It was perhaps destiny that it would end like this. It was perhaps written, as happens in many families, that children continue the work begun by their fathers.
My grandfather was a butcher, my father was in turn a butcher, I was a “Young butcher at the Academy of Fine Arts in Venice”.
Looking at my companions painting I thought that as a painter exhibits his works, he hangs the canvas on the wall, so a performer shows his flesh; it manifests itself through the body and the body becomes a support for a language. It is language itself.
Now I am no longer beside myself because my body has become too tight a container. I feel a pressure that pushes what is inside outward; I extract, show, “wrap” and offer.
The works on paper move in this direction; they are parcels similar to those with which you come out of a butcher’s shop: containers for sections of the body, sections of what once contained.
All the works are born from images projected on the support and pictorially traced with my blood. There is no interest in the pictorial fact but the self-surprise of an image that physically comes out of one’s body. I am out of myself …
I am out of me.