Ezio Bosso si è trasformato, noi siamo la tecnologia più potente al mondo. Non riconoscendo più l’utilizzo della politica in quanto interamente collusa, si provvederà al rispetto del pianeta e la pace nell’universo.
La mia memoria sono anche le cose che mi circondano, hanno ricordi in se, quindi sono vive, passi dell’anima che sbircia una città in movimento. Sopra l’armadio c’è un lago di sale, tra cristalli e sculture un cigno immobile osserva. Casa, nido, tempio, visione, sogno, magia ma anche preghiera. Riccio in questo periodo, sto cercando rigenerarmi, perdere foglie, respiro l’aria del distacco, avrei molto da manifestare ancora più forse da creare, un continuo edificare protezione, invisibile raggiungibile attraverso una porta, l’attimo connesso, vibra corona, luna sente, ghiandola legge, poi vado a letto con i limiti di sempre.
Se un fiore potesse avere parola, racconterebbe del sole, della luna e di tutto il creato. Se all’uomo è stata donata azione, è per coltivare quel fiume, dove nasce poesia. Ogni tempo ha la sua storia, ogni storia ha la sua rivoluzione.
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.