There is a legend tied to Sa Pedra Longa a volcanic outcrop on the Sardinian coast that tells of women who, in search of fertility, would press their sex against the stone. A gesture at once intimate and raw, passed down through oral memory like a ritual inscribed in rock. But the work that emerges from this place is not a tribute to that gesture. It is a refusal, a re-writing.
In my vision, the stone is no longer an altar to fertility, but a threshold — a site where the body detaches itself from the function imposed upon it, and instead becomes wild, spectral, uncontainable. I imagined a procession of ravers ghostly women dancing not for reproduction, but for rupture. Their bodies are not vessels but forces: porous, eruptive, ceremonial. They emerge not to beg, but to remember otherwise. In this landscape, myth is not inheritance but invention. Memory does not confirm, it disturbs. The feminine is not offered it claims space, transforms, disappears, returns. Sa Pedra Longa is not a story of mothers. It is a story of undoing of desire without destiny, of rituals that erode submission, of a memory that does not belong to lineage, but to land, friction, and fire.