Uno storico una notte mi confidò Trifiletti/Trifoglio, visionario per come mi son voluto donare, il caso mi ha portato ad ascoltare un contadino, che riconosceva un terreno fertile proprio da quel Trifoglio, col tempo ho notato che è forte e sopratutto innocuo e riempie vallate di grazia. Penso che sia una rarità essere Quadrifoglio, però allo stesso tempo accontentiamoci del contenuto delle nostre azioni, che fanno fede ad un motto assai antico e ancor più potente, non chiama in causa titoli, quelli son fatti di mattoni e satelliti, no chiama la semplicità che ci contraddistingue nel vivere in modo umile anche se a volte un po riccio. Occhio alle volpi, e felice di condividere un tetto, che anche se ormai frazionato in tegole, il telaio, la struttura è più che viva, ed è la nostra famiglia.
Mezzanine Living – Riparo dal Caos
One historian told me one night that as a Trifiletti (Clover), I am a visionary for how I wanted to give myself to the greater good. The case led me to listen to a farmer who recognized that this was fertile ground of Trifoglio. Over time I noticed that it is strong and above all harmless and fills valleys with grace. I think it is a rarity to be a fourleaf clover, but at the same time lets us be satisfied with the content of our actions, which bear witness to a very ancient and even more powerful motto. It does not call for titles, those are made of bricks and satellites. No, it calls for the simplicity that distinguishes us in living in a humble way even if sometimes a little eccentric. Watching out for the foxes, and happy to share a roof that even if broken into tiles, the frame, the structure is more than alive, and it’s our family.
I should have been born in a palace,with carriages and horses, calm chants and plentiful breakfasts. In my recurring fantasies I put myself in a top hat, from my savings I built invisible towers, Christmas holidays. A house is family, a condominium, a cloud, in a square in the city I found my roots. The wind is blowing today, I’m tuning its notes and I live in this community that I dream to become.
creation is a moment that remains indelible
Dovevo nascere dentro un palazzo, con carrozze e cavalli, canti calmi e colazioni abbondanti. Nelle fantasie ridondanti mi sono riposto al cilindro, dai risparmi ho realizzato torri invisibili, ponti del Natale. Una casa è famiglia, un condominio, una nuvola, in una piazza in città ho ritrovato radici. Oggi il vento soffia, ne accordo le note e vivo in questa comunità che sogno divenire.
11 – 2005 Il Caos
C’è una teoria che tutto armonizza, che i miei nervi possano restare saldi, la mia testa centrata sul punto, il mio cuore alchemico più che mai.
Sicily Fest May 17/18/19 – Boiler House, Brick Lane – Imprints of Peace London
Art matured in me even before I knew its name, or rather before it presented itself without a name. Art was the light that filled my eyes, the breath of awakening, the journeys in the midst of desolate lessons of occurrences and recurrences, it was the queue for breakfast, the plants, and animals. Art was prayer, fire, water and all the elements, art was the stars, the sun and all nature, it was being present in the total absence of an apparently present world. The artist I am inspired by, is the greatest Creator of heaven and earth, He is the Father of all fathers for how He presented Himself when I did not exist yet. He paints sunsets and dawns, and He shares them with us all. There is no man who does not know His face. He is humble, infinitely loving, and when I asked Him if it was Him, He replied, “Yes, it is I”. I dreamed that I was at the Bridge. The Bridge was a small estate of a Holy Family near Viagrande at the foot of Mount Etna, where as a child my grandparents and many friends gathered for the grape harvest. I remember the joy of picking the grapes immersed among the rose gardens, to press them with our bare feet among the grape pickers, I remember the shed with the fire burning and the many voices, on top of this small estate there was a small cave with the little Virgin Mary, to which I in the most innocent youth confided in my childhood prayers my worries and questions. The lady of the house was devoted to traditional cuisine. She used terracotta pots, and I still remember as if it were yesterday when she prepared a snack with her jams for after school. Every afternoon she took me to church to pray, the church was that of Monserrato, and even if I didn’t understand, I was well-behaved at her side. Now, after some time, I remember and I make connections again and again. In the dream that lasted a few infinite moments I found myself at the