The story peddler #1

Selling stories is a job for crazy fellows. I’m not insane, I just sell my stories door-to-door. Rather, I tell them.

Like any other worker I face good or bad days. Like any other worker I have to be smart and intuitive. Intuition is a must, indeed. It plays the most relevant role. That’s what makes me choose between a whatever “Mr. Carinci” or any “Falpalàs ”doorbell.

Choosing the right story is even harder, if possible.  Something weird happens every time a door unlocks and someone shows up. Standing on the doorstep, for a little moment, everything around me gets black. I feel as if sunk into the void. Then is the light again. Like a vigorous pearl diver, I come up with a brand new story.

I sell words. At a good price. I allow your warm heart to state their value. I trust you.

Buying stories is a job for crazy fellows.


It's fime for sunflowers!

The legend of the sunflower

What an eccentric guy! One day, no one knows why, he decided to capture the four seasons. But, every time he tried to negotiate the terms with the sun, he ended his days, head bowed, counting the grass blades around his feet.

A journal for each story: Wrap leather journal with long lace

We call it Medioevalis. A long lace gently embraces the journal and the words it treasures. Many sizes, with or without marbled paper boards.

Wrap leather journal with long lace.


Top Lots

The pencil tip slides softly, a few rapid marks produce

light and vivid figures. Still unfinished but ready to leave, they hustle, bow, wriggle, climb the thin air, leap over the canvas limit and flee.

Voiceless, shadowless and furious

I guess.


Whatever I say comes from these signs,

physiognomies which get larger and closer; they catch my hands, plumb my depths and tell me not to rack my brains about that absurd theme of the double, the being and non-being, the void and the fullness, who cares?

And yet,


I suspect these thin and flexible stripes – unpredictable like water – have found a shelter somewhere.

As if, they and a few other species had found anywhere near a decent habitat and learnt how to carry on in this unstable and exasperate era.


To impose order in this irrational world, I blanketed my artwork, but in the room

visitors kept turning around it, intrigued. Later, three collectors battled against each other to win whatever was concealed from view.

“There’s a lot of money around and hope for the future” the auction house owner was

totally convinced.

Yellow - 5
Yellow varnished wall – #5



This shadowy and labyrinthine town has swallowed the entire human consortium, I said.

It sounds like a chorus spinning around a unique emotional state. Voices and cries overfilling the streets, rolling  down at dawn and returning upstream at twilight

with a load of bitterness, pain

and courage.


A few days after the new dock opening ceremony, a large ship entered and two girls got off.

I noticed them because I’ve been trafficking with numbers, mostly

strings of two units at a time that I combine, pile up or split in grids to contrast their power,

(with the automorphic numbers, I almost touched the abstraction)

Then, because I feel lonely in this life made of non-empty sets.


They looked good: wide eyes, open mouths, tiny bodies and a nicety at any cost that made it all so genuine and fresh. Of that day, that signed the apex of my communication skill to the human gender, I keep a photo.  My nose is asymmetric. Look.

I never realized that.

I can’t stop thinking of it.


I’m a grown-up – even now -, bent on my numbers and framed by the artificial light, like a chorister in an orthodox church, a goldsmith in his father workshop or an alchemist, carefully stirring the Leonardo’s bistre.

My lovers have hung their clothes here and there. They swing spontaneously, nodding at me, dissenting at me, making fun of me, of my doggedly returning to these

refuge assets.

In the fog (waiting for Springtime) - Apennines (Italy)
Low clouds (waiting for Springtime) – Apennines (Italy)

# 9

Monsieur Villègle

If I had enough energy I would

force myself to fall in love again.  Feeling fine or even euphoric ‘cause there’s still room for a sigh in my heart.


The cosmopolitan appeal of this town has almost removed any smell of provincialism in me.

I take care of myself, walk until late, look at the sky and rip adverts off the walls

not a real crime indeed, rather a teeny infraction.

Here is what.


Scraping the city is a vexation and a healthy exercise as well

I practice en plain air and take what the town gives: a word, a face, a picture,

(yesterday, behind a piano concert flyer, I found a small part of nude).


