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Americaaaaaaa

Americaaaaaaaaa!

Baricco, Tornatore, Novecento, The Pianist on the Ocean. Skyscrapers in Manhattan that are reflected in the left eye of the emigrant Italian.

It 's all that came to my mind when I left by boat for the trip from the shore in the evening. Perhaps the lights of those skyscrapers were reflected in my left eye, I thought. And the voice of the guide seemed shrill and tamed As we approached Staten Island, and showed us the island where the migrants were kept in quarantine just landed: Ellis Island, and told us of Statue of Liberty. As I seem to make disciples of all the theories that they want this country as the most free and democratic world.

Just to ask questions about events known to the world: this is not the country that has not hesitated to massacre the Indians to take their territory? Is not the country that held blacks in slavery for centuries? It is not the country that brought in millions of migrant poor, hungry, in rags with their cardboard suitcases, only because she needed the poor, those hungry to continue to assert its role as a slave?

This Country Did you ever wondered what anxiety, what discomforts, frustrations which migrants lived? And the nostalgia? And the melancholy?

Vietnam, Chile, Argentina, unloaded bombs on Laos, Iraq, Guantanamo ...

Americaaaaaaaaa!

I made my first trip to America in 1966 and three more in a few months. I remained some time New York, Washington and San Francisco. I went to work.

met three very different reality. I was struck by the diversity but I could not, then, to pursue these.

I was Alice in Wonderland. Everything great, everything extraordinary, astonishing. From the tomato to the taxi, the record store to the elevator. I had in mind images of films with Frank Sinatra, Doris Day, Greer Garson. Corresponded to what I saw. I lived in Astoria and Woldorf Park Hotel: turquoise carpeting and bathrooms with double sinks. Breakfast brought to the room with the cart by a black waiter.

A delight for one who had never moved so much from Italy, who had no equals. saving for an education, for which he had no idea of \u200b\u200bopulence and, more importantly, had no culture to interpret.

They took me to Harlem in a car carefully closed, with tinted windows because it was a risk that visit. And in San Francisco witnessed, instead, at a reception of blacks in evening dress.

Negroes, then, were called Negroes.

I'm back, only in New York, year: 2005.

I have not seen great as then, nothing really surprised me more than the exhibition of greatness. I realized that I had changed the way I look at this country.

And 'course, after forty years', I said. But I felt that I came the same emotions that if I returned to London or Paris, Amsterdam or Madrid. After forty years' I noticed changes in the economic development, customs, traffic, but I heard Van Gogh and Rembrandt, Velasquez and Goya, Manet and Turner still around. Those were the places of their life and of inspiration.

And I would be in Europe.

But here I felt a sort of stillness, even in the apparent changes.

Negroes, in fact, call themselves African-Americans and show impersonating incorruptible judiciary and police. Today, you meet them on the streets of the center: a few on Fifth Avenue or the Park, many in Broadwai where shops are popular and affordable prices. Harlem, which turns into white residential neighborhood , tourists strolling convinced to imagine what a ghetto was for so many people. Where to end up blacks, indeed, African-Americans who lived for years, if you ask anyone.

Little Italy is pathetic with the shops of salami and cheeses that must match in an Italian stereotype: the smell of rancid squalor they had in Italy fifty, sixty years ago. At the border Cinatow presses that now occupies, with its junk, the closet that were the Italians.

No, at a glance, this city has not changed.

The outsiders continue to be increasingly marginalized. And the power, the arrogance, the arrogance of the master is always the same, ever more declarations, performed.

primates, this is American history. The guides delight in saying "the biggest, the most important, the highest in the world." And they all think they play a leading role this "more".

I said to myself: what would America without primates?

New York and ostentation, New York and cruelty ', New York is the cynicism of' America. How King Kong: a great, big, scary, m that (and I strongly hope), it will not prevent its annihilation.

No, New York, I was most impressed.

in its museums, with collections "more" of many of the world, are masterpieces that European and Chinese and Egyptians. Everything comes from "A ltrove. Their paintings, with good will, beginning with the nineteenth century. And one of the twentieth century was the need to denounce loneliness, poverty 'human, the frustration of those who live this reality: Hopper, Worhol, Pollock ...

The big American orchestras have only one root: Famous European Directors, employed by the magnates in the late nineteenth century trying to publish, or in the 30s fleeing from Nazism and Fascism . How Mahler, Furtvangler, Toscanini.

What you learn in this country to survive if not overwhelming the other? The law of most strong, the largest, the highest.

Egypt, Greece , Italy would need to have the largest stock of the world? They have the Pyramids, the Parthenon, the Colosseum that tell a story of millions of years of culture.

