Our thought is the art of organizing what we see according to an aim, but what we see is dramatically little in respect of the deafening bustle of becoming that everywhere blazes in the world, in offices and minds, on screens, in factories and atmospheres.

We think we know how things will go, and we create an image about it in our head. But the rest of the world does not organize to comply with our expectations. There is an intrinsic nature in things, proceeding according to its own rules, indifferent to our programs. Above all, there are the intents of other men, opposed to ours.

Meshes of reasoning become larger, trying to wrap up consequences and conditions of productive processes, but one cannot take care of all. It suffices to wait, and always something unforeseen arrives that forces us to change our thought readjusting it to the world. Our expectations are a crystal that will fall apart in the insensitive gears of becoming.

There is something wicked in the way man falls in love with his projects over the world, that come to life with so much enthusiasm but then trap in themselves the same man that loved them, making sad his reasoning. Society functions by this perversion, which mechanism is difficult to escape.

But if the reasoning about the world became sad, then thought needs a place aside where he can forget the world. If society is a high forest where light does not penetrate, we look for a glade with no shadow to retrieve the sky. We move away from the future to stay in the present, forsake the rest of the world to look only at these houses, divert ourselves from people and withdraw in the interior that does not speak.

Aries Tottile said that if man is reason, then the good for man is the practice of reason; but man is also and above all body. Putting aside the broken reasonment to make more room for the body can be the best strategy for later coming back to a reasonment that moves from cleaner ambients of the thought.

Often the will that organizes action to reach objectives ends to create a sort of smoke-screen between us and our movements, that are accomplished without being lived. But once we turned our back to the tainted reasonment, action can free itself from slavery of results, and gets access to that amount of sacre that is inherent in every gesture.

So, i’m ceasing to feed the thoughts of projects and of society duties. I let the images about work, people and news turn pale. After parking attention into the listen of breath, i look with the corner of my eye at the thoughts of the day keeping on sprouting. But if I hold myself and don’t watch, if I don’t pluck them, they return underwater, as a dolphin that after coming out in the air falls again. If before reason sent the order of movement by a telegram, now he listens to what body has to say. It’s the moment of adherence, the moment for attention to spread through the volumes of flesh, through the great muscles of arms and legs but even through the tiny ones which names are known only to doctors. It’s the moment for welcoming the sound organized in rhythms and harmonies of superimposed notes: music, the trainer of body and thought.


Among the leaves of a tree the sight of man looks in the hope of a fruit, and when it turns to interpret a face, the arrangement is made around the eyes. In the same way the mind longs for the polar points of a musical structure, and when it seems that something has been found, the mind makes a test, trying to seize that something with the captain of all gestures: the foot that meets the floor.

Every time the gesture guesses the time, energy does not diminish due to the accomplished work, but rises with the soundness of the musical sensation. And if the game of legs is well done, then the soul of inspiration takes possession also of trunc, arms and hands, till the articulations of fingers. Body structure is put in the service of music structure, as it were a puppet of manifold possibilities, and simple gestures that beat time are followed by more elaborated editings.

In adventure films, there are secret tiles, and when someone tramples by mistake on them, hellish traps spring up and palaces crumble. In this video-real-game instead, there is a secret G point inside the cement, moving just under the surface, like a big worm of Dune, and when you succeed in following him with your steps, the floor comes to life and becomes an animal to be ridden. When you lose his traces you have to stop, still like a silent statue waiting for the intuition to re-find the position.

But we are not in a twentieth century theatre workshop, and he is not an athlete the one who is dancing, interested in tougher muscles for more powerful jumps. He’s a citizen of the sad empire that by profession does something other, and uses with love the body available to him to play the score, without getting angry about the limits of his instrument. It is not the intensity of the physical performance ruling in this game, but the syntax of the movement words the inner director disposes of.

And there where fatigue lets its voice be heard, the dancing citizen interposes immobile pauses or lessen beyond measure the intensity of every movement, till it remains only a nod of the head or the look. But never he gives up about getting charmed by the fire-flies that kindle in the magic triangle among body, mind and the organized sound.

Man’s book teaches us a dance for building up the kingdom of here and now, giving a sense to the enterprise of facing the other coming against us in the days. It’s not a dance to comply with the look of a public; it’s a form of beauty that is not observed by the ones outside, but by the unique one[1] inside.

  1. [1]A clarification: I did not use this expression to indicate the faith in a monolithic “I”, that on the contrary I feel as manifold. I think the convention of a unitarian grammatical “I” to be a method that can be freely employed on the basis of the situation. In this specific case, the unique one is the mental point where inspiration is going to take shape, not bidden by an order, but invited by waiting.



My customer wants a picture for an article. It must be clear without falling into the banal; i don’t find it. This article talks about children in a context of divorce, and i’m collecting sad and crying children, in the full or in the dim light, sitting alone or pulled by parents… The sheet and the thought fill up with images elbowing for a place, without leading me beyond. My creations become a little crowd besieging me with bother. I find myself caught between an inspiration need and the impossible gesture of stretching out my hand for seizing it. The more I try, the more it escapes me.

