A motorcycle for Gian Berra
I am leaving this house to another and from the trunks out old photos
claiming lives …
It was 1978 and already my paintings began to colonize the Veneto, Italy and
even a bit ‘of the world outside the borders of this country was still a
slave of the cockroaches of the tower.
A friend had realized my love for the soul of the Italians destroyed.
He sold me a cheap bike that has the flavor of autarchy and a bitter old
pride and a bit immature: A Military Superalce Guzzi motorcycle. a jewel for
me that was the true symbol of my hippie soul.
Long live the motorcycle racing. A bike that he did not know what to make of
his color, but I pointed the way without luxury or status symbol.
My bike was a skeleton that denounced the dreams of military madness like
smoke that hides more smoke. Money can not be used to buy souls.
And I was a God at least until I was in the saddle.
The crowds were hiding behind a God luxury living under the bell tower and
that it helped them make money, or who cared for their sins in return for a
bow devotee. They lowered themselves down his pants in front of God. A God
Now that I am tired and old and the bike is gone, those emotions I feed the
soul and make me smile at life.