I was born in Como on August 31, the day of St. Abbondio, in the sign of the virgin and as a young man I tried to treat my neurosis with tennis and tennis has become for many years my first agar, (field in Sumer), the ancient text on which I really formed.

The field is red dust, thin earth, a principle, the Earth, the Greeks have made the principle of all things, even the principle of human life, of life in the universe, as if the other planets had a sterile earth and ours was of an extra superior quality, able to invent me and all others.

In tennis, the dust rises, sticks to the body, makes the ball slide with a sound that is always the same and always different, similar timbre and wavelengths but different vibrations, makes rhythms resonate so close to the heartbeat that it brings the earth and its sound like a music where the best blows bloom: tum, tum, tum, tum…. echo of a sound of the earth from very distant times, of the cultivation of fields, of the rhythms of immense constructions, of dances, of steps that have trampled on it, of the races of the disappeared animals, extinct like their sounds.

In “agar tennis”, the longer the exchange takes place, the longer this mysterious sound descends into the chasms of the past, anesthetizes the present and the effort of exchange, stuns like an ancient Dionysian dance, becomes that eternal presence that we will never know, the infinite steps and noises of the Earth, a unique rhythmic instrument… born and perish… tum, tum, tum, tum, tum… Together with tennis, my other agar was the drawing. Luckily, in middle school, I met the master Zia Napoleone, who crushed my tubes of colours, which my companions kept sparingly. I had never seen such beauty. A bunch of enchanting colours. All free, fluid on the table and finally freed from my grip as a tennis arm.

 

It was like being inside the thought of the tube. Crushing tubes of colours educate a man to the generosity of art: the crushed tube means physical freedom and expands the gaze forever. And still today I see the world through a tube. In that minimal gap between this beginning seems to happen something excessive, but I cannot correct it because it was just like that.

 

That’s where it all happened. Because being young is starting all over again. And then it is there that you decide the boundary between things and with yourself, between those who ask and those who do not ask: where is the boundary of the clouds? where is the boundary of people?

I grew up in the repetition of these two agars. Or rather, repetition has grown with me, and I have always rested on this repetition. Repetition is everywhere: in all human beings, in their ideas and actions. Repetition is not something that happens sometimes, there is always, continuously. All people and things repeat, repeat, continuously. Like a huge echo, like the sound of cars that I hear when I walk along the edge of a motorway.

I wonder; who knows why there comes a time when there is this essential appointment with the biography in the immensity of the universe and its mysteries. Maybe it’s a useless moment, but useless things have always attracted me like a magnet attracting a factory of aluminium parts.

Is there always something to note, comment on, to talk about, to write about and in a certain sense to draw about, because how would it be possible to live without drawing the world?

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