I have lived for half of my life in my art world. Then I got out and discovered reality. Unfortunately for me, not knowing the rules, I didn’t know how to behave, so I was always spontaneous, sincere, without ulterior motives. Instead I had to learn that reality is artificial and that people are almost always constructed and false. I had to suffer criticism because I am too “sociable, open, convivial, affectionate ..” Think about how a person who always has everything with his heart and hears certain things can be. So they explained to me that I have to follow certain behaviors to be accepted by people, people who are all cold, detached, always with a mask and not at all spontaneous. I refused, rather I am alone with my dog and my books. We wrote, sang and danced and the inevitability of the black future was tangible. We looked too far away. We didn’t touch a drop, no substance but our minds were so full of things that we were unstoppable and unstoppable. At night we wandered into philosophical discussions and our intent was not to explain things but to express our experiences. We went to the most unknown alleys of Palermo, wandering in search of wonderfully unknown corners. We sighed as if we were in love with the air itself. How can one continue to live after having touched eternity? How can we expect a future that was invisible to us? We were our infinity.
The needs of an artist are different from all those of others. Of course an artist eats, sleeps, goes to the bathroom. He may have things and people he cares a lot about. May have interests and hobbies. But one thing distinguishes him profoundly from all other people: the need for stimulation. An artist feeds his art from himself and from what he sees, knows and experiences. Visual, mental and empirical stimuli are profoundly necessary for every artist because in the absence of these his creative lymph dries up. In fact, if an artist is not put in the conditions of being able to have these stimuli that satisfy his needs, he will slowly fade away. His imagination, not being nourished, will become dry and will find it difficult to give him the input for artistic creation. Just as an animal dies in its instincts if placed inside a cage, an artist dies in his creative life if he is put in conditions that are not favorable to the expression of his artistic talent. Fantasy is like a plant and must be fed with the water of stimuli. If these are lacking, the substance for dreams is missing. It lacks the energy itself to create other dreams and other works. So for this reason it is sometimes said that an artist cannot live life like the others and the same things that others are enough cannot be enough.
my dark side always stands out. it is a constant struggle. it sinks and resurfaces. you continue to breathe while remaining at the bottom of the sea. submerged in torment, chained to the passion that takes away a piece of me every day, I fight an existence of continuous death. a black blood flows in my veins, I tried to purify it, eradicate it, erase it from my every vein, from my every cell. but it always remained where it was, even when it seemed to disappear. Each time it regains the upper hand and holds me prisoner in its claws. The night is nothing, it is during the day that the atrocious suffering of being and not being at the same time begins. Like a crack in a well-programmed clock that has this little detail. I ride on the lost hours of my inhuman time and I lose myself in the shadows that are drawn in my secret garden. A little girl comes out of the past, brings flowers to a grave, and says her name is Ophelia. That little girl was me at the age of five, and I was reciting death on the Persian carpet at home. I soon appreciated the silence of certain places where the only living presence were the marble angels. The scent of rotten flowers followed my steps. I never felt so happy as my first time at the cemetery. Was that the paradise everyone was talking about? there you could stay like that, just as you were. He didn’t have to talk to anyone, he could sit and stay for hours with them, the stone angels. They whispered sweet words to me and I alone heard them. The candles fascinated me, I wanted to take them home, my mother scolded me, you can’t steal from the dead! She said. I was upset, for me they were the flames of their lost hearts and I wanted to keep them safe, in my home. Then, when I was finally grown up, I bought as many as I wanted and my room glowed with flames. They were so happy to me, people didn’t understand light, they thought they were candles of the dead and that was it. I miss the cemeteries. It has been a long time since I entered it anymore and nowhere have I found that silence again, perhaps only when my struggle ends will I be able to rest too and be just a stone angel. Art is a need. An instinctive need to create. An instinctive need to be and communicate one’s being to others. Affirming one’s existence with the creative act is the only way to live. Feeling such a force within oneself, an energy, an immense explosion, a storm that never settles down. A sea that is always stormy to its depths. Art is power. The power to create from nothing. giving life to what has never existed, which has never been seen, which has never been read. A sublime, divine, most perisolos power. Art feeds on souls. Art is insatiable, it is a ferocious demon, and whoever takes it is doomed and for all life seeks the escape route but one never gets rid of art. It is like a second skin and if you take it off, you skin down and you can’t live anymore. You have art in every cell, like a deadly virus, which never becomes a disease but which accompanies you throughout your life as a faithful travel companion. Art grinds your flesh, your spirit, your whole life. It crushes you and lifts you into the highest sky. you can see without eyes, hear without ears, draw without using your fingers. Art is a miracle of life and death. Whoever possesses the gift is condemned to a parallel life. You enter and exit as if through a window. We go in and out of ourselves, we feed ourselves to swine, we are left in pieces and then we start again. Who would ever want such a life? yet everyone envies us and do not know what it means to have the FIRE that consumes you!
