And I left again. It always happens like this: what first exalted me is no longer enough for me. At first I resist, I try to find the balance, I tell myself that it is a passing sensation, then this thing grows inside me until the surrender. Giving up control, that is something that an artist cannot do without.
Keep control and you will give birth to rigid and sad children; every time you look at them you will experience a deep sense of unease. Lose yourself inside, let an invisible hand guide what you do, and you will create something magical, a mirror in which everyone sees something of himself, mutable, insinuating, something that you will not detest.
On the threshold of half a century I felt that it was time to give myself what I had always wanted, for which I was born, to which I have always tended, and which has always been denied me, before whom I trusted most than any other, and then by myself or rather by me repeating the patterns learned.
In the first feverish fifty years of my glittering life I was able to paint, to photograph, to model ceramics and wire, to draw (above all to draw), but everything I did left my stomach narrower than when I had started, until I accidentally discovered the embroidery art. From there to the first timid self-taught attempts to embroider strange things on everything that came my way was a moment.
In this blog I want to tell you what goes on in the mind of an aspiring elderly artist from central Italy; the path I will take, what I will meet along my way and how I will deal with it, and why. Art in all its nuances, above all that which exists in everyday life, in old things, in abandoned houses, in words, in plants, before our eyes every day.
Maybe someone who has the same nature as me will feel less alone than I felt, surrounded by pragmatism, disenchantment, the wise advice of those who wanted to do it and didn’t do it because the artist is not a job, it’s a hobby. And he was unhappy all his life.