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The Company in Words: When Work Becomes Dramatic Art

A performance is planned for this evening at the Teatro Franco Parenti. The work is a theatre training project entitled “L’umana impresa. La fabbrica degli attori” organised by the Associazione Pier Lombardo in collaboration with the Pirelli Foundation.

Here it is. That’s my machine. I’ve worked on it for over twenty years.” He goes around the calender machine, runs his rough hand over the peeling paint, moves a knob, lifts a lever, strokes a gear… And again he says: “Over twenty years…” He smiles an affectionate sort of smile, as one might when speaking of a friend or a family member. And the memories flood back.

The storage facility is at the back of the old factory on the western outskirts of Settimo Torinese. It has been closed for some years now, its place taken by a new factory with avant-garde architecture, robots and computers, diffused lighting and the highest safety standards: a “beautiful factory”, sustainable and extremely productive. And all the old machines, which bring to mind the twentieth century and old assembly lines in noisy, smoke-filled workshops, are now piled up in a large room, waiting to be scrapped. Ready for the foundry, from which they will emerge as brand-new raw materials for iron and steel. But for the moment, they just summon up memories.

“I first entered the factory in the mid-1980s. A worker. And I learnt quickly: precision, skill, a feeling for the materials, and great care. Working on time. And well.” Fatigue, strength, tensions, conflicts, changes. Work, in any case. And teamwork. “We used to meet up in the shift change room, to hand over the job, explain about some problem with a machine, and calculate production numbers. And to talk about us, about our families, the contract that was to be signed, the prize for achieving production targets.”

Being together, in other words. Thriving, with the satisfaction of a profession that gave not just wages but also pride in a job well done. And this pride remains, even now that everything has been replaced, adopting the rules and rhythms of digital manufacturing. People learn to use and control the machines with an iPad. We meet up, between generations.

“The time has come for the young, for tech engineers. But we, older workers, have experience. So it’s up to us to advise, to teach.”

He talks and remembers and explains. He runs his hand over the roller that the rubber went around. He leans forward and gets up from the operator’s seat, recalling once familiar movements. He has mastered every movement, revealing long-formed habits and care.

“She taught me a lot, she did,” he confides, gazing at the silent, inoperative calender machine, as if it were a person. And he says how machines are not just materials and gears, for they also have a sort of soul. “And the machine, docile, assists him…”, wrote an engineer-poet who loved factories, many years ago.

The worker does not know who that engineer was, and he has never read those pages. But he well understands those words, having learnt from real life experience. “This was my machine…”, he repeats. He bows his head for one last look, and then he turns and walks away.

by Antonio Calabrò

A performance is planned for this evening at the Teatro Franco Parenti. The work is a theatre training project entitled “L’umana impresa. La fabbrica degli attori” organised by the Associazione Pier Lombardo in collaboration with the Pirelli Foundation.

Here it is. That’s my machine. I’ve worked on it for over twenty years.” He goes around the calender machine, runs his rough hand over the peeling paint, moves a knob, lifts a lever, strokes a gear… And again he says: “Over twenty years…” He smiles an affectionate sort of smile, as one might when speaking of a friend or a family member. And the memories flood back.

The storage facility is at the back of the old factory on the western outskirts of Settimo Torinese. It has been closed for some years now, its place taken by a new factory with avant-garde architecture, robots and computers, diffused lighting and the highest safety standards: a “beautiful factory”, sustainable and extremely productive. And all the old machines, which bring to mind the twentieth century and old assembly lines in noisy, smoke-filled workshops, are now piled up in a large room, waiting to be scrapped. Ready for the foundry, from which they will emerge as brand-new raw materials for iron and steel. But for the moment, they just summon up memories.

“I first entered the factory in the mid-1980s. A worker. And I learnt quickly: precision, skill, a feeling for the materials, and great care. Working on time. And well.” Fatigue, strength, tensions, conflicts, changes. Work, in any case. And teamwork. “We used to meet up in the shift change room, to hand over the job, explain about some problem with a machine, and calculate production numbers. And to talk about us, about our families, the contract that was to be signed, the prize for achieving production targets.”

Being together, in other words. Thriving, with the satisfaction of a profession that gave not just wages but also pride in a job well done. And this pride remains, even now that everything has been replaced, adopting the rules and rhythms of digital manufacturing. People learn to use and control the machines with an iPad. We meet up, between generations.

“The time has come for the young, for tech engineers. But we, older workers, have experience. So it’s up to us to advise, to teach.”

He talks and remembers and explains. He runs his hand over the roller that the rubber went around. He leans forward and gets up from the operator’s seat, recalling once familiar movements. He has mastered every movement, revealing long-formed habits and care.

“She taught me a lot, she did,” he confides, gazing at the silent, inoperative calender machine, as if it were a person. And he says how machines are not just materials and gears, for they also have a sort of soul. “And the machine, docile, assists him…”, wrote an engineer-poet who loved factories, many years ago.

The worker does not know who that engineer was, and he has never read those pages. But he well understands those words, having learnt from real life experience. “This was my machine…”, he repeats. He bows his head for one last look, and then he turns and walks away.

by Antonio Calabrò