s e i r o m e M t s i t r A n a of
IVO DAVID FLORIDA, USA
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COVER ILLUSTRATION Ivo David: "Self portrait” Oil on canvas: 18”x 24”- Private collection (USA)
"MEMORIES OF AN ARTIST" First Edition 1994 Edition II Ponte- Italo /Americano N.Y., New York, (USA) 2nd Edition, 2012 Italian Edition ABC Printing Company Vero Beach, Florida, (USA) 3rd Edition Revised, 2015 Italian-English Translation Edition ABC Printing Company Vero Beach, Florida, (USA) Copyright C. 1999 Ivo David Registration Copyright Office Library of Congress Washinghton, D. C. TXu000924610 1999 All rights reserved. No part of this publication, including any of the illustrations, may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by the reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review. Printed in the United States of America
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s e i r o m e M t s i t r A n a of
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IVO, FOUR MONTHS, WITH HIS MOTHER, 1935 4
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OLGA CLARICE DAVID (Mother)
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ARDUINO DAVID (Father)
To the memory of my wife, Nancy R. Pugliese David; my mother, Olga Clarice David; and my father, Arduino David, great fine art painter and designer; “...taught me the art that doesn’t make me die.” (excerpt from “In Memory of my Father,” page 39)
NANCY R. PUGLIESE DAVID WIFE OF IVO DAVID
IVO, 1 YEAR OLD WITH HIS MOTHER 5
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AL, SILVIO, BRUNO AND IVO (JOHN DAVID IN BACKGROUND)
NANCY AND IVO DAVID 1963
GRAN MOTHER GIUSEPPINA VARRICCHIO IN LEPORE AND GRAN FATHER MARIO LEPORE GRANDPARENTS OF SAN LEUCIO DEL SANNIO, PROV. BENEVENIO, ITALIA
AL AND EVA (Ivo’s brother
and sister)
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INDEX Introduction................................. Orazio Tanelli..................................... 11 Forward........................................ Ivo David............................................ 13 Biography................................................................................................... 14 The Manifesto of Fushionism..................................................................... 22
CRITICAL OPINIONS Mario Albertazzi, Michele Alemanno, Giuseppe Antonio Arena, Carlo Barbieri, Rosalba Beltrame Masone, Germano Bertin, Pietro Bertuccelli, Vincenzo Bollettino, Ninnj Di Stefano Busá, Franco Calabrese, Anthony Cece, Paul Courget, Rosetta D’Angelo, Jose´ Van Roy Dalí, Rudy De Cadaval, Fiorentino Di Marzo, Francesco Di Napoli, Ellen Fischer, Mario Fratti, Corrado Gizzi, Nicola Lupoli, Carmine Manzi, Vincenzo Rossi, Saverio Scutella´, Antonia Slrena Mastrocristino, Michael Sisca, Christina Tascon, Filippo Tintoretto, Alessandro Vannini, Carlo Viola, Carmelo R. Viola, Caterina Wall, Lucio Zinna
SAMNITE’S SONGS My Italy (Italia mia)....................................................................................................... 37 In Memory of My Father (Ricordo di mio padre)....................................................... 39 Saint Nicholas Manfredi (San Nicola Manfredi)........................................................ 41 Song of the Return (Canto del ritorno)...................................................................... 43 The Silence of the Valley (Il silenzio della valle)........................................................ 45 Vision of Death (Visione della morte) ........................................................................ 47 As Paul Gauguin (Come Paul Gauguin)..................................................................... 49 Franciscan Peace (La pace francescana).................................................................... 51 I Want To Return (Voglio tornare)............................................................................... 53 Thrills My Soul of An Artist (Freme la mia anima d’artista)...................................... 55 Return to My Childhood (Ritorno all’infanzia)........................................................... 57 AlmaTellus (AlmaTellus)............................................................................................... 59 The Voice of the Wind (La voce del vento)................................................................ 61 The Cemetery in the Samnium (Cimitero sannita).................................................... 63
AMERICAN ELEGIES Memory of My Land (Ricordo della mia terra)........................................................... 67 My Freedom (La mia libertà)....................................................................................... 69 Love for the Solitude (Amore della solitudine)......................................................... 71 Song of the Exile (Canto dell’esule)........................................................................... 73 7
