“My dear friend, I write you on domenica [Sunday], because it’s the only feminine day of the week.” “My dear friend, solitude or company?” “My dear friend, tonight I danced salsa forever.” “My dear friend, I hate the static nature of electric lights.” “My dear friend, I prefer daisies.” “My dear friend, I still believe in people.” Once a week for all the 52 weeks of a year, artist and poet Tomaso Binga (b. 1931) sat down at her desk on Sunday to type and sign a letter to herself. A small reminder, of the same sort we now hurriedly type on our smartphones in order to transfix ephemeral ideas, names, bits and pieces, as if a machine-generated disposable note could protect us from the fading of individual memories. Binga chose instead to write on carta amalfitana, a precious handmade paper manufactured in Amalfi since the Middle Ages, so durable and costly it is usually reserved for wedding announcements. The result is Ti scrivo solo di domenica [I write you only on Sundays] (1977), a sequence of 52 letters and envelopes, now neatly pinned to the gallery walls to form a candid horizontal line, a personal calendar where poems, instead of …