This story perhaps would never have wanted to be written (it felt so comfortable where it was!) if the people, walking along that early morning along the lakeside, had not stopped to admire a beautiful swan on the blue water while at the same time suggesting the inspiration for this plot.

Enzo Archetti IL VOLO – January 2012 written That swan was Candide.
The name had been given to him unanimously by the swan clan because he was very white. Courted, lively, enterprising, cunning, intelligent. All the swans had big wings, very big but they didn't use them. Wings were invented to fly, not to do anything else, but the swans had forgotten about this by now.

Candido, on the other hand, was the only one who managed to get up in flight without difficulty because he took advantage of the open palms of his feet and the first stroke of his wing at the edge of the water to then direct his orange beak with all that neck at 45 degrees in the direction of the sun. by day and the moon by night. An essential and perfect shape designed in the sky by a great master. On the lake he rotated, allowed himself acrobatics, curved in parabolic turns, glided like seagulls, struggled a little but managed to climb vertically and, vain as he was, peered out onto the lakeside to observe the people who looked at him and dreamed. The king of heaven, the most solemn.

All the swans floated absently, only he looked up, flew and the universe followed him.
A real show. Sometimes he happened to meet Jonatan the seagull, but he never said a word to him, never a compliment, as if he had not been seen. Jonatan's reality was far beyond the mirror of the lake reflected in the sky! Far beyond the clouds and the blue! Candido concluded: -"So many heads, so many pumpkins!". Jonatan didn't mind being seen, he had fun, he flew, he flew, he flew. The swan, on the other hand, had never had the idea of ​​flying further, he was content to stay there and strut his stuff. It seemed that this balance could not be altered. Even in the winter sky Candido managed to fly, his eyes watered from the cold, he gave himself a good shake of the head and everything went back to how it was before.

At the beginning of spring, however, Candido began to change. He dipped his long neck under water, fished and ate, enjoyed eating everything: fish, algae, waste, biscuits, he no longer looked up, he didn't have the time, he only thought about getting food and so he got fat. Some low flights, little enthusiasm, positioning yourself at 45 degrees was a great effort. Up there, very high, Jonatan played very lightly with the infinite. Always looking beyond. Stunts in the sky not seen from the ground. Candido tried to repeat the flight according to the best pattern of the open palms of his feet and the first wing stroke at the water's edge, he concentrated by closing his eyes but immediately found himself in the water accompanied by solemn laughter from all the swans, especially the older ones, who made him sink into the red of shame.

The derision was such that he never wanted to attempt flight again, he preferred to practice acrobatics of cleaning and personal hygiene, to sit there immobile, to lounge around and be admired, to be continually admired. By now the large wings were no longer needed, the weight-wingspan ratio had broken. He felt beautiful in the turquoise water. The flight acrobatics were a memory, they had served no purpose at all, unable even to decipher why things had happened exactly that way. He was a normal swan again. Up there, high up, Jonatan continues his adventure and writes messages in the sky that art can decipher.

(from “Travel Notes” – January 2012)