Bio

I was born in 1964 in a town where I hadn’t left traces nor nostalgia for. Since then, the family has increased almost as regularly as the removals, every two years. In some of these places nestle a composite nostalgia that has continued to expand. One of the deepest roots is that of Umbria, Perugia, I have not only accepted it, but chosen it twice.
I first met the Adriatic of the Tyrrhenian Sea.
But my earliest memory at the age of four is the window of a running train. A dark September’s sky reflected my mother’s glance in the Ligurian sea.
The question “where are you from?” oppressed me so that I developed a linguistic chameleon, with almost immediate effect, then the rhythm
of the walk and the pauses did the rest: I confuse myself almost everywhere, almost among all people.
I painted right away, but at twenty I buried brushes and pencils for almost thirty years. Then, all exploded again with clay. It was not easy then to go back to paper. When I can, I flee to clay. The sacred matter, the land that I had worked for ten years with a hoe, hands and tractor in an olive farm organic, my grandmother’s, my father’s land, from the tractor to the bottle alone. I shared the olive grove with artists, anthropologists, geographers, historians, photographers and poets, together with agronomists from different shores to compare cultivation techniques, agronomic experiments of organic farming, social olive growing with people with psychiatric diseases, refugees… The olive grove, trees as an exhibition place, side scene… From the burial of brushes to the clay, there is Mediterranean literature, research, editor, translations, conferences, lessons, books, around the Mediterranean and Northern Europe. An adventure with the people of the books that sometimes I met in olive grove with the people of the olive trees. Multiple identities in this sea can also include belonging to the people of the olive trees and books in the same person, I have recognized many.
Creation for me begins with a question, often painful, a nightmare, sometimes a dream that lives in my body for months, years and then suddenly reaches the hands that know what to do with the right technique and form. The work no longer belongs to me. I don’t need a permanent place to work, I move. The only place I need is my body.