All my life I have been somewhat different from the vast majority of those around me, and I say this without complacency: it is a burden that I do not wish on anyone. Living like this is exhausting, and yet it is also true that I could not even want to adapt to the common thought, mainly because I find no reassurance in the alignment, I do not feel the need for it.
Often I asked myself why art should always percolate from suffering, and I deluded myself that I could somehow make art that could (and therefore somehow inspire) serenity, peace, joy. A couple of days ago I was reading a passage from an old book by Jodorowski, Psychomagia, in which he explained how important it was to be able to find within himself an impersonal space from which he could prescribe psychomagic acts directly from his unconscious, in connection with the unconscious of the person who consulted him.
I quote: “ (…) when I prescribe an act, when I play my role as a psycho-magician and fall into a trance or self-hypnosis – call it what you want – it is not my little self who speaks. I have the feeling that what I’m going to say it comes from deep places.”
In fact, it is only when you can detach yourself from yourself and become a kind of link with the energy that circulates everywhere, like the wind, that you create something really strong. At least in my case. I have always seen the artist as a sort of interpreter, who with alternate results, depending on how much he manages to cancel himself, translates energy into images (or sounds. Or dance. Or else).
And I see the maximum expression of art in the creation of a work that is like a mirror, in a certain sense neutral, in which everyone can look at himself. Without suggesting or imposing a path or reading. An abyss, a black hole that directly touches the soul, which completely transcends the intellect, the greatest obstacle of art.
In full contradiction with all this, in the past two years, since I started drawing on the fabrics with needle and thread, I have proposed to transmit through what I created, the balance that I thought I had achieved in my life, mainly due to having managed to remain free from all coercion, limpid and coherent in my choices, to having studied so much of everything, and to the evolution that has derived from it.
I started with these delicate, almost imperceptible, fluffy, colorful designs. After a few months they became tangled, gloomy, wrinkled. Full of strength, anger, of Mars in a lion, of struggle for the territory, of fight or flight. I pulled out every single colored thread and replaced it with earthy, acidic, metallic colors, and added two more threads to the first one, a white one, embroidered with a different stitch, which pulls and pierces the fabric. The other, a neutral color, always the same, the other brother / son, the triad in which I grew up, too early. But I already had broad shoulders, soon accompanied by a robust megalomaniac constellation. And therefore.
In the end it is pain that brings you between energy and creation, and since there is none of us who does not try it, however happy a life it may be, we might as well go down to terms and also love all the suffering we have lived, that we live. The coin of the famous parable must be used, not hidden underground, not wasted.
Because the difference between heaven and hell is when you get to the end of your life and looking back you can say I did everything I could to make my life make sense, I kicked and fought, I screamed and cried, I helped, loved, scattered ideals, welcomed, rejoiced and suffered like a dog. In a word, lived.