I was born in 1932, the rest is to come. Cremona.
This means that I can remember the roar of the bombings, the cracked walls, the smoke of the
fires and the voice of my mother who reassured me with her calm.
I covered the walls of the house with small pictures. Given the circumstances, there were no
particular concerns. Other children implored me to do their houses, as well. Thus, I had my
first commissions.
We lived by the ration book. I was weak. My bones fractured as if they were breadsticks. This
was the war.
A biography is not comprised only of dates. I prefer to pass through mine with images.
It tired me to attend school regularly and to orient myself to school. Everything was possible
except to think about being an artist. There were other more pressing pathways, those that
would ensure a lack of poverty.
I gave lessons in mathematics and French. I did decorations for a Cremonese stationer, followed
by illustrations of children’s books. I tried the writing pathway, short stories and a novel.
In 1958, I had a letter from a young Milanese publisher at the publishing house Gallimard
and a typed novel in my suitcase. So I departed for Paris. I didn’t make anything of it and I
have no regrets.
I began to exhibit in several Paris galleries and participate in contests. Both good and bad
encounters helped me to grow. To support myself, I did illustrations for Bayard Presse and kept
a small weekly column in the same journal. I married an Italian journalist at the consulate.
Failed marriage, I return to Italy.
I begin to exhibit at the Bergamini Gallery. My first Milan exhibition is in 1962. Work,
illustrations and picture exhibitions.
Second marriage and many adventurous voyages. We crossed through all of the Middle
East alone with only an off-road vehicle which served as bed, house and camel. We allowed
ourselves these spaces every two or three years. He meticulously prepared the itinerary.
Curiosity guided us, as well as the allure of inaccessible places and the challenge. I don’t know
if the leaning minaret in Mossul still exists or whether a track has been drawn between the
Spanish Sahara and Mauritania. Unfortunately, I do know the end of the Bamiyan Buddhas
under which we camped.
I remember nights of unforgettable skies in the Saharan deserts with small desert rats that jumped
around us. The “beacons” which reassured us that we were in the right direction and the anguish
of going in circles without knowing where we were. Africa, the Middle East, South America.
That is the past. I am alone for a long time.
I believe having seen diverse people and cultures liberated me from patterns and conditioning.
I remember the sheer beauty of a cloth rag tied to a small bush in the midst of the desert. I
knew it was a prayer that made me still travel.
For this: the trip, the navigation, the astrolabe, the harps, the rearrangement of time, the books.
Making art is still the encounter with the unexpected in a place where tracks and signs are
recognizable; possible only through passion and an awareness of their existence..