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Alefbet, Magnano in Riviera (2026)

27/01/2026

The Chessboard of the Middle East
Cm 80x80
Wood , fabric, paper, glue
Artist: Gabriele Levy

----
This work stands like a quiet table after a long game.
No hands are visible.
No kings are crowned.
Yet every square remembers a move.

The surface is divided, but not broken.
Each square is a country of matter.
Stone meets paper.
Gold leaf rests beside dust.
Maps are folded into silence.
Colors do not shout. They endure.

This is not a chessboard made for victory.
It is a chessboard made for time.
The Middle East appears here not as a place, but as a condition.
A place where layers accumulate.
Where nothing truly disappears.
Where every decision leaves residue.

The squares refuse uniformity.
Some are heavy, rough, scarred like walls that have heard prayers and orders.
Others are fragile, thin as documents passed hand to hand.
Gold flashes briefly, not as wealth, but as memory—
the kind that survives fire and forgetting.

The grid suggests control, strategy, rational order.
But the materials deny it.
They resist alignment.
They pull the eye away from calculation and toward endurance.
This is the tension of the region itself:
plans drawn straight over histories that are anything but.

There are maps, but they do not guide.
They confuse.
They overlap.
They remind us that borders are ideas that age badly.
Paper yellows.
Ink fades.
Stone remains.

The work speaks softly, the way Hemingway’s sentences do when they carry weight.
Nothing here explains itself.
Nothing asks permission.
Each square stands alone, yet none can exist without the others.
This is coexistence without harmony.
Balance without peace.

The chessboard implies players, but none are present.
Perhaps they have left.
Perhaps they never fully arrived.
What remains is the board itself—
patient, scarred, indifferent to intentions.

This is a neosurreal landscape built from reality’s leftovers.
A dream assembled from documents, rubble, pigment, and time.
The surreal is not escape here.
It is recognition.

In the end, there is no final move.
No checkmate.
Only continuation.
Only the quiet knowledge that the game outlives the players,
and the board remembers everything.

Hashtags:

24/01/2026

The Words That Refuse to Lie Flat.
Cm 26x26x6
Sculptor: Gabriele Levy

The surface is white, but it is not clean.
It is white the way a wall is white after years of weather, hands, breath, and waiting.
The letters stand on it like men who have survived something and do not explain what it was.
They are black, heavy, and precise.
They do not decorate.
They insist.

This work does not speak softly.
It does not persuade.
It states.

The Hebrew text bends and breaks the plane.
The surface swells, collapses, rises again.
The words are no longer content.
They become matter.
They acquire weight.
They acquire fatigue.

This is not writing meant to be read quickly.
It is writing meant to be endured.

The folds cut through meaning.
Sentences fracture.
Verses are interrupted.
What was once linear time becomes physical resistance.
You cannot pass through the text without slowing down.
You cannot see everything at once.

This is how memory works.
This is how history behaves when it refuses to stay obedient.

The letters belong to an ancient order.
They carry law, origin, naming, separation.
But here they are displaced.
They are taken out of the book and forced into the world.
They wrinkle.
They bruise.
They survive.

There is no illustration.
There is no metaphor that comforts.
The language is the image.
The image is the wound.

Like a sentence written under pressure, the surface bears the marks of correction without erasure.
Nothing is removed.
Everything is layered.
Time does not flow.
Time accumulates.

This work understands restraint.
It avoids drama.
It avoids explanation.
Its power lies in what it refuses to clarify.
It trusts the viewer to stand still.

In this silence, the text becomes a body.
In this body, the letters become scars.
Not symbols of suffering, but evidence of endurance.

The neosurreal act here is not fantasy.
It is displacement.
It is taking something sacred, ordered, and untouchable, and forcing it to exist inside gravity.

Hemingway would have approved of the discipline.
Nothing extra.
Nothing ornamental.
Only what is necessary.

The work does not ask if you believe.
It asks if you can remain present.

The text does not resolve.
It remains folded.
Like history.
Like language.
Like truth when it is no longer flat.

20/01/2026

‏זו האות מ״ם. לא אות שקטה. אות כבדה.
‏מ״ם עומדת כמו שער. עשויה זמן. עשויה שעונים.
‏הזמן נמס. הוא מטפטף. הוא לא שואל רשות.
‏השעונים אינם מודדים דקות. הם מודדים קיום. עבר, הווה ועתיד קשורים זה בזה.
‏מ״ם היא מים. מים זורמים. מים זוכרים.
‏מדינת ישראל קמה בתוך הזמן, אך גם נגד הזמן.
‏הנוף ריק. העיר רחוקה. הירח עד.
‏המתכת חיה. הזהב פצוע. הצורה נושאת משקל של החלטות.
‏אין כאן גבורה. יש עמידה.
‏השעונים רבים, אך הדרך אחת.
‏הזמן אינו אויב. הוא מבחן.
‏מ״ם אינה סגורה. היא פתוחה כמו שער. מי שעובר בה, נושא אחריות.
‏זו אינה אנדרטה. זו שאלה.
‏והשאלה נשארת.

