Memorie dallinnocenza (Italian Edition)

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That inner light cannot be invented or artificially given to people or to objects if it does not exist a priori in the artist pintor nascitur. Now, in my mature years, in a different continent than Europe, after a long pictorial experience which has remained faithful to Fusionism, I want to make the Manifesto known to the vast public. With my theories and my painting, I have exceeded both Realism or Surrealism, I proclaim that the omnipotence of dream cannot be divided from the use of thought and reason.

Fusionism is a controversial current that perhaps the academicians will not accept for obvious reasons. But it exists also in fashion and in architectural reality: an example is the pyramid constructed by the Chinese architect Ieoh Ming Pei in the Parisian grand plaza in front of the Louvre Museum.

Such a pyramid, made in part of glass in a very modern style, contains offices and museums and is like a modern challenge to the traditional style, a historical and archaeological residue of the Egyptian pyramid. This is how Fusionism poses also as a parody of reality itself, that which preexists and is created by man with a fantastic and truly original invention. I started the fusionistic trend in. This artistic trend created by me art as Abstract Fusionism has never been exposed publicly, but during that time it was noted only by a few of my friends: Gustavo Lo Russo, Prof. This Manifesto does not deny any form of tradition; it does not promote the merciless denigration of the past and of history, because we learn from those who have preceded us, the experience of life and the message of honesty even passing through the tombs in the beautiful cemeteries where ancient wisdom is celebrated, where the silent marble headstones speak to the wayfarers.

But the past cannot preach the coming of a new age and the triumph of a new era; in vain classical art wants to ambitiously lean towards the future; man of the atom age steps towards the universality of the planetary and metaphysical cosmos. There is no activist frenzy nor extreme nationalism that can succeed in obliterating completely and inexorably history and the arts in all the nations of the universe. Fusionistic painting must be understood as power of the instinctive and primordial strengths that are controlled through the impulsive.

Poetry, like painting, sings of the suggestive inner life of the artist who recalls to the myth of infancy as he returns to the Garden of Eden and the Golden Age in an oneiric-metaphysical vision of reality, without falling into the rhetoric or into the narcissistic and sentimental effusion. My poets have been Homer, Virgil, Dante and Leopardi, but I do not disdain foreign poets nor the Italian contemporary writers and poets. The fusionists learn the divine arts of painting and of poetry from the best artists and from the most heterogeneous materials: such supreme and arcane arts express the anguish of the modern human condition through the essential word poetry , skyscrapers architecture , impulsive chromatism painting , vibrations of the light of conscience religion and psychology , rebellion against the governmental establishment and capitalistic system politics , without debouching into anarchism, in civil.

Signed by Ivo David, this 13th of October, Signed by the Notary Public this 13th of October, Copyright in the Library of Congress, Washington, D. If you are mediocre, even if you make a great effort to paint very very badly, people will still see you are mediocre. Never, never, never, never, has the excess of money, of publicity, of success, or of popularity made me feel, even for a quarter of a second, like committing suicide We find ourselves in the presence of a painter of extraordinary capacity whose surrealistic experience is always thought and reason, that impede him from reaching the absurd, the grotesque and the caricature.

He now directs toward many other results in a specifically coloristic orbit, in the sensitive interpretation of the aspects of the real. The hints of Dante and the Bible seem to be motives for liberating themselves from invisible interior prisons where every flight becomes conquest, paid with the powerful emotivity of he who averts the dimensions of the impossible and the limits of human comprehension.

New York is represented as a scenario of depth, filled, without aperture to the sky. Everything is reduced to Lilliputian dimensions there in the bottom, where movement takes place the hinting of a living without lenitive stopping but to push and push again, with releases, in the narrow streets, in the melee, in the masses, in the chaos: In the world of speed. Men have become robots who are refused the comfort of sleep, enchantment. He is lifted on the left squinting at the stoplight with his choppy language, high on the deafening rank dustily warmed by the machines.