How many Americans know this story? The intellectuals, those who travel. But those traveling in a country so immense?

I think there is, in 'American medium, the belief that nothing resembles what he lives. Does not need to be compared. belongs to the "more".

Where are those beautiful boys tall, blond, healthy hair with a brush so that we have seen in war movies of the '60s?

Today, perhaps all belong to the "more" fat. E 'impressive number of obese people you meet. Young and old, men and women and boys.

I say more you go down the social ladder, and most are fat because fed by Mac Donald and many processed foods that you buy at low cost in many huge and supermarkets.

But a country where there is "most" because not about a social problem so widespread?

course, mine are superficial considerations, to "blow hot."

course a country like this you are sure to have picked up atmospheres important after a few weeks of having to investigate, after months and having to study in depth, after many years.

My son lives and works in Oregon, in Portland. A city democratic, pacifist, environmentalist.

spent time at his home located in a neighborhood of perfection awkward, almost painful.

wooden single-family homes, Tudor style, with gardens, flowers, manicured lawns. American flags and banners, however, that welcome to passersby.

trees, raccoons that inhabit the gardens, scottaioli crossing the street and climbed up the trees munching on something, doors without alarms, car parked in front of houses. And the deserted streets during the day, you can walk for hours without seeing a soul, in complete silence. And if someone greets you meet him, wishes you good day. Maybe he walk the dog and carefully collect the poo, How is in possession of bags distributed by the City.

I wondered: who's inside these homes? Young people, happy, healthy, which is the perfection of the Truman Show? O there will a director who directs this perfection?

do not know. It 'hard to imagine the elderly, sick or people who are full of hatred and frustration.

What I appreciate what I know America?

the "civilization of the process." Wherever you perfect toilet. Even with the hand cream and Tampax offered in a nice basket. If I was not in menopause for years, it gladly take advantage.

And then the super-organization.

If a Saturday evening, at 20.30 you should wish to order a black elastic pants, you can call the house that distributes it, ask to speak in the language you prefer, order giving the number of your credit card on Monday and receive it on time at home with the catalog you presents the complete collection of underwear.

Everything is done to sell, to buy. In every store clerks will be meeting to ask if you need information, you greet a nice day, good afternoon, good evening. The sentences are programmed, you feel that there 's preparation. But you are always welcomed and treated with great respect. You can buy and sacred because they are there to encourage you to do so. Studied for this.

In New York I could change three times a shirt going from store to store. And I could buy in golf pants and super balance. There is always a sales department, not a season for sales. And people buy when it is appropriate to buy. Summer 's winter and vice versa.

In September, all ready for Christmas and next year. Agendas and ribbons and cards.

E 'enough to accept and live a country?

I think of Baricco's Novecento and Tornatore. I think back to our culture and our imbalances. Our difficulties and our broken dreams. And I am convinced that I, as the twentieth century, I would not have abandoned the ship to go to endless roads.

Mezzadri Maria Grazia Hood

Portland, September 29, 2005

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Company of books

In the company of books

I started to read at six years and now I have seventy. I never stopped. "The first home " defines them Sandor Marai.

Books have always marked the history of my life, and through them, rebuild my biography.

from six to fourteen years have been accompanied by Scala D'Oro, an imprint that publishes classics from Utet reduced for children. The protagonists of Treasure, Bertoldo , the Children of Captain Grant, Siegfried, were my heroes.

I married young to a man who considered the book that weighed items. I had engineer to buy the classics that interest me. I wanted my library.

was the time of Bacchelli , Palazzeschi, Pirandello, Proust.

My wedding turned out to be very unhappy. I then took refuge in Joyce (Molly memorable monologue), and especially in Kafka, who more than any other match my moods. It was the 60s and it was hard to get out of a state of misery bed.

We managed to fatigue.

course, all the events that followed led me to cultivate different readings.

was falling in love for Pasolini, Calvino, Gadda, Freud, Canetti. Each went in the direction of my life, each giving his contribution to my loneliness, my melancholy, to my growth.

Strindberg's discovery was a shock. To focus on the game at the ruthless slaughter that is consumed in the relationship "love" between a man and a woman. Highlighted the fragility of the male in front of a subtle and perverse behavior of female. Corresponded to what I discovered as I did in the experiences .

When suffering and loss of loved man came into my life, books were valuable support to meditate and accept, to give an answer to so much pain and silent rebellion.

As you can tell the role of each book?

I grew more and more I needed it. And when I fall in love, becomes an absolute love that he wants only, it is communicated and shared, as the great loves.