19/01/2026

Aleph. Nine Variations of the Same Beginning.
Cm 65x90
Artist: Gabriele Levy

Nine Alephs stand together like a field after weather.
They are the same and they are not the same.

Each Aleph carries the memory of the one before it.
Each Aleph resists becoming a copy.

The grid is simple and refuses drama.
Yet tension lives inside the repetition.

These forms do not seek harmony.
They accept coexistence.

Color changes but the letter remains.
Structure survives while the skin shifts.

This is not variation for pleasure.
It is variation as endurance.

The Aleph is the first letter and the last question.
It begins without asking permission.

In these nine works the Aleph is tested against matter.
Paper, pigment, pressure, and time respond differently each time.

Some surfaces absorb silence.
Others reflect it.

The letter bends but does not collapse.
It stands like a body that has learned restraint.

The neo-surrealism here is quiet.
There is no dream and no escape.

Reality is accepted and slightly displaced.
Enough to disturb certainty.

Like Hemingway’s prose, nothing excess survives.
What is left must carry the weight.

The repetition is deliberate.
It asks how much change is needed to remain alive.

Looking at the grid is like listening to nine pauses.
Each pause is shaped by breath.

The Aleph becomes a witness.
It watches the viewer as much as it is watched.

There is no narrative progression.
There is accumulation.

Meaning gathers slowly.
Not by explanation but by insistence.

These works are not loud declarations.
They are controlled presences.

They do not promise transcendence.
They offer persistence.

Each Aleph is a stance.
A way of standing inside uncertainty.

The grid does not close the question.
It multiplies it.

Nine times the beginning is attempted.
Nine times it remains open.

This is not a conclusion.
It is a condition.

Silence is not the absence of sound here.
It is the discipline of form.

And the Aleph remains.
Still beginning.

12/01/2026

The Alphabet That Remembers the Sea
Artist: Gabriele Levy

This work begins with order and ends with vision.
On the left, the letters stand as they are meant to stand.
They are calm.
They are placed.
They are material, patient, almost silent.
Each tile holds a letter, and each letter holds a weight older than speech.
It is an alphabet that knows discipline.
It knows earth, dust, stone, and the quiet labor of hands.

On the right, the same alphabet has crossed a threshold.
The letters are unchanged, yet the world around them has broken open.
Fire moves through water.
Clouds carry memory.
An eye watches from the sky, not as a god, but as a witness.
This is where meaning stops being stable and begins to drift.

The letters do not float.
They endure.
They are anchored while the universe around them becomes liquid.
This is the tension of the work.
Structure against vision.
Grammar against dream.

In this piece, language is not used to explain reality.
It is used to survive it.
Each letter is a survivor, a fragment carried across time, placed again in a world that has changed too quickly.
The alphabet does not speak.
It waits.

There is nothing decorative here.
Every color has weight.
Every surface remembers touch.
The pastel softness of the letters is not innocence.
It is resistance.
They refuse to become violent, even when surrounded by storm.

The eye in the sky does not judge.
It observes.
It knows that symbols outlive empires.
That alphabets remain when flags burn.
That meaning is rebuilt letter by letter, after everything else collapses.

This is not nostalgia.
It is archaeology of the future.
The work suggests that even in a world saturated with noise, speed, and spectacle, the most radical act is to keep the symbols intact.
To place them carefully.
To let them face chaos without dissolving into it.

The alphabet here is memory given form.
And memory, once shaped, becomes a shelter.

This is a neo-surreal landscape where language does not melt.
It stands.
Quietly.
And waits for us to remember how to read it.

Hashtags

10/01/2026

Mem, the Mouth of Time
Artist: Gabriele Levy+NanoBanana

This work is the letter Mem, but it is not written.
It is eroded.
It is melted.
It is endured.

Mem stands like a mouth that never closes, a jaw carved out of time itself.
It is heavy, and it is slow.
It is built from clocks that no longer agree with one another, from instruments that once measured certainty and now measure doubt.
Each clock ticks alone.
Each second is isolated.
Together they form a chorus that does not sing, but waits.

