At the end of the 90s I followed a rather particular company of dancers for some time; I created for them the logo, the graphics of the posters and other various and eventual ones, and occasionally I took some photos during the rehearsals and performances. I often ended the evening by watching their shows, which had a feature that made me difficult.
The choreographer, an Italian from Sora, in Frosinate, who now lives and works between Rome and New York, was very oriented towards research and experimentation, and carried on his own poetics that intrigued me and made me feel deeply uncomfortable. The protagonist of his shows always had some physical impairment, he moved awkwardly or otherwise danced awkwardly. This thing clashed with the perfection and beauty of music and dance, and created a dystonia that took my breath away.
It was the kind of feeling that empaths feel when someone does something embarrassing; you don’t know whether to look away, try to help who is in front of you or try to attract the attention of those present because what is happening goes somehow unnoticed. Or hide your head in a pillow hoping it will end as soon as possible.
In some ways it also brought me back to when, as a child in Naples, by the hand of my mother, always in a hurry and worried, I passed in front of those low-lying windows covered with metal nets that sent the smell of musk, mold and dust. On me the weakness, the ugly, the strange, the obscene, the crippled, the annoying, the uncoordinated, the rejected, have always had a powerful charm. Men with strange, irregular faces, dwarfs, physical deformity, all this somehow provokes a strong repulsion in me and therefore irresistibly attracts me.
Only now do I begin to understand why, despite the nervousness I felt during those shows, I remained nailed to the chair and would have watched and looked at those scenes a thousand times; they echoed in me like an echo. It was information that I lacked, without which it was impossible for me to create: the awareness that there is no poetry, and therefore there is no art, in perfection. I had to read it black on white to be fully aware of it.
For more than two years now I have started with embroidery the path on the road of non-control, of the organic in the Cronenberghian sense of the term, of deliberately ignoring the request of the world; path complicated for me to follow, for many reasons due to my planets and my childhood. I find it hard to be a neutral channel, able to translate energy into embroidered illustrations leaving it as clean and true as possible, uncontaminated; I’ve always fought against it. Also because “to remain in this state it is necessary not to have interests to defend, fears to quell, needs to satisfy” , as Elemire Zolla wrote.
My choice to portray nature, when I am not really looking for the abstract, also goes back to this. A plant, an animal, the wind, the sea, the clouds do not chase beauty: they exist, and that’s enough. They are furious, messy, unpredictable, uninterested in the opinion of others. Or incredibly symmetrical, hypnotically perfect, without wanting to be, just because everything exists, as in Borges library , and if it works, it lives and replicates itself, perhaps skipping generations, or making its way with the force of despair.
In the end this is the only way for me to create works that don’t turn against me, that can look without hating them, that don’t reflect me and only me, that aren’t a narcissistic expression, that give me peace, and I don’t they get nervous to the point of having to hide or destroy them. Now all this that I only intuited before, is before my eyes, printed in my heart, it opens up new perspectives for me; like being on the rock overlooking the sea and finally breathing deeply. I expect wonders (and new challenges) <3