with Octavia Monaco

scende la principessa


In a world marked by discounts, smartphones and bad stuff on TV, where do the fairy tales still find the breathing?

Fairy tales germinate there, where they are no longer told. In nostalgia. In the incompleteness that we all suffer. Fairy tales reclaim spaces of immense and vast silence. They feed on the meaning of wonder. They provide for that listening possibility which the noises of our lives have violated. Fairy tales are at the bottom of the well. Far beyond from the patter of our troubled steps. Fairy tales are the place of the secret we don’t take into account. They’re in the concave of the look of those who travel all over the world taking it from the edges.

Do you think the attachment to the infant universe always hide any dangers?

I’m afraid and I hope that, for an adult, the infant universe is lost forever. The innocence of the look can’t be rebuilded. If that’s ever really been. The danger is passing off as infant what can be interpreted as just childish. As for me, I’ve got no memory of my childhood, even when I was a child. I note that it’s not the childhood strongbox that I hold in my tight arms. It’s not in this that I plunge my hands to draw water and germinating seeds. Not in that of my childhood. Perhaps in that of the World infancy? Or perhaps in both? I cannot give me definite answers. Everything is Hypothesis. Legend.

demetra e Iris

What do we “give back” through our creative impulses?

I believe the operation of restitution consists indeed in a subtraction. You subtract the certain borders of “things”, the words made crystallized and sterile. So you give back plausible spaces below the skin of things. That subtle net that reveals itself in knots as inescapable similarities by virtue of the stubborn excavation of who, on impulse, leaves the beaten track, chasing a yearning of Elsewhere.

How does a real princess live?

I would call “princess” the woman who doesn’t give up wearing her gold and silver clothes despite everything runs around her like swarms of moving cars, smearing, with mud splashes, the embroidered hems of her garments. Difficult. I am no longer certain that the Princesses still live in our empires disjointed by the senses dazzled by the tricks. You prefer the plastic shiny rhinestones to the freshwater pearls they know how to find, collect and embroider with care. Besides, who is willing to submit themselves to the perpetual evidence they require? Who would devote them to steal a sign of their nobility?


What does a real princess think?

I imagine that a real princess spends her time cleaning her trampled clothes and distilling mud, searching pearls to embroider her breath and return it as a breeze or wind to the people of the kingdom around. Princesses choose exile. If I’m here, I’m not completely here. I’m from the world but not in the world.

The day you found out to be “good”…

Be good… The sense of cleverness that I pursue has proposed many, many years ago. It was rolled out at my feet as an invitation and as a poised bridge, promising me horizons yet to be reached and views trasfigurely from what I have always felt, lived as a gift and a torment together. Of a memory placed back in time, I still have the clear feeling of a talent entrusted to me as seed in the hollow of a hand. My promise, at that time and my consequent commitment to take care of it. To make it fruitful. As it should be and as it is today. Daily I renew the pact by placing the other hand on a book perpetually closed.

il cubismo di Picasso

Can you be “very sensitive” and then take off in the world?

I wonder a lot about this… I wonder searching for a world in which it really worth breaking your nails to build your own space.
I am no longer certain that it is in the world that runs around frantically, convulsive and oblivious…

Another of a thousand tales that you would like to change:

Red Shoes. This project was originally just a dream, then it had become accepted proposal in publishing. Possibility later betrayed by the one who I mistakenly had involved, and by who I felt probably robbed. It happens. Unacceptable in the tale of Andersen that the desire to be in the dance and in the desire becomes guilt to expiate in so cruelly way. Unacceptable.

The child memory you wouldn’t ever want to miss:

Eyes. The face. Anything of the abuela Encarnacciòn. Eyes of the one who spent the day with the cows to graze. Solitary time, all her own, was secret. As it was, all her own and secret, the healing knowledge and extraordinary were the hands that seemed roots. The handkerchief peasant hid and protected the silvery foliage. Our family come from Italy, unexpected in the night of Galicia, after a long and exhausting journey by car, caught my ancestor in her flowing locks, long and undulating, to encircle her wild nocturnal face. I tried several times to reproduce my image of her. That ancient charm that made her so indefinable at all, and finally irreducible to my pencil.




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