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I write letters like other people go to Church

I am a human being struggling to be less alone in a violent and indifferent world.  I write letters to other human beings and send my dreams and projects, hoping to reach someone out there, hoping that someone will answer.

There is no life without hope.

In essence, I am asking for a miracle.

If I am successful in getting an answer, I will have gained some warm thought and hands coming toward me; if not, it means that my work has not touched anyone’s heart; once more I have been rejected.

As I have always said, my work comes from my life going toward life; it is the image of myself in this world, the person I am with all my weaknesses, my joys and desperations.

I have never worked trying to copy someone or wanting to produce the greatest work of Art. I really never know the result, which is totally unpredictable; I am always going toward the unknown, a great new adventure each time.

I am looking for some love and sympathy. Following my most primitive instincts, I would like to surprise you and give you joy.

Not too long ago, I have lost my family, it has been total destruction of the harmony that we were fortunate to live in for half a century.

Now my family is the flowers, the trees, the birds and two fishes. Carlo, my son, lives and works in Paris. He has become very busy.

The flowers have helped me survive: their colors and shapes changing with the light are a daily gift.  At 74, I have gone back to painting, just where I started from.

Has the circle closed? This is the period of just pouring out the emotions that they give me.

I am a storyteller and feed myself on stories that might never be. I put them into shapes and colors to help me find the light on this dark voyage.

The great danger is that I have been myself all the time without a mask, but I have to accept this danger because it is the only way that I can always be inside my work and not imitate anyone else’s emotions. I only want to reach out to human beings who understand and feel the difference with my only wish being that I have been able to give my work the deepest, true expression of myself.

Is what seems a lost battle, such a painful road, sometimes the most glorious?