The World is Single

They say that when you live in the mountains long enough, you begin to see over the corner. They say it helps uncovering a true love-or at least being very suspicious. Lunigiana is full of these quiet contradictions. A region of soft borders, where one thing leans to another and time slips between geology and myth. What appears stable begins to move (yes, a landslide joke). Somehow we find ourselves here and this peripheral place became a site of intensity. Like a Deleuzian assamblage, gestures, materials, bodies, memories—held not by structure, but by their mutual proximity. As other romantics, Shelley passed through this terrain, towards the Ligurian coast where his body would later be returned to the sea. “Nothing in the world is single,” he wrote—maybe not as a metaphor, but as an observation. It’s a way of understanding how everything is bound together. Here love unfolds less as a feeling than as a structure: it becomes something relational, something that grows from the interconnecti- on of things, not their separation. Stones lean on each other. The logic is not linear and so is not the weather. The exhibition of Anaïs Horn and Eilert Asmervik begins from that premise. Paintings, wax sculptures, etchings—all loosely aligned, often unstable—form a kind of landscape. Forms lean, melt (literally), a gesture dissolves in repetition, everything touches. As we get back to Shelley, the moon isn’t just the moon, the bird isn’t just the bird—they are what happens when things are allowed to exist together in tension, without needing to become something else. It’s not about finding the point where everything comes together; it’s about experiencing the space where everything is still shifting.