In this issue you can find written by: Sacha Naspini, Gianluca Morozzi, Iacopo Barison, Cosimo Piediscalzi, Marco Marsullo, Tomasz Kuciewski, Matthew Trevino, Daniel Piccinini, Carlo Palisades, Veronica Mondelli, Simone Rossi, Massimo Lerose, Jeffrey Zani, and an unpublished poem by Gaston Malgieri.
this is that you can admire the beautiful cover image of the magazine, created by the great Luciano Cisi. Here you can read if you like my story.
PORTRAIT
Indigo women and children with small green tree.
Indigo. Cobalt. Heliotrope. Sepia, sand, lilac. Aquamarine. Amaranth. Blue Gold, green, bronze and crimson. Carmine. Red. Black White. Cerulean, crimson. Ecru. Mauve, periwinkle, crimson. White. Black Grey. Copper, scarlet. White. Black Dark. Fiore. Sun Sex. Leaf. River. Skin. Sun's dark again.
I am a monster.
A small tree. Green leaves. Landscape purple. Thin trunk. As my legs are thin. How thin is the palm of my hand.
A monster.
Faced with a blank canvas, color property, only images that roam in the head. Anything out. Only an insane desire to be able to do. To be able to move.
Scream and then it is impossible to look in the mirror. Real Estate, I and my color, in front of a blank canvas that I will never dirty. What ever can live. The white canvas. My mirror. In the mirror, nothing.
Downward tears on her face, a face perhaps fishing, which I can not watch. Tears fall full of grace of a blue cornflower. No, nothing to do with the transparency of water. Reduction salty tears and no sigh, no hiccups, no request for help will come from the depths of my fiery red throat. Scarlet, maybe. Only. A. Insana. Please. Raise your hands and smear my colors. Hold on to my canvas. Just this.
Then he enters her. A smile in an ivory complexion pale muse pure and devout. Sign her. I would like to undress her and tell her to lie beyond my canvas. I would tell her to lie down and go into my canvas. As so often happened in the afternoon under the shady chestnut trees, surrounded by an emerald sea.
a while to bring the wrist to the eyes as the dark blacks and salty tears dry, without a whisper. Log in and you carry that weight, mine and hers. Pat the belly. I think. indigo portrait of a woman and child . She smiles at me with eyes the color of sun-behind-the-clouds messes up my studio. The brushes are clean and in their place. Them dirty. No trace of paint on the floor. Throws. She and my baby do not look at this chair you are forced to. Do not look at my hand fine. Look only in the black of my eyes and see all the colors that my soul explodes.
He kneels in front of me. Coral hair touching the shoulders of un'adamantina purity. He kneels in front of me, drenched in color with a brush in his hand. I attach it to your wrist. Wrist holding my hand helpless and thin.
I think. For her, nothing has changed. With his cherry lips first smiled at me sincerely, to front of my body, proud, tall, muscular. She smiles at me now. With his cherry lips sincere and beautiful. No difference. Just one thing. She believes in me even more now.
Dips the other hand in a bucket of paint. The other hand I refuse to use. That still in shock that, since my world is upside down, has only touched the breasts of marble from her hidden in a moonlit night, when he sprouted a little something.
Dips her hand and gave up the door to his cheek. The cascading, the caress. I move. He pushes me to the canvas.
am a monstrous creature of art.
A hand smeared with color and a brush tied to the wrist. You are running into my office with the big belly and smiles.
A monster.
My phone stopped ringing, because I stopped painting. Not yet surrendered to the inevitable happened.
But she has not given up. The pool with his eyes. A fixed point outside the window. The light comes in and lights up the profile. Articulates his thoughts. It focuses on the one hand laid permanently to feel the warmth of the child. He closes his eyes. Hair coral rise slightly for a breath of wind. Close lips, gentle, white in a breath. On a peach-colored skin. Between thoughts wisteria in front of a window in an ecru day aquamarine.
I see something in the mirror of canvas in front of me. I see spots of color. I see atrocious forms arise from the effort of a body that has never stopped wanting to paint.
hear the continuation of this effort to animate each tendon. I feel tired, feel pain, but I can, I must resist. For the only beautiful things that support me, they are all here in this room, you, my baby and my colors.
No, now I'm better. Better than before. Sitting staring at each color of colors. Every nuance of shading. And every spot on the canvas is sweat and toil and pain that knows joy.
No returns. I start from here.
And she comes back to me. My love says and I care. And I have no fear.
There is a large canvas on the ground. He slides his arms under mine. I lift with a thrust inhumane. But no sign of fatigue. Not one. I raise, we raise all three and then we allow ourselves to fall on the white canvas.
She spreads her arms and smiles, laughs a brass voice that comes from the stomach. Uterus. Ride, because neither of us has about one more inch of our skin color natural .
With my arms crazy here it comes again. The small tree. Small shiny green leaves. Landscape purple, lilac, periwinkle. Thin trunk, but supported.
My love and I care says. And I have no fear.
Indigo. Heliotrope. Cobalt Blue, coral, green. Scarlet, carmine, crimson. Green. Red. Ivory. Puro.
My colors are stubborn.
In this painting, we come. Now I can more than before. Now I will never surrender. In this painting, we , a jumble of bright colors indomitable.
My love and I care says. And I have no fear.
My love . He says. My love .
And I have no fear.
