2007 New York City
Sitting on a
cushion, eyes closed, meditating, I pray that you great souls of this great New
York City, will not mind this brief intrusion.
When I close my eyes, after having carried with me emotions experienced in the present, before resting, I sometimes go out onto my small terrace, light some incense, and the sky becomes my temple. In the silence, feeling the weight of my back that gravitates on my knees, I turn to God with open arms, so that in his grand design I might become, in this existence, an instrument of peace, a messenger of joy in the universe.
When I pray, I meditate trying to stay in silence, turning with my mind to the omniscient being.
In that moment, I feel a warmth in the depth of my soul, I feel a light passion in my heart, accompanied by itches and tickling trying to distract me. When I lay my head on the pillow in bed, for a few minutes I look at the ceiling covered by ivy and again I think of true reality.
All of a sudden, I find myself drawn into supersonic trips, roaming in the void, and living in the absolute.
Moon is a reflection in the night toward the infinite.
* * * * * *
I have to try to offload, to isolate this pain that seizes every part of my being, without giving any possibility for weeping. It marks my body along the path of breathing, it transforms, turns my thought into needles that continuously strike my throat. My heart plunges into vortices without end, I would like to wipe out everything, I’d prefer not to realise just how weak and fragile I am, like a tall and thin vase.
The regret destroys me, strength abandons me continuously, recommending me to surrender with cowardice, to accept the doubt and to sleep alongside it, being careful to watch my back.
I twist constantly trying to strangle this poison that slowly slides in my chest, my life burning with ice. But after all, I can only delude myself with a yawn that dampens only my gaze, that doesn't see anything but her.
It is said that when we overcome a pain, we become strengthened. It is said that pain is our best teacher, and should be treated with restraint and control when manifesting it, even if it well knows how to make me do things wrong, how to seek me out, to tear me to pieces, making a cross of me, sharpening the nails that will pierce the hands with which I have tried to draw so much love from my arid heart.
On my knees I would like to find me at her feet, whispering to her heart my only love.
A few hours are enough to understand that a body works when it is healthy, because even a nail becomes essential. Half of me, my love, has disappeared, leaving a desert with gusts of memories, that race to my mind covering me with guilt, like sand.
My apologies would be like fumes to her ears, I would be like mist to her eyes if she saw me, my soul would like fire if she was near me.
* * * * * *
During the day the sky is not only blue but bright, gilded, with endless motes stirring madly; at night the sky is not only dark, light can be seen, at times if we take a glance we can also perceive a transparency that in a flash passes nearby.
Once, I read in book by a Rome clairvoyant, that everything is connected, the noise of a rolling shutter, the sound of tyres during a sudden brake, not to mention cicadas that welcome the mystical.
When at night one prays ,one doesn’t recite, trying to keep the mouth closed, meditating the prayer, feeling in one’s throat an almost strangling sensation, the mind rebels, it doesn't easily allow us to release us from our illusions that wander rapidly in continuation with various flashes that monotonously come forward with a new guise, but always with repetitive content.
After two years, I have started smoking only cigarettes, following a break from all types of smoke, alcoholic and various drugs for about six months. I feel more with my feet on the ground, even if I recognize that one of the first spites to God are really that, to damage the gift of health, but I hope that faith brings me again enough will power to stop once again.
An Indian story about a Brahmin, who risks his life facing a mad elephant, not seeking shelter because he wanted to hear his internal voice of the Buddha, ignoring the cries of those calling at him to take shelter, but also those voices were of the Buddha.
When I’m painting, gladly I light a lot of candles and some incense of various fragrances that create not only heat, but also an atmosphere of peace. I follow their smoke that seems to capture thought that remains on the surface. The woman that comes to do housework, confided me that the ash of incense is sacred and must be given to the plants. There are those who even read it as it falls, just like with coffee grounds; I now use it on canvas, after I have soaked them in dirty water.
Once, a lady asked me the price of a painting, with difficulty I replied with a figure, it was difficult to justify to someone who is outside these art projects that now occupy me night and day, and above all when I dream.
Art, if we wish to call it such, is for everybody, and in my works I make it understandable to everybody.
The ancients racked their brains on how to communicate with eternity, some, very simple people, blew with sure thought and decided breath the fluff of wild flowers, and some of them were drawn up from the sky. Salt burns, it disinfects, it absorbs damp, but also negative energy, is always a crystal that maintains positive vibrations for humans that are always in competition with time.
When I was a child I pay attention to lights of the road, they were all white ones, beautiful, they radiated an alive light, that had an effect on our state of mind without doubt, more superior than yellow light, that carries the alibi of its wasted fog.
I said Catania, land of so many geniuses placed to the slopes of the Etna, one of the few volcano still active. The same magma that once has destroyed the city, it is material today of construction for buildings, roads and so on.
The flag of my city is blue and red I think for the match of Etna’s fire and water of the sea that, although isolating us in an energetic field completely, give us inimitable sceneries. There are a lot of people that decide to move themselves to Sicily from our parts especially, some sustain that the Sion mountain is really the Etna.
Personally I have not eaten meat for about four years, even if then, if I find at night a beetle in my kitchen I kill it, feeling me a bit hypocrite because I have not respected the same life that I try to protect, on the other hand I recognize a belief of a Indian caste that asserts that life is a cycle where one can be gone ahead or back, and that surely the bugs and the life that it flows inside them, deserves to be in them, and therefore I delude me that I help them for the evolution.
One of the first times that I began to paint, I wanted to make the Faraglioni , for who doesn't know, that are the volcanic rocks that go out of the Acitrezza’s sea , than I turned upside-down the door of the wardrobe, and I refused to paint what I could photograph, I didn't have need to compete with any camera. I wanted only to experiment, to find again a space for the imagination, a space that becomes internal study through meditation, of all of this that has driven my body until to create a mirror of my thoughts that take form with primitive figures.
