[To mark the beginning]
It looks like a black line, rising at dusk. A sharp purple-grey
cloud that becomes obscure and then grows endlessly. While it rises,
the sky Ė with all its stars - begins to darken in my sight.
Picture it! It is as if someone Ė which I never knew - has abruptly
rang my bell, warning me that soon Iím going to get lost, drifting
away for this oppressive silence that lasts inside myself forever. A
silence always equal to itself, although capable to change the
surface in various different ways. A silence ingrained into this
past of mine that seems to me so strange, so vague.
Between reality and me there is a veil that my thoughts cannot tear
apart. Will you simply think at yourself?
Just yourself, if only for a second.
[Living together with others]
Someone says that anything is transcendental and it is more or less
real, just like reality - rainbows, seas, continents, mountains as
well as every single being, every single animal, every single
Although many times I feel like I am dying, I still continue to ask
from Art a way to reveal my soul to me. So my mind can freeze for a
moment while it understands that I, actually, I exist for real, that
Iím truly made of flesh, nerves, blood, energy.
Sometimes my lips whisper a love song, or I teardrop instinctually,
crying for someone I do not know yet. Are we really able to love
with that kind of love we really need and wish for ourselves?
[Meanings and quest]
I guess I would be quite happy if I could blow away every single one
of my thoughts, every single motion, in order to let myself drown
deeper and deeper in an empty life, just ordinary: prosaic work and
no knowledge at all. Stupidly, if not shabbily joyful, I would drink
the water of this human existence without asking where it is its
Sometimes, I wonder if happiness exists only for those who know that
they can no longer feel it. When I come to the mystery, and I
understand it, Iím frightened. Are you?
No, art canít speak about itself, at least not this particular form
of art which you feel is yours and you nourish through. Nevertheless,
I ask you not to doubt it. Sometimes, in your eyes, it might seem
too much, or not enough at all. I ask you at least not to doubt your
suffering, because you will suffer much more and in vain, if one day
youíll realize that you doubt it.
You can feel love for someone without being there. Without uttering
a single word. During your day, you may pronounce nonsensical
sentences (everybody does it): in those moments you know you forget
yourself and, even if you are going to talk with someone about your
art, or just to yourself, you probably may even not remember how
much you love it. So, if youíre faithful to your statement or, you
have decided it to break it, itís all right as well: rather then
speak of anything, just tell about nothing or donít.
When youíll see a work of yours after years, you will not know
anymore who you were and where and, it could comes that youíll miss
[Why are you so]
How can you love being so far and, to be glad only by thinking to be
arrived when someone is not arrived yet? Do you have a secret? Donít
you want to share it? Be confident. You have always known everything
about yourself, although you do not know anything yet. If youíll
tell your secrets, you will understand them.
We pray, we love, we cheat, we confuse ourselves, we think, we feel,
we warn, we make illusions, we dream for a number of infinite times.
Everything we do is in order to help us forget - or bless - our name,
cast a spell, look for happiness. And if one day youíll cry once
more, caught by the muddy spirals of sadness, you can still decide
to share your sorrows with that discipline that you see somehow
magic. Be shy, but not indifferent. Shiver, tremble or scream your
feelings and thoughts like a fire that shines through the night,
before it dies down. Meet in the chaos. Shoot a flash to enlighten
your path in most truly complete human way. Be wrong, never banal.