Four houses, between fruit-trees and rust, red roofs, a café, a newsagent, a garage, the baker, the mechanic. I was told about a boy who used to live there and at the ground floor of his house worked a blacksmith. He just loved the smell and the colors of that place. Dark, black, greasy, smoky and pungent with the odor of burning iron. But the greatest emotion for him was the bright enchantment of welding and filing… what a marvel!... and the marvel of a little boy, we all know, is the most marvelous of all. He could see countless little fire chips sparkling in the air, to then disappear on the ground and on the workers’ aprons. – but… don’t you get burnt? – he would ask… and every time he would be amazed by his – No - , and then they would grumble… - Yes, but you should move away and… do not look at the flame while we are welding, it will make you blind! – he knew it, they used to tell him constantly, but he had to peep, he simply had to… then they would put back their welding helmets, covering their big black and white faces and go back to producing fire and sparks. To make gates, gratings, window frames… and that is when he knew that “welding” was magic, that it was a material, exciting art…

Reminiscences of gone-by times, of past actions and gestures, performed but still vivid in our memory, and renewed every day through the same ritual, thanks to which the magic of those sparks re-creates the magic of that creative emphasis. And so the key turns in the lock, the gate opens creaking and a curtain of acid-green ivy gets illuminated by the faint aurora and stands out in the workshop’s dim light. The same pungent smell of iron dust and welding overwhelms the nostrils, the Pink Floyd take us through our coffee ritual and the sizzling of scorching tobacco emphasizes and seals its taste. The same heaviness and coarseness of the shriveled apron, the gloves closed up like fists on the workshop table, still preserving the memory of the hands wearing them… and then the on/off switch… in and out, that’s it, in and out, this is what the welding torch tells you when you switch it on, and the sparks remind you that you are alive, that you feel pain, that you are creating something, that you are leaving a mark. The result of those actions, performed in harmony with your heart, your body and your mind are unique pieces, telling you about the time when they were iron and then metal sheets and then a dirty greasy container of a dirty and greasy material and of all the blows that have hit them during the years. All the way to the end, made of sparks and of the ability to sum up their identity.

Vibrazioni art-design is all this, it is a theory of thought moving upstream, opposed to a mass-production industrial system, which privileges a working process that often completely distorts its initial aim, instead of expressing a concept freely. Those products, just like the materials and the people, have their own soul and a personality which could be defined as the sum of what we know and feel about them.

Vibrazioni at-design is Uniqueness, Character, Ability and Passion.