In a society of informers, with contradiction the eyes are concealed as for protection . I’m , for instance, one of those that has taken thirty years to understand, that when one is badly it is not owed us to make to see from anybody, and another thirty will pass to wear dark glasses.
My works are expression of suffering, some people sustain looking them, that they are expressions of a disturbed mind.
In my last exhibition, I have deluded that it had been all right. A note artist, come to congratulate me, surprise me, she has given me the same suggestion of my brother that is an architect . They have recommended me to make some happiest subjects, because despite my paintings are very beautiful in their opinion, they are not easy to be placed, and whoever prefers some solar subjects, bright, so they bring more joy in a life that more and more hard seems to become.
But today I don't succeed breathing peace yet, in the air travels the suffering of all the wars in the world, and I breathe it, I don't watch newscasts but I breath, I feel.
I know to make it, bread won't miss me, I know that I will race so much that hands of clock will detach.
I will build with the help of God, I don't care if I won’t sell, but I will give to the world, the colors and the canvas. The recycled stuff , I will always find it, creation will live with me and will testify my existence on the earth.
And even if all of this that I have built had to end buried together with my body under a building in rubble, it means that I have fallen asleep dreaming everything.
* * * * * * *
During a reflective pause, as I call it, when I detach myself from the person who until a little while before was my twin spirit, then I pray that the spirits on Earth, all the entities of light, might come to blow in my ears, because in the end writing can also be like painting. As I dig down, I descend until arriving at the source. Words become color on the canvas, until they create bodies almost by chance on mixing with air.
have many things to write, many plans to achieve, because they are fundamental
bricks of my world. It’s not I who belongs to a world created for myself, but it
is I that create my own world. The world belongs to me.
The snake is always guarding the tree of knowledge, he becomes a temptation to
resist, it’s necessary to understand the temptation, study the warrior in order
to defeat him, you must live with it and watch it closely.
USE AND RE-USE OF MATERIALS
Claudio Arezzo di Trifiletti
A search for satisfaction in one’s own country, a real communicative exchange, far from alienation, where man returns to being in its entirety, the discoverer, inventor, of new inner horizons.
A journey at home, the desire to take possession of what belongs to us by right from the furthest origins.
The project started from the outcome of some months of meditation and exchanges of ideas.
The project speaks of man as the victim of chaos, where everything becomes monochromatic, sterile, a continuous challenge to the publicity that assaults our thought, unconsciously giving us input of little value that incessantly attacks morality, the enemy of our time.
Using dead material ready for maceration, which increases the already high rate of waste, one redeems life, alchemizes the already worn, old, or even out of fashion product, giving it a new identity, an instant communication through the installation.
A contact is made that goes against the mechanization of human action; sprayed colors, spread with resin\alternative products, take shape far from the hypocrisy giving vent to a dimension that cannot be destroyed but may be altered.
The conscience is the protagonist.
The creator of the project:
My works express the inner nature of man in a close relationship to today’s society. My artistic expression concerns the personal denunciation of an “often sad" truth that characterizes people’s lives.
The final objective of my painting does not aim to express atrocities that are increasing and exist in obscurity, it does not seek to disturb the viewer, does not wish to be the expression of a troubled mind, but tends with intense provocation to analyze and to make one reflect on a world that is often fed by the decadence of human values.
The world is the largest work of art, and one cannot show it by putting forward negative images for which we all consider ourselves not to be responsible.
Art is communication, is sharing, is expressing intimacy.
The most important manifestations of art in the world aspire to this message. Showing my works brings appreciation and criticism, these latter in time become precious suggestions to always improve.
The space available, the logistics, do not matter when you have the will and believe in your abilities.
I don’t think I’m a good at drawing, time is my teacher, in my painting I represent myself, my thinking.
I believe in art because it brings me closer to God.
When I create, I feel free. I study the moment, discovering infinite spaces, I become the protagonist of a continuous experiment. Sound at times is transformed into a path, and like all paths, they always lead to a treasure, a treasure however that is impenetrable because it lies within.
The pain and the joy are the only oars on board. The direction is not recognition, but recognizing oneself. At times, it is as if in the color I find the prints of a bodiless entity, I like to trace them, to make them visible not only to my eyes. Friends are my best critics, because they know the way I am, in them I savor aged wine. The world corrupts when one becomes its property; the goal is to return to be free. Everything that that my eyes manage to label is the negation of the gift of uniqueness. For me, the true artistic philosophy is to die away, giving voice to the created work, perhaps even succeeding in making new paths.
Litigio nell’indifferenza (Argument amid indifference)
Every being on Earth has a role, also the stones, which for their will are born or return to be what they were.
Everything is a cycle, a large stage, where every "One" recites a role.
We grow thanks to mistakes. This work speaks of the rightful honor that in life we have to respect and of the anger that leads us to obscure the Truth.
In the center of the work a crowned head gazes with an expression of amazement.
Above the crown, the figure dressed in green holding The Knowledge, is protected by an angel who is blocking an angry figure holding a knife.
They are all arguing, staring at each other, shouting to defend their viewpoint.
On the left, there are some seeking to control the masses.
Below, the mother with uncovered breasts holds the head of her son after being struck by the father, with at the side (bottom centre) an alien who looks on amused.
To the side of the robot, a woman grasps her companion, stopping him from acting, from holding back the figure who is about to attack the alien with fire.
Real life is being trodden on like a rag by a woman, because only on seeing her
eyes so charged with hatred when she speaks, do you understand that she only
carries bitterness, not recognizing the honey that remains inside you.
One has not failed because of not becoming what one dreamt of becoming, but one
has failed because of renouncing the dream.