MY NAME IS AMLETA

Art is his need. An instinctive need to create. An instinctive need to be and communicate one’s being to others. Affirming its existence with the creative act is the only way for Hamlet 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. Being a river in flood, dangerous for others, not accustomed to strong liquid currents, but a natural and splendid element for her. Art is its power. The power to create from nothing. To give life to what has never existed, which has never been seen, which has never been read. A sublime, divine, most envied power. Art feeds on souls. Art is insatiable, it is its fierce demon, and it has been walking this path all its life looking for an escape. But you never get rid of art because only art makes it free and alive. It is like a second skin and if you take it off you become skinned and you cannot live anymore. Hamlet has art in every cell, like a deadly virus, which never becomes a disease but which accompanies her throughout her life as a faithful travel companion. Art grinds the flesh, the spirit, the whole life. He raises it into the highest sky, being able to see without eyes, hear without ears, draw without using his fingers; and then makes it descend into the most terrible depths of the human abyss. Art is a miracle of life and death. Whoever possesses the gift is condemned to a parallel life. Hamlet goes in and out as if from a window. It goes in and out of itself, feeds itself to the pigs, gives its vital breath, falls apart and then begins again. Who would ever want such a life? Yet many envy it and do not know what it means to have the fire of inspiration that consumes! Art is its condemnation.

She didn’t choose to start drawing, then painting, writing and playing at the same time. A dark force took his hands, and guided his dark energy. He was thus able to empty the pain he felt while living and to enclose it within his creations. Nothing remains of that period: everything burned. Unfortunately, something was saved from his subsequent dark periods, still not gone and up in smoke. Amleta was born on a cursed island, in a sick country, and soon she got rid of her life and the pain took her far away, where she continued to suffer and create, create and destroy, herself, paintings, installations, plays, notebooks, sculptures, … Amleta creates and destroys what he creates. Hamlet is and is not at the same time. He yearns for this perennial creation and has tried several times to free himself from his prison without success. This gift, this power, this torment of colors and words, is the nectar of his days. Everything else is just a bitter side dish.

HOUSEWORKS

the work that women do at 
home is not valued. 
every woman has to arrange,
 tidy up, do laundry and cook 
for her family, besides the work
 she does outside the home.
 but this work at home is often
 done only by the mother. 
children do not even contribute 
because they study and think 
that this housework should be 
done by their mother. 
the father cares and never 
contributes. we are in 2019 
and in most of the European 
states and in America and in the
 rest of the world women are
L obliged to manage the house 
and do all these things for 
women. so often they have no 
time for themselves and neglect 
their passions. 
become frustrated and unhappy.
 husbands and children don't care
 if a mother is sick.
 they spend all their time on 
social media and don't care if 
their mother is unhappy.
 often women do not even have 
friends or friends and here 
they keep everything inside 
themselves and the disease is
 neglected. until they decide 
to leave suddenly and disappear 
or throw themselves into some risky 
extramarital affair. 
women living in big cities can turn 
to some association that helps them. 
but women living in small towns 
have no help.