The shape is ancient.
It recalls water, womb, passage, beginning.
Mem is water in Hebrew, and here water has turned into metal and memory.
The clocks drip like wax.
Time is no longer solid.
It liquefies under its own weight.

This is not a landscape.
It is a threshold.
Through the hollow center, the eye passes toward a distant horizon, a silent sea, a place that may exist only in recollection.
The opening is an invitation and a warning.
To enter is to accept that time will not protect you.
To remain outside is to pretend that it still does.

The machines scattered around the base are relics of human confidence.
They are broken, but not defeated.
They tried to control time, to regulate it, to domesticate it.
Now they lie on the ground like fallen soldiers, faithful until the end.
They did their job too well.
They taught us to count everything except meaning.

The sky is not dramatic.
It is indifferent.
The moon watches without comment.
It has seen this before.
Civilizations rise, clocks multiply, and still time flows as it always has.
Mem does not shout.
It does not accuse.
It simply remains.

This is a neo-surreal monument to duration.
Not to speed, not to progress, but to accumulation.
Every clock is a life.
Every tick is a choice already made.
The melting surface tells us what we already know and refuse to say: time is not linear, and it is not fair.

Mem is the mouth that swallows hours and gives back memory.
It is the letter you step through when you stop asking what time it is and begin asking what it costs.
It is water turned to gold, and gold turned to rust.
It is silence, measured.

08/01/2026

Aleph as Iran
Cm 26x26x6
Plaster, water,pigments, stones
Artist: Gabriele Levy

Aleph stands at the beginning of everything.
It is silent, but it carries weight.
It does not shout, yet it contains the breath before the shout.

In Aleph as Iran, the letter is no longer only a sign.
It becomes a country held upright by tension.
It is a spine under pressure.
It is a form that refuses to bend, even when surrounded by force.

The surface is rough, like streets that have learned the sound of boots.
The mass is heavy, like history that never leaves.
There is no decoration here.
Only necessity.

Aleph is the first letter, but also the letter that holds all others.
Iran today is like that.
A place where everything begins again, because nothing has ever been allowed to end.
The protests move like breath trapped in the chest.
They come, they stop, they come again.
They do not disappear.
They wait.

This Aleph does not represent power.
It represents endurance.
It stands as something that cannot be erased, only wounded.
The revolts are not shown as flames or crowds.
They are inside the structure.
They are pressure.
They are weight pushing outward from within.

In Iran, the streets speak softly before they scream.
The people learn silence before courage.
This work understands that.
It does not explain.
It holds.

There is no hero here.
No leader.
Only a form that remains, even when cracked.
Even when watched.
Even when surrounded.

The Aleph is not innocent.
It knows what comes after it.
It knows that the first letter carries responsibility.
It knows that once spoken, it cannot be taken back.

The neo-surrealism of this piece lies in its restraint.
Reality is already surreal enough.
A country where the future must be whispered.
A present where bodies become symbols without asking.

Aleph as Iran is not about hope as promise.
It is about hope as resistance.
Quiet.
Persistent.
Unfinished.

Like a letter that refuses to be erased from the alphabet of history.

08/01/2026

The Box Where Letters Refuse to Sleep
Artist: Gabriele Levy

There is a plastic box.
It is not noble.
It is not ancient.
Yet it carries weight.

Inside it lie letters that have lost the alphabet.
They do not form words.
They do not ask to be read.
They remain.

They are colored blocks, like dice that survived a child’s war.
Red that has grown tired.
Green that smells of minerals.
Yellow like settled dust.
Purple like an evening that went on too long.

Each letter is wounded.
Carved.
Chipped.
As if it had passed from hand to hand, from time to time.

They do not speak.
They weigh.

These letters are not meant to write.
They are meant to remind us that before language there is matter.
That before meaning there is impact.

They look like industrial sweets dropped on the floor.
They look like relics of a forgotten game.
They look like alphabets melted in the wrong furnace.

The container does not organize.
It receives.
It does not impose order.
It accepts disorder.

Here language is not linear.
It is piled.
It is vertical.
It is heavy.

Every letter carries color that is not decoration.
It is residue.
It is chemical memory.
It is time poured and hardened.

The carved sign is not clean.
It does not want to be.
It is a sign that has lived.

These letters seem to say that writing is born from the hand, not the mind.
From gesture, not from idea.
From urgency, not from plan.

There is something childlike here.
But it is not innocent.
It is primal.

As if someone tried to teach clay how to speak.
And clay answered only with weight.