entrance by the cellar road. I was alone, I don’t remember what I was doing at that moment, but I will never forget the image of Him, or rather how He wanted to present himself to my eyes. He was not with regal clothes, indeed far from it. He was extremely peaceful and I found it hard to believe in the dream that the creator of everything could be so humble. I don’t remember Him uttering any revelation, because I felt that He was the revelation. I don’t remember any more words, and I don’t remember a content so infinitely powerful that it can fill any space. I asked Him if it was He, and He answered me “I am”. The dream is unforgettable, because He was infinitely humble. That dream is perhaps the key along with another dream that I will never forget. It is the key that makes me notice the small gestures, which makes me rejoice in the small things, which makes me see in a flame the soul of life, which makes me enjoy the little things, because only through small things can a great future be built. The little things, are the love that we risk losing for each other, it is the cry that comes out of me spontaneously, not knowing what I write. When I go out I feel love for everyone and everything. I would like to give love, this is the most ancient form of art. Art is Love, it is a testimony of pain for a world that moment by moment is moving away from small things, from loving each other. This is what my works scream; they cry out ceaselessly because we are all one. Even when I try to distract myself, even when I mix sugar with my miserable coffee every morning, I think of how many children still feed with their blood the insatiable abysses of the unscrupulous ignorant, how many families today still have to find themselves fighting to protect their history. How much ignorance continues to alienate families, children, fathers, from each other, to steal childhoods, to speculate on the good by selling poison? We are all Artists, beauty will save the world, the beauty of when every single being on this planet will return to communicate, communicate in the crisis, how much need there is for love. Father, your son always.
E’ una storia semplice. Una storia tra cani e uomini. E’ una storia antica, che si racconta da quando cani e uomini sono sulla terra. Una storia sullo stereotipo: il cane è il migliore amico dell’uomo. E’ una storia che racconta amore disinteressato, complicità, intesa, somiglianze e contrasti.
La Mia Complice
It’s a simple story. A story of dogs and men. It’s an ancient story, that is told since dogs and men are on earth. A story about the stereotype: the dog is man’s best friend. It’s a story that tells unselfish love, complicity, understanding, similarities and contrasts.
All’improvviso l’immagine di un amico appena incontrato mi spolvera un pensiero, siamo tutti aggrappati a un legno chiamato speranza, non importa la distanza, non importa la salute, importa la coscienza, il cammino dell’occhio che parla al cuore. Una casa, una stanza, finestre chiuse riparano dal freddo, conservano gli odori, il silenzio, la musica, l’energia tiene compagnia, protegge, nutre. Apro le finestre, luce entra, odori di una notte prendono confidenza col cielo, mura respirano sogni trascorsi, li barattono col futuro, vento strappa l’offerta, pioggia ricorda, poco cresce senza la mia danza, sole scalda, luna innamora. Resto intatto alle tradizioni, l’odore del caffè al mattino, l’alito del tè al pomeriggio, al centro del tavolo dopo il tramonto accompagna la mia notte una fiamma, riempie lo spazio dentro e con poco margine fuori, di luce bella, luce calda. Scivola la musica, allieva, amplifica, nutre, solidifica, intensifica, rende vive le immagini, mi piace la dolcezza, fragilità di quando signora Armonia accarezza le nostre teste, ci sentiamo così bene da temere la lontananza futura di quel passaggio, che anche un fiore a distanza riconosce. A casa fin quando hai tre uova, un pacco di farina, un pugno di sale, due arance e tre limoni, del caffè, un sorso di vino e quattro amici, sei ricco. Colori belli, contenuti intimi, evocazione memoria, passaggi di ogni luna, cuscini comodi ma non troppo, riconoscente allo specchio d’oro, fantasia galoppa, portami via.
Vi prego, in futuro quando parlate di ponti tra la Sicilia e la Calabria, pensate anche col parere della terra che ci ospita, lo so il lavoro, l’economia, lo sviluppo. Ancora oggi le montagne, i vulcani non godono di leggi a tutela non solo del paesaggio, ma cosa assai più importante della salute. Il Pianeta vive, noi siamo soltanto ospiti di passaggio, siamo doni, e abbiamo il dovere di custodire ciò che ci è stato donato.