KNOWING THYSELF (?)

The time I use to create each single piece seems to me to resemble a gestation period. I cannot even begin to imagine what it is like to be pregnant, but I think the torment, the ecstasy, the suffering, the joy, the destruction, the desire to live and die, the whirlwind of emotions that I feel in my soul and in my gut while I paint could be similar to a pregnancy. Every finished painting is a child that does not belong to me, it has its own soul, its own personality, its own character and its own language: it emits its own essence.
I go through two distinctive creative phases, first drawing and then painting. But it is wrong to use the term “creative”. In reality I don’t create anything, I just explore and then discover. In this sense Francesco does not exist, Visalli does not exist, but only a guiding spirit which I do not control, it uses my body to erupt forth like a volcano. Meanwhile, I see other worlds, I see the emotions and the sensations materialize before me, like going through the transformation from a gaseous state to a solid state. I hear voices, people that talk to me and tell me of scenes that belong to other dimensions, which I experience as real, and through them I take part in a concrete alternative reality. I am forced to do this in order not to see the banality and the drudgery of this world, which I now live in as an alien. Everything that surrounds me and everything that this world has to offer and forces upon us is banal and boring. In considering myself an alien I do not mean that I am superior or own the truth, I simply do not belong in this earthly dimension. Something supernatural captures my body, my soul, my heart and my mind. I do not feel the passing of time, but I belong to time, to space, to the cosmos and I float within it.
This is what happens when I paint.
Then it stops, comes back, stops again and then comes back again…and I die and am born again. It’s always an inner and outer destruction in a continuous dichotomous conflict, living and dying simultaneously; two clear and conflicting entities that mysteriously do not split but rather merge to create a new being: an alternative reality. I do not know how much of this can be seen in my paintings but the only thing that I know is this, and only this: it is my one and only life.
The canvas….the canvas is a uterus; the drawings….the drawings on the canvas are the ovaries; the palette….the palette is the testicles; the colour….the colour is the sperm; the paintbrush….the paintbrush is the penis that impregnates the canvas; the painting…the finished painting is the being that comes to life. Thus the cycle of life is fulfilled and every time I am the one that dies and comes back to life again. I don’t know how the fuck to explain it…maybe I’m just crazy and only one question remains: who draws and paints my life?

ΓΝΩΘΙ ΣEΑΥΤΟN ;
Versione a cura di SAMUELE MARIA VISALLI
ὁχρόνος ὅν χράομαι  τοῖς  πᾶσιν ἐμοῖς πρᾶγμασι διαπράξων, ἴκελος τῇ κυήσει δοκέει μοι. Μήποτε  ἄν μηδὲ ἐνενόησαμι τι ἐστί κύησις, ἀλλὰ νομίζω τὴν ἁνίαν, τὴν ἔκστασιν, τὴν νόσον, τὴν ἡδονήν, τὴν καθαιρέσιν, τόν θυμόν βιοῦν καὶ ἀποθνῄσκειν, τὴν ταραχήν ἅ αἰσθάνομαι ἐν τῇ ψυχῇ καὶ τῇ κοιλία ἡνίκα ζωγραφέω, ἄν ἔοικοι αὐτῇ. Πάντες πίνακες ἐντελεῖς εἰσί υἱοὶ  οἵ οὐ προσήκουσιν ἐμαυτῷ φρενά, φύσιν ἑαυτῆς, χαρακτῆρα καὶ γλῶσσαν ἑαυτοῦ έχει τὸ ἑαυτοῦ  ἦθος ἐκφέρει.
δύο ἀκμάς τῆς σπορᾶς διάγω πρόσθεν τὴν διαγραφήν, ἔπειτα τὴν γραφήν. ἀλλὰ ἁμάρτημά ἐστι τῆς σπορᾶς λέγειν. δὴ οὐδέν ποιέω, ἀλλὰ κατασκοπέω καὶ ἔπειτα εὐρίσκω. ταύτῃ οὐ Francesco ὑπάρχει, οὐ Visalli ὑπάρχει, ἀλλὰ μόνον ἡ ἀγωγή του νοῦ  ὅν οὐ ἐλέγχω,  αὑτη χράομαι τῷ ἐμῷ σῶματι ὅπως ἀνακλᾷ. ὦδε ἄλλους κόσμους, τά πάθη καὶ τάς αἰσθήσεις ἑαυτούς πλάττοντες ὁράω, ὡς ἐν τινι φυσική μεταβολῇ γίγνεται. ἀκούω φωνας, λαούς τῶν ἀνθρώπων λέγοντες ὑπέρ ἄλλων ὕπαρ οἶς αὐτός μετέσχον. καὶ ἀναγχάζομαι τούτου μετέχειν οὐ ὁρᾶν τήν ἀνίαν καὶ ἐπάχθειαν τοῦ τούτου κόσμου εἰς ὅν ζάω ὡς τις ἀλλότριος. Πάντα ἅ ἀμφιβαίνει αὐτόν καὶ ἅ οὕτος κόσμος διαδίδωσι, διδάσκει, ἐπιτίθησι δυσχερές καὶ ἀνιαρόν ἐστι. ταύτῃ οὐ ἀναγορεύω με διαφέρειν ἢ διάγειν τὴν ἀλήθειαν, ἀλλὰ μόνον με τῷ τούτῳ ὕπαρ οὐ προσήκειν. Θηράομαι ὑπὸ τινος κράτους θαυμαστοῦ ὅς καταλαμβάνει τό σῶμα, τήν ψυχήν, τήν φρήνα καὶ τήν φρόνησις ἑμαυτοῦ. οὐ αἰσθάνομαι τό διέρχεσται τοῦ χρόνου, ἀλλὰ προσήκω τῷ χρόνῳ, τῷ κόσμῳ καὶ εἰς τοῦτον κυμαίνω.
ἡνίκα ζωγραφέω τοῦτο γίγνεται.
εἶτα φθίνειν εἶτα ἀποστρέφειν καὶ ἀεὶ θνῄσκω καὶ ἀναβλαστάνω. τοῦτο φθόρός ἐστι. βιοῦν καὶ ἀποθνῄσκειν ἅμα. τοῦτο συνεχής μάχή ἐστι. τὸ πρῶτον δύο οὐσίαι καθαραί καὶ ξέναι αἵ μυστικῶς διαχοῦνται ὡς τινα νέα καὶ ἔτερα ποιέοντες. οὐ οἶδα εἰ τοῦτο πᾶν φαίνεται ἐν τοῖς  πίναξι οὕς ποιέω. Μόνον τοῦτο οἶδα αὑτη ὁ ἐμός μόνος καὶ τελευταῖος βίος ἐστί.
τὸ φᾶρος κοιλία ἐστί, ἡ διαγραφή ἐπὶ αὐτόν ωοθήκες εἰσί, ἡ γραφή όρχεις εἰσί, τὸ χρῶμα σπέρμα ἐστί,  τη βούρτσα ἀκάτιον ὅ κυεῖ τόν ἰστόν, ὁ πίναξ ἐκτελής ἐστί τὸ ὢν  ὅ γίγνεται. ὦδε τόν κύκλον τοῦ βίου κατεργάζεται καὶ ἀεὶ ἐγώ εἰμὶ αὐτός ὅς ἀποθνῄσκει καὶ ἀναβλαστάνει. οὐ οἶδα ὡς τοῦτο κλίνειν, ἴσως μανικός μόνον εἰμὶ καὶ μόνη δέησις ἔτι ἐστί τίς διαγράφω καὶ γράφω τόν  ἐμόν βίον;