But who loves books knows all this, just as those who love, forever, a man or a woman.

Camila Rodriguez Cock

Klee, Jean Michel Basquiat Paul

An eye that sees the other feels *

Yes, yes, everything is math, Vasily, everything is geometry. The music, painting, my painting, Vasily, my painting. The shapes and colors. Look: one, two, three, eleven stripes, rectangles fifteen, thirty square. It 's wonderful, Vasily.

It 's the magic of abstraction, realism, abstraction. We had to get to these results, Vasily. We could not stop our research. You from the microscope, I philosophy, poetry, biology, chemistry.

worked tirelessly for months, years, perhaps forever. Perhaps already painted while I was playing with my mind and my father insisted on my many hours of practice.

9000 works I did, I believe it?. Only in recent months I have painted more than 200.

See, everything is number. When I play, I play numbers, when I paint, paint numbers. I hear them fly, scandium, present an ideal scale, each in a precise place, in order, with their poetic aspect: gangly, round, opinionated. One, eight, three, perfection. And 21. Why 21 in a painting on his return from Tunisia? You ask me but I do not know. I had to give presence an untitled watercolor.

Grohmann, my friend Grohmann, read perfectly in my work. She said, but I do not remember by heart, that "the numbers are written in various square and if you add up those numbers along the horizontal and vertical results match known as the magic square."

understand Vasily, had interpreted my need of harmony through the numbers.

The trip to Tunisia? It was important, more than in Italy.

was then that I felt to be a painter. Not more the music, not more than the violin. Free from the suggestions of my father and my mother.

Free.

The sun, the colors, the light of Tunisia were decisive. They made me change the palette: Coffee in Tunis, Saint Germain at Tunis.

How I loved those villages a bit 'broken, fresh, bright!

The pastel colors I have accompanied a long time. Impossible to separate. If you knew how many times I decided that I would have changed. I returned to them how to spell.

Highway and secondary roads, Separation pm, Toulouse, The three towers.

bands in light colors and then decided, fuses, indicating fatigue of the ascent towards spirituality, towards the infinite.

It was hard work. I was out of the fantastic, a certain magical figure that refers to the dream, the unconscious. We talked all night drinking gin and lemonade. Remember? And Lily interrupted us and told us to stop, that we were wrong. But how could you stop?

We were inexhaustible, tireless. We were young.

Six patients Vasili. The already know these stories and plays yet. But today is different. It's me that I need to remember, to reconstruct the steps in my life and my painting. There quiet today.

I am delirious? Maybe. The disease does not give me peace. I am not longer able to use your hands for those subtle signs, which need delicate care. I know that I will not live long, Vasily. I know it well.

The proximity of death asks you to look carefully into the life, Vasily, is an experience that exceeds any hesitation.

Maybe I've always thought of death, from an early age. L 'over-confidence, which I've often criticized, not was the gift today to address the disease in silence?

The severity of my father, the anxiety that gave me the relationship with him, perhaps, I have never left. The paintings of that time, so close to a child's game, had a way of life "my" children, outside its domain, and the weakness of my mother. I could not fight neither one nor the other.

I loved the music but I had to escape the confrontation. I painted my music. The melody of the color I heard it. Remember Fugue in red?

I had to build a secret world of poetry.

Did I ever tell you of my friendship with Rilke? It was 1916 when I met him. Just the year in which the upheaval of war struck him so that he could not publish for many years. I had already written many poems that he wanted read.

remember that Lily had just given me a collection of Chinese poems. Fascinated by the word "hua" in Chinese and Japanese writing indicates, drawing, painting, discussed it at length with him.

understand the attraction? Being able to unify in one word three times strongly suggest the art.

I never stopped thinking about it, you know.

the Bauhaus, that concept was my line of teaching.

Our adventure at the Bauhaus, Vasily. Ten years exciting, ten years when we believed in the possibility of merging arts and crafts. To cancel the gap with students, to grow a generation of artists according to a new scheme, universal. Remember that it is often said: universal? We know how it ended: humiliated by bullying policy that had nothing to do with art. We were romantic and we were called "intellectual hotbed of Bolshevism."

It was arrogance that made me leave Germany. confiscated my work, remember? We share ideals and hopes, we elected to that country to country.

Arriving in Bern, I felt exiled and orphaned. I painted tirelessly.

I changed the colors. Dark, this time, funds. The colors of those who foretells the end. Who wants to represent his inner journey, Vasily. Square still to be counted, even lines, still no signs of the writer through the design.

I my writings. ntanissimi belong to the times.

I can not write. As you can see the fingers are deformed, the skin ravaged by the disease. I should dictate Lily, but I can not submit even more to the pain of my difficulties.