My blog was born as an artistic space but nobody cares about art. I also had a blog with all my works but it didn’t matter to anyone. I also said that I would burn my paintings but no feminist or association said a word. I have no friend or I would have given them all as a gift, as I did some time ago. I never wanted to make money with my art. For me it was just a way to vent my pain. And also my paintings and all the things I did. Now I’m tired of creating useless things. Nobody cares about my life. I could be dead and no one would notice. People got bored with me. My German Shepherd puppy gives me more satisfaction than a lot of fake people. There was a user who wrote to me that “HUMAN GENDER IS GOING TOWARDS A POSITIVE EVOLUTION” So then he called me a pessimist. So apparently it is only I who now see the human disaster where it has come. Maybe everyone else is blind. So I take a step back and leave all this scum to their positive evolution and I step aside and think about my own business. It is not a defeat but every now and then you have to take a break. What I was doing was important to you, to me and to some haggard whore. For the rest, everyone was there to comment with monosyllables and smilies at the end. No dialogue. See, this is my trouble. I am sociable, still too sociable, and I expect to have a dialogue with people. But some believe me to be superb, pretentious, dominant. And all this because I had different life experiences from theirs. Then some when they know that I am not looking for money they almost consider it an affront. As if having money you can live well. On the other hand, they do not understand that inner well-being cannot be bought with money. I can have it all but I still don’t heal. My heart no longer exists. I live only for my son and my husband. Only for them. For me to exist or not to exist is the same. I don’t differentiate between life and death, they are just two different types of energy but the source is the same. I have lived with such strong emotions and even ecstasy you know, mystical ecstasy, seriously. And then? I have never used drugs, I have never taken anything, not even opiate drugs or psychiatric drugs. For my anxiety I use a simple tranquilizer, which I only lose if I have severe anxiety attacks. I have a very normal life: husband, son, dogs, cats, garden, swimming pool, vegetable garden, cellar, … I don’t drink and I don’t smoke. Never caught anything strange or poisonous. I have had friends who are alkist and sadistic artists as well as ordinary artists. My inspiration came only from my pain. My fantasy originated only from my pain. The pain of abuse lasts for a lifetime. I used my pain to do good to others. I am at peace with myself. I wanted to help other people but I couldn’t. If people want to listen to Chiara Ferragni’s advice, let them listen to her. People have the right to choose. I don’t want to save anyone anymore. What happens will happen. I had to stop in every sense. The pain resurfaced. There are bad dreams, bad things about my unconscious memories that come back to the surface. But I’ll be fine, I’ll continue to paint trying to keep the shadow of my executioner away. But I don’t want to talk to people anymore. They don’t deserve my words.
Feminism’s most powerful tool for transmitting the message was surely art, in all its forms. It is true that women were present in art history both as artists and models, but only the latter is widespread and offers plenty of information, while the former barely stands ground. It was the men who painted women, often objectifying and misinterpreting them, and the topic seems to be more than recurrent.
While there’s no doubt some of them are world’s greatest artworks, it was time to bring to light also the achievements of women in the field, and to do it now.
‘Art is not just about another beautiful painting that matches your dining room floor. Art has to be disturbing, art has to ask a question, art has to predict the future.’ (Marina Abramovic)
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 