After so many years spent studying the infinite potential of the empty,

trying to catch and link together the rambling filaments of the matter,

I’ve come upon the genuine and revolutionary power

of the gray walls


I think of you often, in your small laboratory

adjusting the width of the ocular lenses to scrutinize the delicacy of a poetic sequence

and missing, a few steps away, the grace of a slightly asymmetric smile

caught in a moment of wonder.


I show my artworks out in the open

to have them stroked, hit and messed up by the wind.

They fold into whimsical shapes, play, sing and move,

come and go

as they please.

Fiat 600 Multipla – photo installation – test #1

# 8

The love alphabet

Life is hard for collectors. Only a few samples of the entire collection of photographs slipped through her fingers. She jealously treasured it to the end. The reason for such a strict custody lies in the folders of this story.

They fell in love on the eve of the War, which left them both unharmed. He, a test pilot, used to wear a pair of thin mustache, à la mode until 1937. She, conveniently desirable and given to reverie, couldn’t stop smiling and addressing him letters in a delicate and airy handwriting that she thought proper for her unique and special reader.

In return, she received overexposed snap-shots, stressed by an intangible chromatic intensity, painfully suffocated or burnt by the solar bulb, which he imprudently took during his solo flights.

The first she got was wholly black. She promptly praised his effort to catch the entirety without falling behind the single element. Nevertheless, she exhorted him not to exclude other ways to approach the universal beauty.

Such a warm support produced an increase in his audacity and more shots soon came: inconsistent walls of clouds, massive skies opening on a solid void that she imagined to be desperately deaf to the comforting sound of the backwash and the leaves rustling.

In a word, they made up a new love alphabet. And it drew the interest of the public.

When she was called to share her memories or unveil their secrets, she waved and said “Phew! He was a skilled dancer, but often his steps were out of my reach.”

Fortress Fenestrelle, Val Chisone (Turin) Italy
Fenestrelle Fortress, Val Chisone (Turin) Italy

MICROfiction #23


He made the revolution, eventually. In its name, he left me, just trailing the door behind. I have no clear memories of that day but an iron wire ball that still lies on my table. I made it by hand while he was turning around the room listing, with wide gestures and not in order of importance, the principles of the “big cause”.

We never met again until when I stepped into that photo studio. Two huge rice paper chandeliers and a lot of pictures untidily glued to the walls made the room agreeable. I saw him. It was hurting.

I got closer to take a better look. In that black-and-white shot, he was surrounded by friends, the party was on. Smart but moderate, serious but confident, his look went straight to the camera. But the smile was tepid and the eyes darker than usual. In that look I saw the doubt of having been misunderstood growing all over.

Just behind them, only part of the famous motto was readable. The last word indeed: “vencido”.


MICROfiction #22

A boat in Camogli

He was expected in Wien, but never got there. He crossed the border at night, the jacket in tears, the blood-soaked save-conduct in the pocket and a wound in the belly.

When the feeble lights of the village blinked in the dark, he realized how ridiculous that entire story was and leaned against a wall before passing out. It was a bizarre sensation, something like being caught by strong hands and thrown abruptly through a hole in the ground. The liquid torpor he was floating on was animated by jelly like voices which exhorted him not to give up. “Only slivers” they said, “can sew up the interstices between life and death and blood” they went on, “is the essential condition to pass through the two-dimensional door”.

He woke up and stared for a while at the colorless filament of the dawn across the room.

Instinctively, he lifted the blanket and looked at his belly. It was untouched. The head fell back on the pillow while the last nocturnal frame faded definitively away. The sea came to his mind along with the stillness of the wrecks after great, terrible storms.

He stood up and went to the window. A line of houses which looked alike were drying in the sun. The parking lot was empty.

“Oh God, give me a fresh start” he thought and looked the other way”I’d like to be a fisherman, with a yellow and pale blue boat in the water off the port of Camogli”.

Art installation in Savignano sul Rubicone, Italy
Art installation in Savignano sul Rubicone, Italy

MICROfiction #21