But on the left of the painting the oneiric is imposed, the surreal, the unconscious; a kind of jousting with lunar horses, like in fairy tales, that carry colored trees, merrily with fruits, flowers and stars. My personal interest in the Illustrations of the Divine Comedy was in synthony with this great artist who really understood the work of Dante and its allegorical and metaphorical symbolism.

Such illustrations overcome the expectations of the viewer since they are rich in spiritual and philosophical meaning. Without the color of the art, for the Italian-American painter, life. Ideal and real, classic and modern, dream and reason are summoned to create an artistic fusion through the evocative power of chromatic devices traced by the artist from Benevento.

His images, subjects, frequently suffer somatic contortions which the artist needs to express the suffering of the human condition and, at the same time, to glorify the joy of life or the magic unattainability of landscapes and natural elements. The accurate evocation, pregnant with symbolic and metaphoric meaning, reveals his classical and modern maturity, the elaborate poetic inspiration of Ivo David that pushes to follow the wide and attractive course of his existence and of his artistic vocation, exposed with intuitive knowledge and penetrating psychology His portraits contain a cultural force and a sovereign, unique hand that controls a varied and multidisciplinary universe.

His supreme gift lies in assimilating and fusing together artistic preoccupations, social and historical concerns as well as elements of physics and anatomy. The result is a magical rendition of a ward that hides behind dynamic historical events, social happenings and epidermical observations of reality. Thus it gets unbound through experimentalistic features to reach the mature equilibrium and the oneiric vision of a metaphysical, cosmic and universal theme. The poetical-pictorial elaboration results in integrating his patrimony more interior and individual than classical and erudite.

It is an admirable artistic marriage between the antique and the modern that the Artist initials with images, dramatic and luminous scenes gradually as he passes from the realm of the infernal sin to that of the purgatorial expiation and, at last, to the celestial redemption of the Empire. Ivo David, with creative intelligence, suffering, geniality, courage, faith and will, sentiment and perseverance, typical dowry from the people of our south, has known to give the stairway to Destiny, granting to humanity, dispersed and wavering, a.

I especially love his works on religious subjects and the illustrations of the Divine Comedy, rich in colors and ideas as well as in spiritual communication. The artistic quest of Ivo David is turned toward the human and social condition, perceived and evoked in the eschatological dimension of life and death. He is inspired by the contemporary pictorial tendencies cubism, surrealism, fauvism, dadaism, futurism, expressionism, impressionism, abstract art NJ, and I am very satisfied with it. His conferences on Fusionism held in Ramapo College of New Jersey and in the Association of the Italian-American Educators held in Long Island, were very informative and kept the attention of the students and faculty.

I love his scenes of New York City for the preponderance of size and space. The capable strokes of Van Gogh to the metaphysical impudence of De Chirico, the imperceptible touches of Rembrandt and the minute dissatisfactions of Cezanne to the exact dose of iridescence and refinement of Renoir DE CADAVAL, RUDY: The images that Ivo David proposes are always placed to the internal of a perfectible space with a movement that from the center expands toward the external to refold itself right after on itself, in a meditative condition that aspires to the phase of reflection.

That scratching of color, tile insistence of more intimate vibrations,. The beauty of the images and the strength of the colors are perfectly matching with his ideology of freedom and morality. The Artist knows how to perpetrate, thanks to the magic plasticity of the forms, moments and characters particularly emblematic and the content with inexplicable naturalness and simplicity, notwithstanding warning all the precariousness of existence. The originality and authenticity. After a wide and varied production, he has imposed an ambitious program, that of illustrating and interpreting the Divine Comedy.

He searches for subjects of universal interest that can contribute to recovering with fascination the pictorial invention. I enviously preserve his paintings which are, at the same time dream and remembrance in the adolescent reality and in his existentialist experience in Italy and in the United States. A painting that from the beginning looks already impressed by the fascinating strength of his colors— burning, vibrant colors that seem to be born from the depths of the earth and the soul, ready to espouse beauty and the suffering that life brings with it His language, that derives from the fusion performs to perfection through the classical and the modern, has an expressive strength that is perhaps unique, always lyrically sustained by movements and by imperceptible recalls.