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Dream of an Artist (Sogno d’un artista)..................................................................... 75 Exotic Search (Ricerca esotica)................................................................................... 77 Landscapes of My Soul (Paesaggi dell’anima).......................................................... 79 Utopian Shores (Lidi utopici)...................................................................................... 81 Your Skin (La tua pelle)................................................................................................ 83 The Twilight (Il crepuscolo)......................................................................................... 85 Memories of War (Ricordi di guerra).......................................................................... 87 Italy Today (L’Italia d’oggi).......................................................................................... 89 Myth of Childhood (Mito d’infanzia).......................................................................... 91 Sicilian Queen of Beauty (Sicilian Queen of Beauty)................................................ 93 Thank You, Grobachev................................................................................................ 94 RHAPSODIES OF THE LAND Christmas Rhapsody (Rapsodia natalizia).................................................................. 97 Path of My Childhood (Sentiero d’infanzia)............................................................... 99 The Perfume of Your Beauty (Il profumo della tua bellezza).................................. 101 The Rain (La pioggia)................................................................................................. 103 I Paint During The Night (Dipingo di notte)............................................................ 105 Imagination of an Artist (Fantasia di un artista)....................................................... 107 Easter of Resurrection (Pasqua di Resurrezione)..................................................... 109 Samnite Childhood (Infanzia sannita)...................................................................... 111 Dream And Reality (Sogno e realtà)......................................................................... 113 Art is Not Sufficient (Insufficienza dell’arte)............................................................. 115 Old Age (La vecchiaia).............................................................................................. 117 The Fury of the Wind (La furia del vento)................................................................ 119 The Garden of Mnemosyne (Il giardino di Mnemosine)........................................ 121 The Fall (L’autunno)................................................................................................... 123 Life (La vita)................................................................................................................ 125 My Art (La mia arte)................................................................................................... 127 Life of a Genius (Vita d’un genio)............................................................................. 129 My Dreams (I miei sogni)........................................................................................... 131 Day of Joy (Giorno di gioia)...................................................................................... 133 Carolus Hotel in Florence(Firenze Hotel Carolus)................................................... 135 An Ancient Love (Un antico amore)......................................................................... 137 8
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Unaware of Life (Ignaro della vita)............................................................................ 139 I Cannot Smile (Non posso sorridere)...................................................................... 141 Young Love (Giovane amore)................................................................................... 143 An Ancient Fable (Una favola antica)....................................................................... 145 Destiny of Child (Destino dei figli)........................................................................... 147 Song of the Emigrant (Canto d’emigrante)............................................................. 149 Hope (La speranza).................................................................................................... 151 Gyspy Lady in the Cave (La zingara nella grotta).................................................... 153 Night of Holy Friday(La notte di VenerdÏ Santo)..................................................... 155 Columbus (Colombo)................................................................................................ 157 The Return (II ritorno)................................................................................................ 159 Christmas in New York (Natale a New York)............................................................ 161 To poet Orazio Tanelli (Al poeta Orazio Tanelli)..................................................... 163
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INTRODUCTION We are very pleased to present with vivid participation this collection of poems by Ivo David, a famous Italian-American artist, who was born in San Leucio (Benevento) , Italy on November 22, 1934, but spent his childhood and early youth in San Nicola Manfredi (BN).Italy. Ivo David resides in the city of Vero Beach, Florida and is known more as a fine art painter than as a poet. The poems contained herein, revised and updated, indicate his artistic talent also in the field of poetry. This volume contains also reproductions of some of his paintings, sketches and photographs that make us know the man and the artist. The opinions of criticism, formulated by national and international writers, deal more with his art than his poetry, but are essential to make us understand his world and his personality. The collection of these poems will let us know Ivo David as a poet as well as a painter, founder and promoter of the Fusionism since 1956. Among the many awards he received we must mention the first prize obtained from the cultural magazine La Follia di New York for his painting “Diane after the Bath�. David is an honorary member of the Academy of the Micenei, the Academy of Paestum and the International Academy of Fine Arts of the Perigord in Bordeaux, France. With