If I think of water, my mind turns to the Igna stream, a small watercourse that runs silently through the village where I grew up. It is an insignificant stream, with little water and lots of stones. Here and there, pools of varying depths form where the water seems to rest, its colour changing, a greenish hue giving it a mysterious quality. Now that it is spring, the stream appears lush, lively, fast-flowing, as if nature is taking it on a ceaseless journey into the unknown.

Padlocks, chains and fences appear metallic and rusty in a space submerged by natural elements. The Igna stream is surrounded by green vegetation, brown earth and grey stone. These metallic elements don't seem to mean much, but they remind us that there are distinct boundaries between public and private. They tell you to keep your distance from the riverbank and properties. Yet it's easy to break these limitations and rules in order to get closer to the water... I climb over the fence, duck down and continue...

The Igna stream is nostalgia, it's childhood. For those who really know it, it's a fragment of memory, a hushed sound that resurfaces. And yet, to the distracted eye, it appears immersed by the landscape, silent, almost invisible. It slowly meanders along its serpentine way and seems anonymous, disregarded. A bare concrete bridge crosses it, seemingly forgotten by the community, by the villagers. A few scattered markers seem to restore a little dignity, incorporating it into a footpath route, reminding us that even the humblest places have a life of their own.

The space appears forced by human intervention, noticeable by the landscaping of the embankments, where the geometric stones contrast with the rounded pebbles that line the riverbed. The transparency of the water reveals a pale blue fragment, the remnant of a tile. A red cylinder appears among the green tufts of grass, undoubtedly the work of a hunter. Disconnected writing, burnt signs, man-made degradation. Branches and brushwood piled up at random. I glimpse a nature that no longer seems so natural.

There is a backdrop of birds chirping, the wind in the treetops, the noise of vehicles and factories in the distance. The smell of grass, a damp feeling on the skin, a wetness... but you only perceive these things if you pay attention. The flow of water, the green of the vegetation and also the moss, this more cramped, stand out for their bright colours, which nevertheless appear muted in the absence of sunlight. I note the details, the particulars that attract my attention. The water is fresh and brisk, becoming the protagonist of the scene. A sort of 'peace of the senses' prevails.

The combination, the mix of features present. The motley grove that hugs the banks of the Igna. The bare, unadorned concrete bridge. The solitary villa that dominates from the top of the hill, like a silent guardian. There are few features, but they are enough to imbue character to this place in the village, this precise spot along the Igna.

Hollering, laughter, the splashing of water... after school this was where they would gather, this was the meeting point. The Igna was populated by children who wouldn't stop, not even for a moment, always in motion, either playing games or escaping the glares of the grown-ups walking or relaxing nearby. The number of people increased with the hours of daylight, a sign that summer was coming. Now there are no children at all. Occasionally you might see a local walking along the path beside the stream, alone or with others, or with their dog. It has become a passing place; no one stops any more, engrossed in their daily rush, as if the place no longer had anything to offer.

The stream was once a refuge, a place of freedom and adventure. The makeshift “dams, made of stacked stones, told the story of the children’s carefree days. In their place today the area is marked only by weathered signs, voiceless, almost anonymous. Tire tracks in the mud and rusty padlocks mark the boundaries of a plot of land alongside the stream, but otherwise the stream that was once a place of games and laughter now lies silent, witness to a lost time that survives only in the memories of a few.

It is an open place, visible to all, but given the scarcity of visitors it can appear intimate and discreet. At times it almost seems unseen, unknown.

A round, unknown concrete pipeline opens up before your eyes like a passageway to the unknown. It is perhaps only a few meters long, but it conveys an uneasy silence. Something in its shape and shadow discourages entry; what could be lurking beyond it?

The stream is always the same, even if its appearance changes from month to month, according to the rhythm of the water flowing over it. Indeed it is precisely the quantity of water that determines its physiognomy, silently recounting the seasons. A slow abandon is etched in the surroundings, highlighting the loss of vibrancy that humans once instilled with their presence. Yet, in its essence, the place remains unaltered: it has retained the same identity. Only a few details reveal that something has changed.

The stream, with its little water, fresh and fast, flows tirelessly between stones like a beating heart. It seems to be the only element that gives life to the space around it. Its course, capricious and changeable, traverses its abandoned surroundings, where the grass grows wild and time seems to have stopped. It is a union of silences: the movement of the water, the lost regard of the locals, the suffocating immobility of the place.