If we observe carefully his paintings, the feeling of the marvelous, mysterious, transcendental does not ever result tarnished or cracked by the shadow of doubt. His brush strokes always run limpid, favoring the light of thought and is the spokesman of the richness of his tensions and all his aspirations. His technique and themes are coherent, even if the interior history does not miss contrasting signs and moments which, as it happens for the great minds, indicate a crisis of development, growth, and not a contradiction.

Even though there is a constant technical and substantial search for a strong phylosophical-literary matrix, his sincerity of inspiration is always touching, suggestive and involving. Applying himself with total conviction on his sacred subjects, such as the Baptism of Jesus, we feel that the work is less dramatic but genuine in its conception and execution.

In The Last Supper the scene takes place in a restaurant in the midst of two rival groups. The Cyrenean, instead, contains a dramatic art that renders the sacred drama inaccessible mercilessly. In all his works, the congenial expressions amalgamate. Ivo David has found the vision of creation through the spirit of what God has endowed in his poetic inspiration as a gift of talent and originality. His art originates new forms of expressions geared to spiritual subjects containing a divine message to mankind. Ivo David has overcome the wonder of the arts, found his way in this world and has triumphed in his own soul to express the creation that has penetrated and conceived his spirit.

David takes the history of art along every time he picks up his pen or charcoal pencil to rough out a sketch of a beautiful scene before his eyes. He knows how to reap the most consonant aspects of his own sensibility and set them in rapid and synthetic emotions of color still life, flowers, landscapes. Freeing himself gradually from certain analytical experiences and giving chromatic insistence of 19th century flavor, revealing finally in the Madonna with Child, the presence of images with surprising brevity of signs and colors; while in Transparence, the sonority of color assumes a spatial validity.

It is our duty to spend a word on design and graphics of Ivo. The graphics and the design of Ivo David is always realized with vibrant colors in every occasion. Ivo is an anti-academic. His art could be very close to the expressionist art of Heckel.

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A romantic of our times, we mean, who makes one forget the scenes of nature and succeeds in realizing on canvas with an impressionistic expressionistic impetus, often with a certain expressive vigor. His technique reveals a great experience in the subject where the perception comes from reality but the overall look of the paintings takes the viewers to a metaphysical world of dreams. All his paintings are wellbalanced, accentuated with impulsive colors containing a spiritual and ethical lesson about behavior and life in general. Science and conscience are mingled together in the synthesis of the artistic creation.

At this point, the bio-social analysis leaving without consideration the exquisitely technical valutations, distinguishes it in two parts: a what the painter says of his own production; If I had known it sooner I would have asked you kindly to come to Pescara, so I could be acquainted with you in person, embrace you and compliment you for your prodigeous artistic activity.

My Italy our motherly image emerges from the pale flares of a night of exile that expands the edges of the lagoon. Christ, Your cold body is carried by the Pious Women toward the tomb of the Resurrection while in the image of Veronica I see my own face. I will also resurrect with you among the Southern men who deepen the plow in the clods putting the seeds of hope in the fields, while old women are waiting for their husbands to come back they tied their knotty hands with the crown of the Holy Rosary.

Ricordo di mio padre rdito e fiero ti ricordo, o Padre mio, che dai monti Carsi scendesti ai crinali dei colli Sanniti e poi andasti alla terra di nessuno. In Memory of My Father h my Father, I remember you proud and bold coming down from the Carsian Alps to the slopes of the Samnite hills and then going to the land of nobody.

My brush will run on the canvas until the twilight will keep me standing on my feet in my daily work in the memory of my dear Mother. I learned from you a message of honesty the faithfulness to mother earth the metaphysical belief in afterlife. Saint Nicholas Manfredi came from the land of Saint Leucio to infuse the lymph of my adolescence in the fertile clods of Saint Nicholas. Your tower dominates the low houses in the humility of the Samnite people in the fertile sunny fields crowded with vineyards and olive-groves.