Everything has a time, Vasily. Today, my privacy is a privilege. It allows me to stay long, closed in my study, compared with my helplessness.

'wing of here I can not grasp. I have both my home and among the dead and the unborn. Closer to the heart of creation than usual, but still not close enough. " **

* how it was described Paul Klee - 1879-1940

** From the Diary of Klee

Mi, 21 March 2006

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VNDRZ *

"A bastard, a fucking junkie bastard, incapable, complexity. A failed musician, christ. But it destroys, as I have created. Destroys it. I do return to his sewer. What do you think he is? It's nothing alone, christ, nothing. Miserable. Miserable. "

Annina Nosei is vented by throwing out all the poison that had accumulated. He went up and down the large basement into a mess kicking boxes, with cans, newspapers, speaker. How had he dared, christ?

could not accept that this black boy, picked up in the subway in New York on a day that had killed the station's Madison with the 38th, he was gone, had left the study that she had offered him.

Yes, Jean Michel Basquiat, after a violent scene, destroying canvases he painted during the week, it was just gone.

had destroyed thousands and thousands of dollars was all the more cruel you could do with Annie. Losing money, throw Via dollars. A madness. To what worked? He had staked everything on him. The knowledge was made available, collectors, critics. The halo of unruly genius victim of a heavy family history? Very useful. Drugs? Had caused him all kinds. The music? A loud, always. Charlie Parker and Miles Davis are his heroes? Blow-ups in the studio, record collections available.

Annina understood that the boy transgressive, with all the weaknesses and defects in tune with the times, he could appeal to a morbid environment greedy unhappy heroes. In fact, his commitment was giving good results. She managed to sell a picture ten thousand U.S. dollars! Of course, we had gained good: so many dollars to Jean-Michel - who had never thought to see - and many, many dollars to her, Annina Nosei, the gallery of Roman origin.

circuit for months was a clique of wealthy because they invest in new paintings by Jean-Michel. Actions? No, what do you do the actions ... There is a young, great talent, come to know him, a few months his paintings will be worth ten times as much ...

She knew them well the new rich: ignorant and conceited, prepared to present millions to hang on a wall blacks monsters designed by Jean-Michel. Beginning to be fashionable. You could earn .

was skilled and educated her. They worked without giving up the sides and there was succeeding.

And he, ungrateful bastard, if it was gone.

Annina was a thin woman, brunette, nose straight, thin lips, small ears firmly attached, with a weakness for French designers. Unfortunately she had to dress to look like a young hippie. In its place was a must.

to forty-two years had arrived, but had struggled just to succeed. New York was a challenge. The gallery in Soho, the first born in one of those renovated houses with outside staircases , Breakfast at Tiffany , so to speak, had become a meeting point for critics, artists, collectors. Animation, music, gossip, alcohol, drugs. Everything held together with those people.

Annina offered this and more ready to compromise, transactions, complicity.

Annina did not like the paintings of Jean-Michel. In his penthouse on Central Park would have never hung a: childish signs, gruesome, ugly. Jean-Michel's obsession with not being white.

In Maurice on the black canvas is a skull that grinds his teeth in Self Portrait a black dwarf, ugly, aggressive, and seems to cry out his anger in the world, VNDRZ a black man, macabre that mimics the white jacket and tie.

was the transmission of fear like that? Possibly. Certainly not the "birth of a Neo-Expressionism" as Annie was able to write to some critics. Christ, how many words. But the words became dollars. Many dollars.

Finally, what mattered the life of a black boy? He was already a geek. Run away from home as opposed to a strict father, fled from houses correctional, intolerant of discipline, wandered in the underground with a group of misfits, and dirty walls with colors and signs of long childhood anxieties. He then signed SAMO graffiti and impressed million passengers.

What mattered the life of a black boy? What mattered to live your discomfort? It was enough to make him see the dollars, believing that it's an artist, to have power. He, who had not even power on himself. He who was rejected even by taxi drivers.

Dai, by Jean-Michel, paint. The music is very loud. Do not feel your despair.

Dai, by Jean-Michel, another black monster. The drug is there. Do not stop to think.

Dai, by Jean-Michel, another two, three, eight. Count all the things you have, you're not a victim. Do not you end up in pieces, Jean-Michel. You have it all.

You just twenty-one years, Jean-Michel.

You have only twenty-five years.

You only twenty-eight years.

Die, Jean-Michel, you die. not matter the life of a black boy.

Annina won and contemplate your undoing.

* Jean-Michel Basquiat 1960-1988

Milan, November 14, 2006