The box becomes a mute archive.
A deposit of attempts.
An active graveyard of symbols.

There is no nostalgia.
There is resistance.

These letters do not ask to be understood.
They ask to be touched.
Lifted.
Felt.

It is a language that does not console.
A language that stays.

And while you look at them, one thing becomes clear.
Language can break.
The symbol does not.

03/01/2026

Il pezzo si chiamava "The Circuit of Man". Era un'opera di Gabriele Levy, un uomo che conosceva il peso della ferraglia e il fragore silenzioso della terra. Non c'era molta allegria in lui, ma c'era una verità dura, come quella che si trova in un bicchiere di whisky bevuto troppo velocemente.
L'opera era una rappresentazione cruda. Una scheda madre, il cuore pulsante e dimenticato di una macchina, giaceva lì, incastonata in una cartina geografica strappata. Le tracce dei circuiti sembravano vene indurite, e i chip, piccole cicatrici scure sulla pelle di silicio. La cartina, frammenti di un mondo che continuava a girare, era rugosa, stropicciata come un vecchio vestito. Sembrava che fosse stata trovata in fondo a una valigia, dopo un viaggio troppo lungo e senza meta.
Levy non usava molti colori. Non ce n'era bisogno. La vita era già abbastanza colorata di suo, con le sue tonalità di grigio e marrone e il nero della notte. Le mappe, scolorite dal tempo e dalla polvere, mostravano continenti e oceani, confini tracciati e poi ignorati, come promesse dimenticate. Erano pezzi di un puzzle che nessuno sembrava voler risolvere, o forse l'aveva già risolto, e la risposta non gli era piaciuta.
In quest'opera, il tempo non era un fiume che scorreva. Era un lago fermo, con la superficie increspata solo dal vento delle macchine che un tempo l'avevano abitata. La scheda madre era la testimonianza silenziosa di un'era, una civiltà che costruiva e poi gettava, un ciclo senza fine di progresso e oblio. Era la storia di ciò che era stato utile, e ora non lo era più.
Le tracce delle radici che si snodavano sulla superficie, come i nervi di una creatura sotterranea, erano la promessa di una nuova vita, o forse solo la sua ombra. Si arrampicavano sulla scheda, sulla cartina, come se stessero cercando di reclamare ciò che era stato loro tolto. Erano la memoria di ciò che era cresciuto prima che il cemento e i circuiti prendessero il sopravvento.
Gli occhi. Due, tre, forse di più, sparsi qua e là. Erano occhi che avevano visto molto, forse troppo. Erano pieni di una saggezza stanca, di una curiosità che non si era mai spenta, anche se la fiamma era flebile. Guardavano dal profondo della tela, come sentinelle silenziose, testimoni di un mondo che si disfaceva e si ricostruiva continuamente.
Levy aveva messo insieme questi pezzi con la mano ferma di chi sapeva cosa stava facendo, anche se il suo cuore era pesante. Non c'era romanticismo nel suo lavoro, solo la verità nuda e cruda, come la carne sotto il coltello. Non cercava di abbellire nulla, solo di mostrare le cose come erano.
La sua opera era un promemoria. Un promemoria di dove eravamo stati, e di dove eravamo diretti. Era il circuito dell'uomo, una spirale di creazione e distruzione, un viaggio senza fine attraverso le terre e le macchine che avevamo costruito, e poi abbandonato. E in quel circuito, c'era un'eco, un suono sordo di tutte le vite che erano state vissute, di tutte le scelte che erano state fatte. Era un'opera che ti guardava indietro, con la stessa intensità con cui tu la guardavi. E non c'era modo di sfuggire a quello sguardo. Era la verità. Dura, spietata, ma vera.

03/01/2026

Dalet- delet דלת, door
Cm 40x60x7
Plaster,water,paper, glue, electronic circuits
Artist: Gabriele Levy

This work stands like a threshold.
It does not shout.
It waits.

The form is simple, almost severe, as if it had been cut out of time rather than matter.
It carries the weight of a letter, but also the weight of a decision.
A door that is not yet open.
A corner where history turns.

In the geometry of this shape there is a pause, the kind of pause that nations take before moving forward or falling back.
The world today stands in such pauses.
Borders tighten.
Words harden.
Silence becomes heavy.

This letter is not only a sign.
It is a structure.
It supports and separates at the same time.
It holds space the way power holds land—without asking permission.

There is tension here, but no explosion.
Strength without noise.
Authority without gesture.
The form remains intact, because history rarely breaks cleanly; it bends, it presses inward, it reshapes itself slowly.