Farmers leave before the dawn when the daybreak is sowing the wheat into the purity of your beloved soil. Cicadas count the meridian hours on the bark of the trees in the tolls of the Church clock. In the morning the emigrant still leaves toward unknown shores of hostile lands. He is carrying the soul of his infancy. Unaware of strange presages I also crossed the ocean singing my return which invites me to climb the Cavalry where I will raise the flag of my freedom.

Canto del ritorno ome un piccione viaggiatore salgo fin dove la montagna bacia il cielo. Song of the Return ike a traveling pigeon I climb up where the mountain kisses the sky. I sing the nostalgic song of my return like a bird of the altitudes, I drink the pure odor of your stones, my native land.

From this exile I pick up the wisdom of your voice, I elate myself in your noble Samnite heritage. My dreams pursue your paths decorated by grass and rosemary where the silence of the valley breathes the perfume of tobacco is spreading over the crosses nailed in the cemetery. I need only a few colors, a brush and an old canvas to paint the shadow of the reed thickets the green of the willow-trees in the valley, the Spring almond flowers, the image of my tumultuous anxiety that is satisfied with the memory of my land.

La morte mi libera dalla paura di esistere in questa pianura del cimitero dove i singulti dei defunti vagano come spettri nelle profonde radici della sera. Il cuore del merlo ancora batte fra le zanne della tagliola. In questo labirinto minoico della vita la notte raccoglie il pigolio dei passeri: nei nidi sotto le tegole nascono i piccioni impauriti dalla voce rauca dei corvi.

Il silenzio inghiotta la mia anima nei bisbigli delle foglie, nel chiarore autunnale delle stelle. Vision of Death eath is a certainty that assails me at dusk in the anxiety of freedom. In the sky are blooming the stars that feed the dreams in a night of illusions endless and without rancor. Death frees me from the fear of existing in this plain of the cemetery where the sobs of the dead wander like ghosts in the deep roots of the evening. The heart of the blackbird is still beating among the teeth of the trap. In this Minoan labyrinth of life night gathers the chirps of the sparrows: in the nests under the tiles are born the pigeons frightened by the hoarse voice of the brows.

The silence engulfs my soul in the whispers of the leaves, in the Autumn glow of the stars. Scivola sulla terra il verme, striscia la serpe fra i ciottoli del fiume. As Paul Gauguin ike you I cross the infinite spaces to go among the natives to flee from this world of hatred and rancor. The chirping of the sparrows is no longer heard now that a new Spring of colors announces to me the path of exile which is not leading to the statue of liberty. The warm slips over the heart the snake strips among the pebbles of the river.

The sainfoin is lower than the poppies that are growing in the colors of the iris and overcome the blonde Samnite crops. Il trifoglio meco piega le ginocchia per pregare al Creatore di questo mistero. From the grass comes out the viper in the courts of justice the freedom is killed. I tender my ears to the acute whistling of the wind to listen to the voice of Mother Earth that still makes brothers in order to pick a song in the gorges of the stones, in the eloquent shadows of my reeds.

The eyes of the painter are reaching the infinite horizon where I sing the brotherly love, I sing the Franciscan peace that I find in the humility of my farmers. With me the clover bends its knees to pray to the Creator of this mystery. Voglio tornare oglio tornare ai paesaggi di querce e di tabacco dove i pioppi dondolano come giocattoli dove i grattacieli sono solo fantasia.

Qui non vedo nude fanciulle scendere nel candore del fiume. Qui non odo la campana che a sera da lontano invita alla preghiera. I Want To Return want to return to the landscapes of oaks and tobacco where the poplars are swaying like toys where skyscrapers are only fantasy. I see the hare leaping among the vines, I smell the odor of the elder and rosemary. I want to return to the land of the oleanders where the sunny air expands over the houses. Life beats of freedom in the voice of the wind.

Here wounds me the noise of strange engines, beat my heart the metals rolling on the asphalt, on the concrete in the inexorable time of the wake.

