... for those who peer around themselves looking for what is great, who don’t settle for the existing reality and don’t stifle the unrest of the heart, that restlessness that directs man to something bigger.
The love of painting came into my life through a Gospel full of images my mother kept in the room. That book kidnapped me, literally. Each time the depictions hypnotized me. Once discovered, every day I wanted to browse through it.
Strong emotions, mysterious for a less than five year old child, such that I have never been abandoned by them. It was always particularly dear to me seeing in them the source of my entire story, both of man as a painter.
An experience so precocious and insistent that it had become daily could only have pushed me to ask my mother questions. I remember her answer: "They are paintings. They are done by painters".
After some time, when I'd just turned five and was in First grade, which was unusual at that time, it just so happened that the father's father, Grandpa Luigi, asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. "I'll do paintings as big as the sky." One would say my fate was written in the stars, if not for the fact that as time went on, with my increasing awareness of wanting to become a painter, he systematically opposed each and every opportunity, dashing my hopes, canceling one after the other any proposed avenue considered helpful to my artistic training. At the same time, with few resources, I dared to paint. A couple of stacked fruit boxes, one on top of the other were my tripod.
At the same time, with few resources, I dared to paint. A couple of stacked fruit boxes, one on top of the other were my tripod.
I went to look for them at the market. I thought it would be easy to find them. But it wasn't. Nonetheless, in the end I returned home with two boxes I'd been gifted. In that period nobody threw anything away. Everything had a purpose. There was a different relationship with things. Simple considerations. No nostalgia. I had my tripod!
Speaking of painting I expected a painting for myself, that it was just for me. I always had this idea very clear.
"I sensed" that there was something hidden somewhere in the folds of the soul; that is what I wanted to find, to measure myself against. Others were, or had been, on this road. Was it or was it not this this that I should be doing? The doubt spurred me to research. A passionate pursuit, uninterrupted. Plunging into what can't be seen, capturing the intangible and making it tangible through signs, forms, and colors was a thought intense enough to sustain an agenda that nothing could demolish. Always resurfacing, from each attempt, invigorated by new ideas, step after step.
Few words correspond to years of efforts, sufferings, upsets, exaltations and unwavering faith. Suddenly everything cuts to an end. The heart cannot take it anymore. In the act of the last intervention I feel as if I'm overtaken by death.
It's the castaway without hope. What I had thought to be signs of a benevolent fate permanently vanish. The "feeling", and the excitement of the young Pier Paolo, the headlights of his life, are reduced to simple natural motions of a child exploring the world. Nothing else That's it. No. NO!
A new peace surrounds me. I see myself transparent, I feel weightless, hovering in air, better yet, in a new circumfused atmosphere and immersed in a levity which cannot even be dared to be described. LIke, the light towards which I ran without any sign of movement. Maybe it was coming towards me or - how can I say? - it absorbed me. I was caught by a thought, or perhaps it was the soul that spoke to itself: - There you have it, in the sky I will paint paintings as large as the sky -. Meanwhile, I cast my eyes below me, at my other myself, my inert body on the cold surgical table. All around, the entire operational staff, focused on the ritual of - COMPLETING THE INTERVENTION.
Then, again, in no time, everything changes. The '"run" stops in unison with the head surgeon who suddenly acts. Rapid, complex, gestures without anything of inhuman perfection. The surprise of the surgeon is such that his eyes light up, shocked to have completed these actions in only one stroke.
While the soul fades into my body bringing it back to the life my senses are met by a reassurance: "You'll have your time."
Today, colors and shapes, rhythms and balance create in my paintings compositional harmonies in constant upward movement, floating or suspended, meditative, in other atmospheres and landscapes, not to affirm a journey towards utopia but, much more realistically, to live the space of the soul, a real place, home of all beauty for those who look around themselves in search of what is great, who refuse to settle for the existing reality and don’t stifle the unrest of the heart, that restlessness that directs man towards something bigger.
For some years I've use two small rooms that I've dedicated to the exhibition of my work. The exhibitions can be freely visited weekdays, with an advance call to telephone number.
Each exhibit is characterized as construction and is entitled: ATELIER.
Indeed past and not past works are there, complemented by other achievements (studies, prototypes, notes, photographs and drawings) that dialogue among themselves highlighting the convergences of my activity revisiting the overall atmosphere that pulses in my studio, the actual Atelier. Not yet and not only a place of work, but also, and above all, the space of the spirit as I humbly try to realize when I listen my depths.
Soon, through the technology of our time, I will be able to share everywhere my aesthetic passion and the implicit message that informs it. As a citizen of the world, thanks to the universal character of the substance of my activity, I will be able to fully share the results of my painting.