much research and hard work we luckily succeeded to dig, collect and put together these poems written by the painter/poet in different periods of his life here in the U.S. and in different states of emotions. However, we were not able to establish their chronological order, since the original texts do not indicate the date of their composition. We structured this volume according to his ideology: The Cantos with the memories of childhood; The Elegies dealing with the social problems; The Rhapsodies celebrating the nostalgic charm of his native land. His poems are expressed with a language capable to dig deeper into his humanistic and libertarian psyche. The texts indicate clearly that he is a man of deep emotional feelings, a scholar of literature and philosophy, an intellectual who has never abandoned his favorite art: painting. His arrival to America in 1962 was not at all a step backwards in the art world, since he was already well known in Italy and was invited here to exhibit in New York City. Once he remained in the United States, where was the rest of his family, Ivo David was able to succeed in this world of contradictions and bureaucracy. The most famous galleries were requesting him to exhibit his paintings, the most famous academies invited him to become their member. His landscaping technique is evident in his art as well as in his poetry. From a careful reading of these Memories of an Artist, we can realize his emotional feelings towards the landscape, the recovery of the myth of childhood, his anti-war ideology, the analysis of social problems in relation to the self. 11
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His poetic images have a chromatic value of someone who can portray the colors on canvas and the words on poetry. His poetic and pictorial ideology displays an ethical message that does not end in a vain spiritualism, but points out the essential elements for the recovery of humanistic, libertarian and moral values, that in our day are increasingly abandoned. A high symbolic and cathartic message emerges from these poems written with the heart of an artist with the nostalgia of his homeland, with the intention not to give up the past, the history, the Bible, Christian ethics, the reason, the feelings, the peace, the freedom. Thus Ivo David becomes the poet of colors and the painter of poetry, as has often being stated of him and his fusionistic art by many scholars here in the United States and abroad. These poems by Ivo David are distinct for the incisiveness of the language, the vividness of the images, the highly existential content and the constant quest for freedom. The memories become sacred liturgy in the temple of Mnemosyne and lead to the myth of childhood that evolves through symbolic and metaphoric language. In his Utopian world, freedom and hope coexist and are integrated in a space that has no chronological limits or margins of time, in a cosmic vision that has no beginning nor end. The microcosm becomes the macrocosm: the memory breaks the edges of the hedges of the lagoon, enlarges the microcosm of the soul, projecting the humanistic and existential ideals in an elusive future, in a timeless space accessible only in apocalyptic visions. As in his paintings, the tool of Ivo David is the color, so in his poems is the power of the words: it is born in the land of freedom with new meanings and new connotations, with new semantic values and new mythic resonances. But the return to reality (especially for his concern for social problems) indicates a humanistic odyssey that takes place farther than the Utopia of freedom, farther than the search for “virtue and knowledge”; our poet/artist had the courage to cross the Pillars of Hercules to venture into the world of metaphysical transcendence, to reach an unknown ocean in search of an Utopian world as Dante did in the episode of the exalted myth of Ulysses. However, he did not have the courage to go back and re-embrace “the beautiful Italy with loved shores”. Thus the voluntary exile became the torment of the shipwrecked man in search of new reefs, the search of the fisherman that cannot find again the haven of the native country. To the nostalgia of the far way native country blends the feeling of the time through the power of the memory that makes him recover those genuine values which were inherent in him since the Spring of his life. ORAZIO TANELLI University Professor Verona, New Jersey - USA 12
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FORWARD These poems, if so we can call them, are the fruit of my “artistic inspiration” as many people say, “an artist who has seen and sees the things through a different spectrum than that of a true poet”. I’m the first to observe that they have a little value or at least not as much as my heart and my soul would have liked. These reminiscences or memories were written long time ago when the nostalgia for my beautiful Italy was clouding my mind and oppressed my soul; they were scribbled by me for any occasion or special event. Then my heart so wanted to dictate them to my mind as their Author. My artistic inspiration is reaching the infinite, admiring everything surrounding me in this voluntary exile forgetting the occasions and the conveniences. Now, with the colors and designs, I blend on the canvas my Dreams with Reality. While living an artistic life, sometimes difficult, with many sins and many errors, I still believe that some critics of art and literature, later on, will regret for the things they have said or for the indifference they have used towards me and my art, I still possess a certain vitality that is my only “raison d’etre” for those who appreciate my style the spiritual nature of my artistic convictions.