Vorrei tornare a Napoli, a Roma, a Caserta per stringere la mano ai miei amici, per ritrovare i miei vecchi amori. Sento il pigolio dei passeri nel giardino il rumore delle macchine nelle autostrade. Thrills My Soul of An Artist would like to cross again my Samnite sites, landscapes of the soul immortalized in my canvasses. I would like to return to Naples, Rome, Caserta to shake hands with my friends, to find again my ancient loves. I hear the chirping of the sparrows in the yard the noise of the cars on the highways.

At dusk, the nostalgia assails me if a vagabond firefly trembles in the memory of my native land, in the atavistic weeping of this exile. Ricordo i tedeschi che dilaniarono il mio paese, gli studi fatti a malavoglia, i compagni che mi deviarono, gli amici che io deviai. Canto la mia infanzia ribelle: i salici dondolano al passaggio delle rondini che puntuali ritornano a primavera alla mia terra sannita. Tomorrow my brush will paint my body as a child looking for wickers among the pebbles of the river.

I remember the Germans that tore my town, my studies done unwillingly, my companions who deviated me, my friends that I deviated. I do not like to dress up like a fascist if freedom is killed in the cry of war. I do not like to play the game of war if the stones fly in the air and hit the heads of children. I hate the war that makes man cruel since his childhood. I sing my rebellious childhood: the willows sway at the flying of the swallows that punctually return every Spring to my Samnite land.

I did not forget the road of the return in this tearful valley of my exile that severs the fury of the wind, scans the dark color of the stormy sea. Now in the evening I return to the hearth of my childhood to listen to the fables of my grandmother to recite a prayer with mom and dad. Alma Tellus blade of fire envelops the horizon where the Samnites defeated the Romans. Now it is raining hardly in the dry sods of my Alma Tellus.

My soul gets purified by the smell of the grass, my youthful passion ends up in two red nipples who submit to the teeth of love. And I kiss again the dawns and the sunsets of my land, I feel the smell of the earthly flowers in the fields burned by the the hot sun in this mid-August leading the dreams of my soul washed by the rain. La voce del vento a voce del vento tra le foglie scuote le ferite del mio sangue fa cadere i fiori dei mandorli a primavera.

Artista di due mondi, non voglio essere cittadino di questa terra in cui il negro non mangia alla mensa dei bianchi. I look for my freedom in solitary places, I find on the canvas the genius of my father.

I will live among the dead Samnites where an epitaph will make immortal my art will send to posterity my last will. Cimitero sannita ui monti sanniti la luna inventa tremuli sogni nella notte. Le serpi strisciano fra le tombe, le lumache salgono lente sulle lapidi. Nel cimitero del paese leggo nomi di congiunti con volti noti e con nomi sanniti. A Cemetery in the Samnium n the Samnite mountains the moon invents tremulous dreams during the night.

Snakes slither among the tombs, snails climb on the tombstones. In the cemetery of my town I read the names of my relatives with known faces and Samnite names. I will live among my dead to find my immortal freedom. Among the thick edges of bushes I will look for the nests of the birds; I will drown my naked feet into the clover, where my soul will find again its childhood into the smell of mint and elderberry. I am a seaweed in the shipwreck among high waves that are raising on the livid horizon of a Van Gogh painting..

The farewell kiss to your native land is a clear sign of the pain of your exile is a measure of the sand in the throat of the hourglass. Ricordo della mia terra a fantasia crea felci gigantesche nelle forre della memoria nella psiche dei canti danteschi. Il tempo misura il ritmo del cuore il respiro delle stagioni in una notte di luna. Qui non vedo i tuoi occhi di smeraldo, fanciulla sannita con la chioma al vento. Memory of My Land magination creates giant ferns in the ravines of my memory in the psyche of the songs of Dante. These skyscrapers look like monsters in the infernal Cocytus imprinted on the canvas.

I would like to get lost among the oaks of Benevento in search of a witch, a gypsy who would tell me my destiny of exile reading the palm of my hand, predicting my fate with a Sibilline oracle. Here I do not see your emerald eyes, Samnite girl with your hair in the wind.

