Milan june 5 1950 - Pisa june 9 2014
To the boy I never knew, to the man I met, to the eclectic artist, friend of a lifetime.
You’ve left me the anguish of your paintings You’ve left me The magic of your voice Sweet melodies Wild discordant sarabands You’ve left me your pension The lovely care of our friends You’ve left me a kaleidoscope of memories Moving fragments restlessly recreating Thousands of shared moments You’ve left me rich You’ve left me alone
You’re not here anymore, listening, keeping to say no; arguing or finding solutions; putting forward proposals, challenging my point of view. Then let it go, we might as well… forget about it. And then we start talking about it again, in the wood, by the sea or dining in the basement room. We find a compromise – not really a compromise, because we never had a doubt, not even for a moment, that this thing, or another, on the island or in Italy, in Milan or somewhere else, we never had a doubt that we would have done it in the only possible way. As best we could.