Ivo David
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BIOGRAPHY CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH Ivo David received his very first art lessons from his father Arduino David a graduate of the Institute of Fine Arts and Crafts of Udine Italy where he was born of Austrian parents. Arduino David’s works and paintings can be seen in the churches of the city of Benevento, Italy all over the Samnium area, and in many luxurious palaces where even today these works of art are jealously guarded and preserved. Ivo David, our painter from New Jersey (USA), was born on November 22, 1934, in. San Leucio del Sannio (Benevento).Italy. From this small town, his family moved to the neighboring town of San Nicola Manfredi (Benevento), where Ivo spent his childhood and adolescence. Here, his father established himself as the acclaimed artist/painter and executor of many works of art. At around the age of six, Ivo already began to show a strong inclination for drawing. His beloved mother, Olga Clarice Lepore, together with his father, always exorted Ivo toward practicing drawing; every day he had to prepare a different drawing on a new subject for which in return, he received appraisals or gifts. Right after the disastrous World War II (1939-1945), Ivo was admitted to the Seraphic Franciscan Seminary. With the other students, he was transferred many times from one seminary to another: from Airola to Arpaia, then to Paduli (BN). The studies in this Franciscan school were quite difficult, It was here where the Franciscan fathers inculcated the most important preliminary disciplines in literature, philosophy, drawing, art history and Latin. Great emphasis was placed upon
Ivo David - Three months old
ethics and the moral values of religion. But this enclosed monastic life was not for him, and after almost three years, he left the seminary rather against his family’s wishes, and re-entered into the laity. Gifted with intelligence and with a solid scholastic and cultural preparation, ivo David was admitted to the Liceo Scientifico (High School of Science) in Benevento. During the five years of study and sacrifice, he was able to broaden his knowledge of Latin, philosophy, practical architecture, history of art, drawing, and other scientific courses required by the Institute. From that time on, he became more and more convinced that art would be his sole aspiration because he felt that his inclination toward art came from natural gifts, family contingencies and through spiritual and metaphysical nature. Ivo decided to apply and was admitted at the Academy of Fine Art, Naples, where he completed his 5 year curriculum and all the studies necessary at Liceum of Art graduating with the Degree in Fine Arts.
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DIFFICULT AND IRRESOLUTE YOUTH From that time on, life became more difficult for Ivo. In fact, in order to continue his studies instead of being employed (or becoming a teacher), he led a semi-bohemian reckless life without limits or moral strength. The financial support from his family—who were already living in the USA—should have been sufficient for him, but many times he remained penniless and didn’t have enough funds to pay for his room and board. To help with his expenses, he began painting and drawing during his spare time: he prepared drawings and paintings by order or upon request from a restaurant or for the owner of his lodging. Thus, at that young age, without any proper guidance, he let himself be carried away by his capricious and rebellious nature, by his absolute will to be free. It was during this reckless youth that Ivo resolved to live a life without any social ties and without following any man-made rules toward his fellowmen. This mental state caused him to live a solitary and pessimistic life. He was always exacerbated, contrary, and very often rude and hard with those who surrounded him. Solitude and irresolution drove him to love and deepen his knowledge of drawing and painting, and many times he copied his father’s works which surrounded him in his country estate. Ivo would often go to the castle of San Nicola Manfredi where he had the good fortune of meeting the Marquis Francesco Sersale, who at that time, was part of the management of the San Carlo theatre in Naples. The Marquis liked Ivo’s pictures, drawings and paintings, so he recommended Ivo to Prof Mario Cristini in Naples. Ivo was
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immediately accepted as an apprentice graphics assistant and worked together with Cristini and his sons for a period of time; they were responsible for the set design and scenography of the San Carlo Theatre in Naples. Prof. Cristini made his atelier above the San Carlo theatre, and the enormous scenes on canvas (or on other theatrical materials) were designed by the assistants under the direction of the drafts prepared by the illustrious professor. Another person who saved Ivo David from his reckless youth was the architect Renato Bardone of the Academy of Brera in Milan, who at that time, was in charge of the Department of Architecture and Culture of Samnium in the city of Benevento. Soon, through art, Ivo became a good friend of this great and hardworking artist. The two opened and managed two art studios: one in Rome on Consulta Street and another in the city of Benevento. Thus Ivo gradually broadened his knowledge of the arts—literature, music and sculpture. Above all, his genius and propensity was toward painting. Together with the architect Bardone, he was able to visit the most important European museums: Paris, Madrid, Florence and in other cities of Italy. IN SEARCH OF A PAINTING STYLE At that time, whenever Ivo was alone, he wandered from city to city, from country to country; sometimes without a place to live, an address or a permanent job. The principal motive for this reckless youth reflects his undaunted desire to continue his in-depth study and knowledge of the greatest masters of art that approached his own spiritual feelings, his ethic principles and his social ideologies. He