Talking about his animals, Konrad Lorenz pointed out that game occurs when there is no danger and the belly is full: when there are not important and urgent issues to face. But the appointment with my buyer is exactly this, and it seems to prevent the favorable circumstances for the creative game that itself requires.
Clearly, working doggedly on the aim does not favour the birth of the image, but neither i can stay with folded arms while a stupid clock is scoffing at me. What work can i carry on with to get closer to the inspiration, downwind, without making it escaping? The right image seems to come when it feels like coming only, but there must be in the back-stage of the mind a suitable situation for its birth. There must be somewhere between the conscious and the inconscious an idea of the structure that i have to illustrate, capable to supply raw materials for starting the neural magic off towards the G point of creativeness.

And so, i stop drawing children and i start writing where they came from and where they will go, forgetting their appearance. I let fading away all the images i collected before, because they absorbed the effort sweat they had been conceived with, and the smell was not good. I interview the subject of my paintings and i tell in words his past and his future, jumping from one thing to another or deepening in the never ending details, inventing something completely or mixing my experiences with my fancies. In this way i can give vent to my stress with a work bringing me closer to the result. The stories causal nexuses sediment in some hidden place of the thought, populating it with seeds i await a bud from, in occasion of which i will come back from the words world to the images one.

When i insisted on searching inspiration in the images field, the badly functioning creations[1] asked me to trace the breakdown and to make them worthwhile. So every figure that was not the right one weighed me down ending up by being a damage. Now that I moved into the words field everything i build is nothing and does not weigh me down, slips away without regrets because it’s not what I’m looking for.[2]
But really this words flow is not a nothing only, it’s the care too for something still i don’t see; as there is a rain dance, there is a dance for the images, and words are drops to forget and find them again. Registered & Protected

  1. [1]All but the last one: the good one interrupting the search.
  2. [2]Of course, the difference between the images dynamic and the words one is not due to their intrinsic nature; it’s because of images are the destination field, while words are the intermediate field.




The Respectable Sage contests the Creative: “You always try to be original, don’t respect the conventions, and with your conceit you ruin the ground of society.”

The Creative, that luckily is also a little clever,[1] replies:

“First of all, I don’t go looking for the originality with a lantern: I look for myself. It’s you that look at me from the outside, and use this word for naming and criticize me, but I look at me from the inside.

Second: i’m not presumptuous, i’m the slave of the living beauty, and i’m humble in the sight of her.
I have much more respect for this owner of me than you have for your convention. My owner is piercing, he’s not a mask only, behind which every kind of life can stay hidden.

Third: if you did not understood what the living beauty is, I will make it clear: it’s the thought that moves, it’s when a meaning conquers and reorganizes the whole kingdom of the conscious and part of the unconscious.
It’s the new-born idea that becomes an occasion for the thousand names lying in the mind to put themselves in a new configuration, by casting themselves along the rays coming from that idea, or by forming a circle around it.

Fourth: in my pictures the full dress takes a seat near the poor clothes and the tracksuit. The laughing man goes with the the crying, the sad man talks with the joyous one, the absent-minded finds an agreement with the action man. Because my rule is not the equality of behaviours: it’s something other. Instead, you think I have no rules, for I break the uniform appearances.

Fifth: Fortunately, I don’t need different appearances to look for myself. And neither I need to hold a dialogue with your thought, that I already know. And so about this I give in to you, o Respectable Sage, and tomorrow I will dress myself in tone-on-tone, and I will answer with a mannered smile, without making them waiting. Because it’s not the appearances battle the one I want to lead. Registered & Protected

  1. [1]Otherwise, the Respectable Sage could ruin his inspiration.

The inspiration portrait, and philosophy wearing a blue overalls


I was reading a philosophical text [1] and I took notes beside the printed letters. Then i got involved in rearranging them in regular phrases. I was wrong: i put on the paper only the six, seven or thirteen words that are just enough to identify the ideas i had a glimpse of. Instead, i should have descended into the galleries the creative thought had come from, before they became closed again.

 Notes about new ideas should be taken writing complete phrases only, when you are near the source of the inspiration that still is alive and the tracking of its background stories is feasible. Inspiration is fleeting, and its portrait cannot be postponed.

 Understood what to do for saving the intuition, here I am, pacing the thought roots on the contrary, in the hallways of this mobile and mysterious labyrinth, that gives itself to my view for a short time.

 Walking through these caves, I realize the words are no longer inside me and chosen by me, but they come to meet me brought by a coal cart in a tunnel, like an Indiana Jones movie or a Jules Verne book. But where do I stand?? May be these rooms are the department where I will meet the philosopy wearing a blue overalls, busy in an attempt to set in motion the metaphysics?

  1. [1]

    Heidegger, What is Metaphysics?

    Italian edition: Heidegger, Che cos’è metafisica, in “Segnavia”, Biblioteca Filosofica, Adelphi 1987, edited by Franco Volpi, Friedrich-Wilhelm von Herrmann . Pagg. 59-77