As often happens, I started making sculptures for fun, and for pleasure, reproducing characters that I could not find on the market or that did not satisfy my visions. I found many very beautiful industrially produced objects on the web but I didn’t have what I wanted. I then realized that this activity relaxed me and gave me great satisfaction, without any profit I continued to be “my own customer“, then, those who had the opportunity to see my works insisted and told me “beautiful! You could do an activity with it!“. This is how it all began, without any course and no premise or intention.

Every project is born from an encounter. My clay works are not only unique for their shape or color, but because they come to life from a shared idea: a suggestion, an image, an intention that is entrusted to me and that becomes the starting point of the work. The discussion takes place at the beginning of the process, when together we define the meaning and direction of the project. From that moment on, the work grows through my autonomous artistic interpretation, guided by experience, practice and direct dialogue with the material. I have developed the techniques I use by working and experimenting over time, and it is on this skill that every formal and material choice is based. The value of the work comes precisely from this balance: from an idea entrusted and from a form returned, filtered through my language. When the sculpture is completed, we are not faced with a simple custom-made object, but with the result of a shared path that has found a definitive form. A unique work, in which the initial intuition and a coherent artistic vision coexist.

Listen, you who walk distracted above the ground, you who step on dust without remembering where you came from. Today I am going to talk to you about the Earth. Not as a planet, not as a place, but as a Mother. And I’m talking about its most alive and fertile skin: clay.

In the beginning, when the sky was silent and time was still asleep, it was the Earth that woke up first. No flash, no word. Just a deep, wet, maternal breath. And it was from that breath that the world was born. Before the fires of the gods, before the wars of men, she came: Mother Earth. He did not speak, but he nourished. He did not command, but created. And it was from clay, damp and red, that the first man arose. Not from gold, not from light, not from stone, but from mud shaped with love and suffering, mixed with the water of the rivers and the breath of spirits. With divine fingers or perhaps simply with time and patience, clay took shape and became flesh. And the man opened his eyes in the dust that had given birth to him.

Clay is not only matter, it is Memory. Each lump tells of lost ages, of ancient rains, of fallen and reborn seeds. It is mother and grave. With it they made bowls for grain, bricks for houses, simulacra of the gods and the dead. It is the clay of vases and visions, of peasant toil and of the hands of those who work.

On his shoulders man learned agriculture: the sacred gesture of penetrating the earth to plant hope. Every furrow was a prayer, every harvest a miracle, every famine a lesson, and even today even under the cement and iron, the earth waits. Be silent… but breathe.

Clay is the humility of the world. It is what allows itself to be molded, what accepts fire to become eternal. It is alive as long as it is wet, strong only after having suffered the furnace. Like man. Never forget where you come from: you are dust mixed with dreams. Do not forget where you will return: between the cracks of the mother, in the womb of the Earth. Clay has given you form, but only your soul can give it meaning.

So I say to you: kneel on the earth. Get your hands dirty. Listen to the pulse of the world beneath your feet. There is no deity more ancient than this. Because in every lump of clay a god still sleeps, waiting for someone to give him shape.