At 10:30 or so, I wandered back down the Middle Road, past the Casa Cordati again, past the ragazzi kicking a soccer ball around the campo before the Teatro, rounding the corner into the Piazza Angelio. The cube was aflame now, an eery interior light bursting through its orange skin. It pulsed with the music of Guzzoletti and Venturi – harmonious yet cacaphonic, rhythmic yet jarring, echoing the sonic contradictions of cities real and cities imagined.
Keane and Da Prato were furiously painting, covering the cube’s four visible faces with immense mandala-like designs in blue, black and gold, climbing wobbly ladders to reach the upper storeys, sprinting to a nearby table to mix colors, refill their buckets and change brushes. Keane kept his eye on a stopwatch. The minutes ticked away in a manic rush, time flinging itself forward towards the appointed deadline of 61 minutes and a single second.
