I utilize software and devices. These tools, with their immediacy and vast range of options, allow me to effortlessly transcend the limitations of traditional media in bringing my works to life. I eagerly experiment with innovative technologies, but conceptual autonomy remains fundamental to me. My works are born from personal ideas, developed through research and experimentation. My artistic research is constantly evolving, and I always seek new technologies and materials to enrich my expressive intent. Each project arises from in-depth study and meticulous planning. I photograph, film, and write to record every stage of my work and to preserve documentation of all works in progress.

Orange is present in almost all of my works today. During a typical day at kindergarten in the 1970s, I was alone on the lawn. I held a white butterfly in my hands. I don't think it landed there on purpose. Those butterflies were anything but bold. I closed my fist. When I opened my hand, its wings were stained with a thick, deep orange liquid. The shades of orange I achieve today come from carefully selected natural materials: calcite, ochre, kaolin, sienna, clay, fluorite, opal, dolomite, sandstone, marble, talc, and bentonite. With their diverse compositions and impurities, these elements allow me to explore a wide spectrum of hues.

Ink, gear grease, paper. An olfactory symphony that permeated my being. In my art today, a tangible legacy of that world of my father, which I frequented more than he did: his home printing press. At that age, it was an enchanted kingdom where words took shape not from the mouth, but from a machine. And images materialized with the firm pressure of the rollers. In the modesty of that environment, a single sink remained as a reminder that it had previously been just another room. The table used as a workbench, with tools and materials, a collection of objects that fascinated and intimidated me at the same time: movable type, each with its engraved letter, an emotional alphabet that generated nostalgic inkblots in my memories. He couldn't see well. Every now and then he would get a character, letter, space, line, dot, or dash wrong. And he would give me the sheet with the error. 

I have often depicted my dreams. We spend, on average, a third of our lives sleeping. The areas of our brain associated with logic and emotion operate in an alternate mode during sleep, sometimes generating intriguing effects. Inconceivable events, strange creatures, absurd scenarios, and improbable dialogues are almost the norm. We find ourselves in someone's house with no idea how we got there; we want to speak, but the air rushes into our mouths as if we were leaning out the window of a speeding train; a beautiful and rich person falls in love with us in an instant; we are falling from a roof, only to find ourselves, shortly after, on the beach ordering a granita; we try to enter a restaurant, but we are underwater, and every movement is impossible; we win millions in prizes, but no one wants to give them to us; our house has been transformed into an endless labyrinth of gates and insurmountable walls; we cry for the death of someone we have never cared about; we live on the top of Everest, and upon stepping out onto the balcony, we discover that we are in Piazza San Marco in Venice; we flee with a car that is not ours, unable to outrun people who are chasing us on foot. Upon awakening, those dreams leave us with melancholy, bad moods, joy, or disappointment. 

From the earliest cave paintings illuminated by daylight or the flicker of a nighttime fire to today’s sophisticated light-based installations, art has always maintained an inextricable relationship with luminosity. This reliance has often constrained our perception of artworks, confining them to illuminated contexts. My insistence on creating pieces that remain visible even in darkness stems from a curiosity to transcend this limitation, exploring the potential to craft works that invite endless interpretive possibilities, even in the total absence of light. On several occasions, I have chosen to work with unique combinations of minerals capable of interacting with their dark surroundings in remarkable ways. Natural pigments, sensitive to climatic shifts and atmospheric conditions, imbue my works with a sense of life as they seem to pulse in the deepest darkness. My creations, designed specifically for the dark, offer only a faint glow and a few elusive details to the observer, yet the overall effect is enchanting and evocative. In full light, however, the same work presents itself as visually and chromatically classical, though its colors intensify and reveal new facets, enriching the viewing experience with unexpected depth and vibrancy.

Some of my works have as their basic subject, works by Umberto Boccioni. I often resorted to his style in tests in the early 2000s. Boccioni, certainly among the most important figures of Italian Futurism, lived a short but intense artistic life, tragically interrupted. His death, following a fall from a horse, contains an ironic and tragic symbolism: that animal, an emblem of energy and movement, was often celebrated by Boccioni in his artistic and theoretical reflections as the embodiment of vital force and dynamism, key concepts in Futurist poetics. Boccioni traced a personal path that culminated in the redefinition of Futurist sculpture and painting. He was able to push the possibilities of dynamic representation to the extreme, trying to capture not only the energy of the body in motion but also the vibrations of the surrounding space. With his revolutionary vision, he was not simply an artist of his time, but a precursor. His indelible and untouchable mark on the history of modern art remains. 

The pigments I create from minerals, at times, I spread onto paper, mimicking the lightness of watercolor. I prefer thick, rough paper that doesn’t warp when wet and holds the color with tenacity. Sometimes, I avoid layering to preserve the purity of each individual pigment; other times, I provoke it, I invite it. I let the color explore the surface, expanding and retracting according to unpredictable rhythms, as if it had a will of its own. I observe the reactions, the slow adjustments, the silent interactions between mineral and fiber. I define the main shapes instinctively, then let the color transform them, seeping into empty spaces, creating depths and transparencies I hadn’t foreseen. Sometimes, the result disappoints me; other times, it surprises me, because the material carries an unpredictability that eludes all control. I don’t necessarily follow graphic conventions. I challenge density, experiment with grainy, almost tactile effects, and at times carve into the still-wet color, as if searching for something hidden beneath the surface. There is always a dialogue, a continuous interplay between intention and chance, between gesture and the resistance of matter, as if each pigment retained the memory of the stone it came from. 

