I reject the claim that art has a decorative function; that it must beautify an environment or improve the life of those who use it; likeability. This indefinable human manifestation, which has so many implications and roads and winding tunnels, draws on a world that barely touches reality, a land in which freedom in its purest sense is sovereign, and deeply personal and often unique emotions.
Unlike the craftsman, the graphic designer or the designer, who create keeping in mind the destination, the artist does not have to communicate, he does not have a goal; its mission is to merge in the journey. It must be a channel, as pure as possible, between ethereal energy and the physical world; control the medium that uses as little as possible, pull the oars in the boat and let the current wing to bring.
Create a mirror in which everyone reflects their own emotions; which is why some may be annoyed by a work that others love. If the work leaves you indifferent, and you are not a pathological narcissist, it is not a work of art.
At the beginning one wonders if suffering is needed to give birth to something true. If you have to regurgitate pain in a world that would need to be somewhat more welcoming. Only in time can we understand that happiness is also suffering, it is inherent in our transience; it is the consciousness of death, its fascinating unpredictability that makes everything unmissable, wonderful, poignant, and that allows us to create.
I have always been saddened by the usual conviction that as the young man becomes an adult he dilutes his ideals, attenuates the fire in his chest, fades the colors, conforming. As a girl the idea that one day the scent of the grass in the evening in the countryside would no longer blow my heart to my chest, that the wind would no longer frighten me, that the storms would no longer nail me astonished in the middle of the windows open wide, that the love that shakes would turn into placid affection, it was impossible for me to accept.
I bet that I wouldn’t let the years change, not like that. It was like a spell, and I never grew up: now it is a moment for me to immerse myself in the same torment of that period: therefore the restlessness does not belong to adolescence, but to those who crave it.
Staying in this limbo complicates me living; I hardly find my kind. Often those who say they are pretending to be with themselves, and subversives that I loved have cooled as I never would have believed. But this energy so evident attracts to me knowledge and situations that largely disregard reality, which taken univocally is mortally boring; its seemingly unsurpassed rules in which many people wrap themselves happily and from which they feel protected and warmed up are uncomfortable and tedious to me.
Only art saves me, only art that is not pretty, it is not pleasant, it is not decorative, it does not prostitute itself and does not prostrate itself, it will save the world.