My Italy, land of oleanders and elders, rott and cradle of my childhood. Your sunsets dissipate the fog of the night, the chimeras of Laopardi in the psyche of my childhood, while young stars are prisoners in my paintings of landscapes of an utopian land.

Post Mortem

My Freedom othing can stop my search for freedom hidden in the flight of a seagull crossing streams and inaccessible mountains. The witch is waving a red flag that cannot bind the native people. But from the sea horses emerges the prophecy of the exile, a tricolor flag is waiving over the Ausonic land of Italy. I, Ivo David, singer of freedom, pursue you among the grass under the almond trees in bloom in this Spring that is not afraid of the stinging nettles the nails of the falcons: the butterfly rests on thistles.

Amore della solitudine on ho paura del silenzio dei ciclamini nel cimitero se sulla tela mi svelano il mistero della vita, la solitudine di Gauguin sulle spiagge di Haiti. Il grano riarso ancora ondeggia nelle messi gialle di Van Gogh ora che i girasoli fioriscono al solleone e sovrastano i papaveri rossi sotto i ciliegi in fiore. Non ho paura della morte se sulla tela inseguo il mio destino solitario in un sentiero che conduce al cimitero.

Love for the Solitude do not fear the silence of the cyclamen in the cemetery if they reveal to me the mystery of life on the canvas, the solitude of Gauguin on the beaches of Haiti. The parched grain is still wavering in the yellow crops of Van Gogh now that the sunflowers are blooming in the Summer heat and dominate the red poppies under the cherry trees in flowers. I do not fear death if on the canvas I pursue my solitary destiny in the path leading to the cemetery.

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There, under the cypress trees, I gather the wisdom of my ancestors, I admire the faces of my relatives. Dead have a biblical language that contains a message of honesty, the ancient faith of my ancestors, the loyalty to the land of my patriarchs. Song of the Exile he wind carries a new serenade among the poplars in the valley.

The north wind comes from the West shakes these skyscrapers that do not know how to stand on their feet like the spin of the childhood on the ground of the vineyard, among the green olive trees. The drama of the exile leads to the Cavalry of a land without ideals and without boundaries does not have the nectar of kisses at the awakening of the new stars. For me the dawn marks the beginning of a new way to the Cross leading the exile on utopian beaches while the butterfly still sucks the nectar wet with dew.

Il naufrago finisce contro gli scogli della montagna del Purgatorio. Dream of an Artist n the dreamlike dimension of my art I populate the forest with nymphs and chimeras, I paint on the canvas the flower of love between the lips of mythical girls in the bosom of nymphs among the myrtle trees.

My Diana does not slip her stockings in the morning but chases naked the hunters under the stars dances naked with the Bacchants in the shade of the garrubi trees of the Gargano in the magic enchantment of a land of fables. Here the petrel of exile challenges the waves in a storm under the Brooklyn bridge during the beautiful Feast of Saint Gennaro on Mulberry Street, Little Italy. The shipwreck ends up against the rocks of the mountain of the Purgatory. Ricerca esotica ulla pelle delle ragazze cerco bianche robinie trovo giacinti e narcisi sul loro seno nudo che sublima il silenzio impulsivo dei miei quadri.

Le carovane degli zingari attraversano il tratturo della mia anima che sogna le pecore che una volta transumavano lungo gli antichi tratturi. Le tele gialle di Van Gogh non contengono i limoni dove il Vesuvio risplende nelle ginestre in fiore. Exotic Search n the skin of girls I search for white diamonds I find hyacinths and daffodils on their naked breast that enhances the impulsive silence of my paintings.

The caravans of the gypsies cross the cattle track of my soul dreaming about the sheep that once were moving down along the ancient cattle tracks. It is a dream-like vision this of a blind wandering man who sees with the eyes of Homer and knows the caresses of the dog Argos favors the whine of the cat. The yellow paintings of Van Gogh do not represent the lemons of the Flegrei fields where Vesuvius shines in the gorse in bloom.