When I first dove into the world of my art, I made a lot of mistakes. My journey in the world of painting was filled with failed attempts, botched experiments, and moments of frustration. Not all mistakes were significant steps in my learning process; some turned out to be a complete waste of time. I bought the wrong brushes, used canvases of poor quality, and struggled with mixing colors correctly, resulting in muddy and unpleasant hues. Even though I understood the basic rules of perspective, applying them in a painting was often a disaster, and I didn't know how to fix the problem. I often started projects without a clear idea of what I wanted to achieve, wasting precious time and ultimately abandoning many unfinished works. The lack of a stable routine led me to work in an unstructured way, accumulating materials and tools without a clear system. Today, I continue to learn, and every day is a new opportunity to explore, create, and discover something new. My home has become my studio, my creative haven where I can experiment freely. My art has become an essential part of my life. Through my mistakes, I discovered the value of experimentation, and today, my errors are a fundamental part of my conceptual art, now expressed through graphics. 

For many years, I frequented the astronomical observatory of my city, attending hundreds of lectures. After each theoretical presentation, the lights would gradually dim, allowing our eyes to adjust to the darkness, preparing us to observe the night sky through the historic telescope. My interest in the field continued privately, fueled by studies and readings. This passion inevitably intertwined with my graphic language, evolving into artistic expression. It is not simply a matter of representing celestial bodies. When I paint the universe, my goal is to evoke the essence of emptiness and nothingness. In the creation of these works, I allow myself ample creative freedom: shapes, colors, and compositions do not adhere to rigid rules, but emerge from the aesthetic choices of the moment. 

Like many of my artistic projects, the Leaf Series explores impermanence and nature’s innate capacity for regeneration and reinvention an expression of energy in perpetual transformation. When creating a series, my aim is often to develop a work that remains dynamic and continuously evolving. This evolution may even involve decay, as long as the piece never becomes static. Minerals and crystals applied to the iron leaves generate an autonomous mutability through natural chemical processes, triggering unpredictable and virtually irreversible transformations over time. In this sense, I am not merely the creator of these works but also their observer and interpreter, witnessing the unfolding of natural processes.

The leaves I create are versatile decorative elements. Each one is a work of art in itself, yet they can also complement and enhance sculptures and design objects. I craft them in a way that allows them to undergo natural transformations over time, through the oxidation of iron and the application of pigments that change color autonomously. I cut the leaves using metal shears. Sometimes I create veins and details for a more realistic effect, or bend sections to add dimension and relief. If necessary, I join multiple sections through welding to achieve complex leaf forms. Experimentation with diverse shapes, sizes, and coloring techniques is fundamental to achieving varied and unique results. The fascination these leaves hold lies in their continuous evolution, entrusted entirely to natural processes.

The painting Colors Of War marks marks one of the concluding moments in my artistic journey, representing the final instance in which I employed concepts of social protest through chromatic or symbolic juxtapositions. The work evokes the silent tragedy of war, focusing on the heartbreaking interruption of correspondence between a soldier and his family an event that symbolizes the irreparable fracture of human relationships caused by conflict. The composition centers around letters and fragments of communication that never reached their destination, suggesting a broken dialogue filled with shattered hopes and expectations. Green, the central chromatic element, does not serve a merely decorative purpose; instead, it takes on an expressive and narrative role. It visually evokes the hues of military uniforms and equipment, anchoring the work in the harsh reality of war while simultaneously symbolizing oppression and wear. The decision to abandon this artistic language in my subsequent works reflects both a conceptual and creative evolution. I sensed the expressive exhaustion of themes tied to compassion and social protest, realizing the necessity of exploring new creative territories. This turning point does not represent a rejection of the values expressed in Colori Bellici, but rather their transcendence through artistic and conceptual growth. With this piece, I aimed to offer a final manifesto of sorrow and compassion for the invisible victims of war, entrusting colors and symbols with the task of narrating what cannot be conveyed through words alone.

Aside from undisputed works or those from ancient eras, a characteristic of contemporary art that I have often considered is its dependence on light. Whether it is a painting, a sculpture, or an installation, the artwork exists only as long as it is illuminated. Light, whether natural or artificial, becomes an indispensable condition for its very existence. This dependence on light, although undeniable, is also a reflection of the evolution of art and technology. The advent of electricity has transformed light into an expressive medium in its own right, allowing artists to explore new dimensions. I have tried to transform even total darkness into a background element for my art, through the use of photosensitive or phosphorescent materials, and more. Countless are the graphic stratagems I have devised to infuse works intended for viewing in the dark with a strong and surprising chromatic intensity, as far as possible.