I’m not talking about me. It would be useless. I show what I did. I reveal what I think.

And I try to give birth, accompanied by you, what I have in mind to do.

Indifference and ignorance are certainly the status that caused the decline of consciousness in people.

The frightening gap between the well-being of a few and the indigence of the majority, food and health inequality emerge from the arid statistical numbers that are supplied daily by reliable and responsible sources.

Year after year the waste and the cult of the useless are more and more pushed, the lack of discernment and the contempt of the common rules of common sense are tangible and envelop us with ever more narrow spirals.

And these coils end up suffocating our planet, now distorted and devastated to the limits of reversibility.

In the vulgar and guilty disorder, art has taken on a function that is increasingly rebellious and accusation, with different voices that strive to be heard: the only hope behind an end now announced, inevitable if this spontaneous sigh of denunciation remains unheard.

The love for art that imbues these pages is therefore instinctive and intellectual, complicated and simple. It is love for these artists that make up a real language of the heart, caressed, bent and sculpted with an ever-alert sensitivity. They are pages of when life is a continuous discovery, an exploration of the identity of others and the search for one’s own, of when art embodies an attitude towards the world ready to open up to every experience, to enjoy every joy, to expose oneself to every wound.