I sink with my bold foot into the soft crater of the volcano to feel closer to the heart of the universe. Crescono gialli i limoni a Caserta, La notte oscura mi spinge a dipingere, in luce cambia le ombre sulla tela. Se potessi accarezzare la chioma di Diana, toccare il suo corpo con le mani mi sentirei come un dio sul Monte Olimpo. Vorrei tornare fra i miei contadini per scivolare nello stradone della vigna per sentire le donne cantare gli stornelli. Da bimbo guardavo sulla neve i pettirossi infreddoliti i passeri che gemevano nella tagliola.

I meet my vagabond friends at Vomero and Forcella. Yellow lemons grow in Caserta. The dark night pushes me to paint, changes the shadows into light on the canvas. If I could caress the hair of Diana, touch her body with my hands I would feel like a god on Mount Olympus. I would like to touch my land as a sacred wafer, regain the rebel candor of a child who was going to school for fun. I would like to go back among my farmers to slip on the main road of the vineyard to hear the women singing folk songs.

As a child I was watching on the snow the shivering robins the sparrows who were groaning into the trap. I felt the kiss of life in the Spring dawn of my childhood. Utopian Shores ow on the solitary roads I would like to lead my soul eager to silence, to infinity. I would like to find a boat that slides on the water of corals where the fish fall in love; I would like to search for a flower among the snow, a scarlet gown in the crowd.

I would like to reach a cliff of a utopian land wherein the blue sky meets the sea the wave kisses the shore the shell in the solitude of the surf. Il mio sole si ferma nel profumo della tua chioma. Il velluto della tua gonna ritraggo sulla tela incantata come la chioma della mia terra dove sui crisantemi cade la prima neve, dove cadono le foglie anche se il vento tace nel chiarore della sera. The light strips the girls into the stream, in the nudity of the water that raps around their slender shape.

My sun stops in the scent of your hair. Your skin gets inflamed by my sweet kisses between the smell of the musk and the crackling of the hay and the straw. The velvet of your gown I portray on the enchanted canvas like the hair of my land wherein the first snow falls on the chrysanthemums, wherein the leaves are falling even if the wind is silent in the glow of the evening. Il crepuscolo uardo le lucciole che al crepuscolo creano visioni sul paesaggio beneventano.

The Twilight watch the fireflies at dusk creating visions on the landscape of Benevento. I would like to stop the clock in the breeze whispering on the almond trees in bloom, in the swallows flying drunk with light toward the scent of my land, where the rainbow creates miracles of colors. I would like to count your golden hair to measure the joy of the infinity, while you, oh Samnite girl, invites on the lawn, while picking violets. At twilight the grass becomes blond under the brush of Van Gogh. Ricordi di guerra icordo i tedeschi che imponevano timore al mio paese.

Le finestre chiuse ascoltavamo il rumore dei carri armati. Ricordo gli aerei che svolazzavano nella valle come le Arpie nella selva dei suicidi. Ricordo le campane che suonavano il coprifuoco atterrivano i bimbi. Memories of War remember the Germans who imposed fear to my town. Sunday, October 16 th , 4. The year-old Ivo is a mentally retarded person who just came out of a mental institution and who lives alone in an isolated farmhouse in his hometown Castelnuovo dei Sabbioni.

Every now and then he gets in trouble but he also is naturally talented and creates wonderful murals combining enigmas and painting, gladly admired by school groups. Sunday, October 23 rd , 4. Script: Dacia Maraini. During the eighteenth century in Palermo the deaf and dumb thirteen-year-old Marianna, from an aristocratic family, is forced to get married with a wealthy relative, the elderly duke Pietro who makes her the mother of five children. Only many years later she will find out about the violence originating her disability. In the meantime, supported by the affection of her grandparents and mother and by the teachings of her foreign tutor, who opens up her mind to Enlightenment and to the quest for freedom, she will come to terms with her subordinate condition and find her way to emancipation.

