Building sculpture is a loving relationship and love, rightly, establishes rules and commandments. "And love is more suffered, it digs and defines more". Martini in this was the biggest. Martini is the voice of sculpture and its nature. Martini is our great love. Will I pay and pay the stubborn passion for a Classic-Romantic-Natural concept of being and doing? Yet it is precisely in this same direction that I meet Beuys and Michelangelo, and so many abstract, figurative, conceptual works, or made with infinite materials and means but with the same terms and ingredients. The first thought is not to touch these sentences but only to read them, as a sacred text. "Let me not be a comparison, but a unity". I ask myself who can I address this sentence: to me, to my human faith, to my profound ethics or to sculpture, to his faith, to his profound morality. It is comforting to think that it is for both. "Let me not stay in the three dimensions, where death is hidden". "Let me be the unfathomable architecture to reach the universal".
This is our hope. The poverty of the material, the arrangement, the doing with what you have is a principle so archaic to dispose some spontaneity, to put me at ease. I see sculptures made with technological means and materials, and many find them beautiful, so I think I will soon try new materials and ways ... but with stone, and travertine in particular, it is a natural arrangement, a comparison of bodies without waste nor reproach. The beauty of the stone is to recognize it. Sculpture is a privilege that does not find spaces, so it is satisfied with itself. He prefers open air, but lives everywhere. He dies if forgotten. The problem, then, are the deaths caused by distraction, lack of interest, lack of encouragement, detachment from both sculpture and art in general. This especially in Italy. "Art from blacks and without peace" ... for a good idea, why forget the hands? ... we who persist in using them to bring out the soul. Martini, before dying, moved his hands (I remember reading it at the end of a catalog). I saw Umberto Peschi, eighty-year-old in a coma (man, and sculptor, wonderful), before dying, moving his hands.