The work speaks of leadership as a burden rather than a crown.
Of decisions made alone, late at night, when maps look different and time feels shorter.
It speaks of walls that promise safety and corners that trap movement.

This is not an image of war, but of its preparation.
Not victory, but stance.
Not ideology, but weight.

The letter stands as a witness.
It does not judge.
It records.

Like the present moment, it is unfinished.
Like the world, it remains open only on one side.

29/12/2025

The Letter That Carries the Sky
Artist: Gabriele Levy

The letter stands in the middle like a body that has learned to remain upright while everything else drifts.
It is not a sign meant to be read quickly.
It is a weight.
It is a pause.

The square that holds it feels ancient, like a wall that has absorbed too many hands and too many prayers to still belong to one time.
The surface is scarred and calm at the same moment.
Nothing here is decorative.
Everything has a reason, even when that reason is hidden.

Above, the sky is not a sky but a field of memories.
Planets float as if they have been released from gravity, yet they are tied by invisible threads.
An hourglass hangs upside down, its sand falling slowly, deliberately, without drama.
Time is not rushing here.
Time is working.

The letter carries animals inside its body.
Small, repeated figures move along its curves like thoughts that refuse to leave.
They suggest migration, effort, inheritance.
Movement without escape.
The letter does not speak, but it remembers.

Below, the earth opens into layers.
Maps dissolve into water.
Water turns into sky.
Roots grow downward from floating worlds, refusing to accept the lie that separation is real.
Everything is connected, even when it pretends not to be.

A man stands on steps that lead nowhere.
He is small, almost unnecessary, yet his presence changes the balance.
He watches rather than acts.
He understands that crossing too early would be a mistake.
Waiting is part of the journey.

An eye appears where architecture should be.
It does not judge.
It records.
Seeing is not an act of power here, but of responsibility.

The floating castle, the broken chessboard, the animal half-emerging from dream and ground—all of them belong to the same sentence.
A sentence written without punctuation.
A sentence that continues even when you stop reading.

This work does not explain itself.
It does not need to.
Like truth, it remains solid while interpretations pass over it.
The letter stands because it must.
It holds time above and memory below.
It connects sky and ground without promising salvation.

What remains is endurance.
What remains is structure.
What remains is the quiet certainty that meaning does not disappear when it is fractured.
It simply waits to be reassembled.

And the letter stays.
Not as a symbol alone, but as a witness.

28/12/2025

The Letter That Walks the Desert
Artist: Gabriele Levy

The wall stands still.
It has stood there longer than memory.
Stone on stone.
Time pressed into weight.

On the wall there is a square of yellow.
Not gold, but the color of heat.
The color of sun that does not forgive.
The color of journeys that do not ask permission.

At its center there is a letter.
A Gimel.
It is not drawn.
It is built.

The letter moves even when it is still.
It is made of camels.
Small camels.
Each one walking.
Each one carrying something unseen.

Gimel is the letter of movement.
It does not rest.
It goes from one place to another.
It carries.
It delivers.

Behind the wall there is a desert.
The desert is old and patient.
The moon watches from above.
It is full.
It remembers everything.

In the distance, caravans cross the sand.
They move slowly.
They do not hurry.
They know the road is longer than fear.
They know that arrival is never the point.

The letter faces the desert.
It does not look back.
It does not explain itself.
It exists because it must.

The wall separates.
Inside and outside.
Past and present.
Shelter and exposure.

But the letter breaks the logic of the wall.
It is attached, yet it travels.
It is fixed, yet it migrates.
It teaches that movement can live inside permanence.

The yellow square is a threshold.
A sign.
A warning.
A promise.

The stone remembers prayers pressed into cracks.
Hands have touched it.
Words have been hidden inside it.
The stone keeps secrets better than people.

The letter does not speak.
It carries.
It carries hunger.
It carries hope.
It carries responsibility.

Gimel gives.
It moves toward the other.
It crosses distance.
It crosses silence.

Night and day meet on this wall.
The moon holds one side.
The sun burns the other.
Time folds without asking.

This is not a symbol of comfort.
It is a symbol of duty.
Of motion.
Of the weight of history walking forward.

The letter does not ask if the desert is kind.
It walks anyway.
Because stopping is not an option.

And the wall, for all its strength, knows this.
That movement will always find a way.
That even stone must listen.

Alefbet

27/01/2026

24/01/2026

20/01/2026

19/01/2026

12/01/2026

10/01/2026

08/01/2026

08/01/2026

03/01/2026

03/01/2026

29/12/2025

28/12/2025

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