I first met the wood as a child, in the
Gardena Valley. I would stand in a daze in
the carvers’ workshops: their minute
gestures, the shapeless taking shape,
the rhythmic sounds, the scent, the colour,
the delight of witnessing the becoming.
Those small wooden statues did indelibly
engrave on my memory, as well as their surrounding
nature did.
Time, wretched and human
vicissitudes, and death too, did move me
away from the fairy tales for good. I preserved
that world in my heart and in my mind, I
kept the curiosity and the wonder of the
child intact, together with the love for
the treasures of the earth. One day, I was
forced to mediate them with the acquaintance
of the rarefied, often stupid world of
men. Today
, in
an attempt to avoid the idiocy of
maturity and
get back to myself, to my
human life,
I make use of the wood.
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