Life is suffering. And I have suffered a lot. Without pain, blood, and tears, how can one relate to art anyway? As Donato Carrisi once said, 'Il cattivo fa la storia.' And this is my story.
The only time I feel alive is either when I am manic or when I am painting. The rest of existence I find so vain. I live in a different world than yours. Darker, more obscure, but also with more vibrant and powerful colors. I have to navigate not only the turmoil within my own mind but also the harsh realities of being. Existence is a battleground to fight daily.
I was strange even as a child. Wherever there was something more dangerous or wilder, I was there. Even my smile was strange when I was a baby: an anomaly. I was never at peace with reality either. Sometimes I would become a cartoon character for weeks, other times I would play the role of a movie character. My battle with reality never ended. The reality I lived in never sufficed for me. It's as if reality is all about constantly waiting for something. The wind blows, time chases it, and I am still waiting…
I pour all my anger, all my disappointments, all the wars inside me onto the canvas. My painting is impulsive and destructive, just like me. The only way to reflect the chaos inside me is to let the spontaneity of my painting run free. I take revenge for my endless battle on the canvas. This is not the classic narrative of good versus evil; it's the never-ending struggle of thousands of passions trying to coexist. Maybe that's why the world feels so bland. I watch everything around me... Everyone is at peace... Happy in their stupid lives, content with their lousy victories... But I am a chronic malcontent... Yes, malcontent is the only correct word to describe me. I am searching for something, not even knowing what it is. Very few people are born with this passion, and even fewer manage to keep it alive without suffocating it.I turn my suffering into art. And that's all I can do.
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