The Association Gli Spostati has in recent years collaborated with some public institutions Comune di Firenze, Comune di Fiesole, Regione Toscana, Azienda Regionale per il Diritto allo studio to discover spaces that are not cinematographic in a strict sense where to organize cultural initiatives and festivals from the courtyard of Le Murate to the rooms and altana of the Biblioteca delle Oblate; from piazza SS. The Association partly recuperated the activities brought forth by the Cinema Altieri, combining them with the ordinary repertory schedule by way of thematic reviews aimed at university students, retrospectives and meetings with the authors, special projects for youngsters and elderly people, so as to keep and renovate the memory of cinema: a fundamental art of the twentieth century that still offers themes and stories to understand our times, contributing to give rise to fresh esthetical emotions.

Free access to the altana, while seats last. He seems to trust and like you," Innocenza tells me. I am touched and flattered. I had to leave school and start working at the age of fourteen. I was at school with Sonia until the age of After that she went to the more fashionable college of Maria Ausiliatrice in Giaveno, 15 km away, run by the nuns.

Sonia was a year older than I - I was born in , she in She was nice but always aware of her social superiority. But Anushka, her sister, is not nice.

Italian coming-of-age films | Revolvy

She is a nasty piece of work, that one. We were very upset by Sonia's husband's death. We were touched by her dignity and admired her for it. I think age and the tragedy have made her kinder. It shows in her face. Her son is the best-liked in the family. He seems to be a real gentleman. And so goodlooking!

But the daughter takes after her aunt - tough, arrogant and stubborn. I remember the tantrums Priyanka threw when she came visiting with her mother - a typically rich, spoilt brat. We were all very disappointed when Sonia decided to enter politics. I'm sure she did it for her daughter. They also say there are corruption charges against the family, that Rajiv took a lot of money. But somehow I cannot believe he did it for himself. He was such a prince of a man.

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In any case no one who enters politics remains or emerges unscathed. Even the most honest person becomes a thief. So it was inevitable, I suppose. Whatever happens, I wish her well. Innocenza's husband Nino has not studied beyond the third standard. He is now out of work and earns a living making metal pins for car headlights. This is how our black economy works. I work at it for about eight hours a day. She presses a book into my hands as a parting gift. It is a political memoir by Giulio Andreotti, seven times Italy's Prime Minister and one of its longest-serving post-War Ministers who now stands charged with having links with the mafia.

Serena and Sylvia take me to Anushka's shop in Gerbola di Rivolta. They want to be photographed among the Indian artefacts there and I am happy to oblige. I remember my last trip to Orbassano. It's just a couple of kilometres away," a helpful neighbour had advised me. The shop called Etnica is located in a lonely and depressing commercial complex a couple of km from Orbassano. It is a monstrous concrete structure topped by five scalloped wooden pyramids painted green.

The shop itself is an oasis of good taste in a desert of semi-urban kitsch. There are some rare old pichwai s. A couple of exquisite silver pieces from Bikaner. The display is an intelligent mix of old and new, antique objects and recent Indian artefacts. The prices are astoundingly high. I noticed goods like Shatoosh shawls, the export and sale of which is banned. I received it a few days ago and the price has not been finalised. I had found the horsey-looking young woman minding the shop a little bizzare.

She boasted about her trips to India to buy stuff for the shop but denied she or the shop had any connection with the Nehru-Gandhi family. The owner is someone from Torino. I had found it strange that a shop assistant out in the Italian boondocks should speak fluent English and be so knowledgeable about Indian antiques. She must have a very generous employer indeed, I had mused, pondering over the mystery. Now seeing me in the company of Serena and Sylvia, she blanches.

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We have walked into the shop and I have my camera ready. They turn around to greet her but she is already throwing us out unceremoniously. The shop assistant is none other than Aruna, Anushka's daughter and Sonia Gandhi's niece. The girls apologise profusely for her rudeness. Aruna and I exchange knowing looks. I am tempted to challenge her earlier claims. Then, feeling sorry for her, I take a picture of the shop from the outside and leave.

The shop continues to nibble at the edge of my consciousness like a buzzing bee that won't go away. There is something not quite right about it. It is incongruous, like a strange, exotic orchid blooming in the desert.