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Even the sun came out

by Cosimo Miorelli

 

They’re going on a lot of things in my life. I think. That is, I’m absolutely less dynamic, enterprising and adventurous than I’d like, less brash and cocky than I should. Less curious and interesting than I guess.
But I’m experiencing a time of great reflection and change.
I hope.

Part 1. Finding and moan

Nothing unusual: I needed to move, and I found an ally and a great fellow traveler in the person next to me. She’s what you call adventure! She helped me to free myself from the Venetian slimes and shared with me emotions and frustrations of a so common as difficult move to Berlin. I have mitigated the shock and I probably precluded a whole host of exciting discoveries, dragging behind contacts and commitments working that however — certainly without pomp — allowed me to survive so far. It’s a strange and paradoxical situation though, that’s where I am… Me and hundreds of thousands of other transplanted persons, probably: I’m in this comfortable, affordable, ever changing car park. I get paid for my works mainly by outside, by where I went looking for better paid jobs; I hold contacts and friendships, some will last some won’t; no one knows when it will stop, but surely “it’s not forever”.

I say to myself “Ok, not bad, don’t be impatient, but get a move on, try to understand the direction in which you want to go, take up your efforts”. I’m trying, slowly, to contact blogs, and magazines, to get me a little advert, all in all.

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Part 2. Well-being

However, this of the promotion, of the affirmation, of the recognition is the boring side, basic but boring. Cause I mainly like draw, or rather, “be-drawing”. I’m almost never completely satisfied with what I produce, at least not right away. There’s a whole graph of complacency, which rears up with the excitement of the moment, then falls dramatically with the next morning “warm” judgment and slowly goes up again with the weeks, months, cooling until the complete detachment, until the “did I make this?”, and here comes the satisfaction. It’s short, then the bother, “the old”, you no longer recognizes yourself. You need a new small achievement.

I always digress too much, I know. But there is a moment in which I’m absolutely present to myself, so focused that I can’t notice anything, and it’s when I really draw or paint. It doesn’t always happen and I’m not always good at recognizing it. Sometimes it lasts a few minutes, sometimes for hours. I think it’s called “be inspired”. There isn’t a specific set of provoking conditions but after years of observation I have defined some optimal conditions, always the same, since when I drew the bikes on squared notebooks and knights in armor: before dinner, around half past seven, with an empty stomach and the awareness of the imminent forced break: “Cosimooooo, come and eat!” Here’s expectations align with color’s splashes and I’m glad. Glad to be drawing, just as a child who doesn’t care about those who judge his sun but feels its benevolent heat while he draws the rays with a marker.

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I’m excited by the biographical details, by the quirks of my artistic reference points, of my heroes, the heroes of the comic who shaped my imagination. I tried to emulate their daily routines, their technical procedures, but there’s nothing to do: I will never wake up before five o’clock, as Pratt, to draw up mid-morning and enjoy the rest of the day, hunting for stories. I’ll never manage to alternate fifteen minutes of punching bag to half an hour of brush as a terrible Belgian boxer-painter whose name I can’t remember. Each has his own rhythm and I’m sure I haven’t yet identified mine. For sure, it has something to do with the half past seven in the evening.
Now that I read these few lines I notice a fundamental mistake: I don’t draw, at least not as often.

I just “dig”, seeking forms among the splashes with large and pasty brush strokes. It’s a process that really relies to my need, a path that always leads to unexpected destinations. I tried to combat these tendencies with drafts and sketches, storyboards and plannings, but there’s nothing I can do, I really enjoy only the unexpected. The whole is heavily influenced by the main tool I work with, the computer. You’re never wrong, you can always come back. No fear, no final decision. It’s the attempt blindly fair. An exceptional tool, fast, multiform… I censor by myself and I’ll spare you the snorter on the clash between traditional and digital, on the market issues and prejudices that weigh on those who use the tablet instead of the brush. It happens each time that a new technical solution is stated, and it takes a few decades or a new scandalous turn to set their mind at rest.

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I try to experience anything, to repress the frustrations with play and discovery, mixing old and new, correcting what turns out “so-so” with instruments I know better. But I have this instinctive act, which intoxicates me just cause it’s so far out of my intimately way to be, from as I face life. It takes me twenty minutes to choose the bulb for the bathroom at the supermarket, try to imagine how much I would need to plan a story. But I’m learning to throw myself, to not giving a damn. This happens particularly when drawing live. I have developed several performances of “live-multimedia-storytelling” along with various musicians. I’ve always suffered my inability to interact with the music, to play with the others.

When I was a kid at least half of my company raping guitars in ska-reggae bands and for twenty years I spend July at the Stazione di Topolò among all kinds of artists and musicians. I got fed up with clapping my hands and keeping time on the bottles. Finding this way to interact, drawing live, it was a liberation: “I finally have my instrument, I can join the jam”. Music and images interact and influence each other as the viewer, along with us, tries to weave his own story, linking suggestions and views. It’s a team game that everyone lives otherwise.

That’s enough, for now is all about. One should always close with a final effect, which is what it’s fixed in the reader. But it’s late. Today I have not still washed my face and it’s almost “magic” time, half past seven.

Look, even the sun came out.

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