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was still in the beginning of his artistic formation and had an indecisive style— still unsure and undetermined. The style he adopted in his youth was somewhat classical-integral; his carefully executed paintings demonstrate it, in fact, he began painting in a classical trend somewhat realistic somewhat precise, but this did not satisfy his soul. He wanted to seriously break away from the plastic ties and from the classical images of the old school. These tied him down not allowing him to grow. He would have called that classical period of his painting “Period of Bardone� during which time he was greatly influenced by the great teacher. However, that was still a formative period of his growth. The works of that period, a classical and realistic style, were correct and precise in their technical structure. They were executed within the strictest academic rules of the great masters of the past. All those paintings and drawings were the result of all that he had learned and assimilated. They were not sincere nor did they have feelings, they were rather mechanical, artificial, and automatic. This integral-classical style was brought about through the analytical study of many works of art that had been produced from the very beginning of the prehistoric times, from Fidia to Michelangelo, from Leonardo to Tiziano, from El Greco to Velazquez. His return to Paris together with Renato Bardone, his associate in art, opened his eyes to the beauty and originality of modern art; Courbet, Millet, Corot and especially the impressionists and post-impressionists: Monet, Renoir, Manet, Cezanne, Matisse, Picasso, Derain, Rouault, Gauguin and Van Gogh (only to name a few). The visits to the Paris museums
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and to other European art galleries had been the best and most enlightening modern painting lessons learned and experienced in person. It was only then that he, studying directly the works of modern painters, realized that he was approaching his own true spiritual research, and the visions he had always dreamed of. In fact, the study of modern art began to create true impressions in him, even though in the beginning it was quite difficult for him to be able to express himself in the language of modern technique. The art of Ivo David has never been an occasional painting or a celebration of an annual or historical recurrence; even though he looked upon the contemporary reality, his inspiration stemmed from history, the Bible, geography, landscape and humanity turning on his search of freedom. From these experiences and from others acquired during his study of the modern artists (and living amongst the modern painters), it then became not so difficult for him to formulate within this medium an artistic culture and create his own style. TOWARD NEW ARTISTIC HORIZONS Thus Ivo David acquired a new sense of freedom from the classicists and from pictorial traditionalism not so much with the study of the impressionists, dadaists, cubists, futurists, fauvists and others, but especially through the probing of the expressionists (Italians, French and Germans). In particular, the abstract French expressionists left a deep imprint on his sensitive mind. Surrealism also generated in him irreversible, deep and unexpected impressions. This poetic-pictorialphilosophic trend was much more
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important in the history of modern art, originally created and elaborated by poets and writers such as Andre Breton, Guillaume Apollinaire, Paul Eiuard and many others. Surrealism has greatly influenced Ivo David’s artistic formation. He had studied in depth the Manifesto of Surrealism, from which, though, he did not accept and does not accept today the first part of the First Manifesto wherein is denied the use of thought and reason, logic and rationality in art. But David welcomed the omnipotence of dream in art works especially in painting. The second part of this First Manifesto and other manifestos that followed originated from Breton, were more consonant with David’s feelings and almost by coincidence, the chronological term surrealism, was officially recognized and adopted the year of Ivo’s birth, that is, in 1934. Even today, David doesn’t quite consider the artistic movement of Surrealism antiquated or outdated, because he retains it as an integral part of his modus vivendi and of every other artist who goes in search of true freedom. The meaning of the world Surrealism must not be taken to the letter, that is to say, interpreted etymologically, but understood in a loose sense, in its notion of ”fantastic, from another world oneiric, bizarre, uncommon, utopian, rebellious to the status quo”, of ontological and social reality. Even today, Surrealism is for David a happy style to which contemporary poets and writers adhere, in one way or another, but to which many renowned painters and writers such as Chagall, Picasso, Dalí, De Chirico, Aragon, Desnos, Apollinaire, Eluard and many others adhere. This is the reason why Ivo
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David accepts a Moderate Surrealism, because his belief consists always of the aesthetic and ideological doctrine that attests to the presence of “freedom in art with reason”. For him, De Chirico, Picasso and Dalí have been and are still today, sources of great inspiration and teaching. Their art has much in common with the works of David from the ethicphilosophic and socio-didactic point of view. During this period of cultural and artistic formation, David completed his studies at the Academy of Fine Arts in Naples. He became acquainted with the painter-professor of the Academy, Domenico Cotugno, with whom he was able to establish a professional rapport, studying and perfecting the style and the way to live with modern art and the living artists of impressionism and expressionism. Together with the technique, the graphics and use of colors, his pictorial style became much clearer. After absorbing and assimilating the essence of all the new pictorial trends, he no longer went: in quest of new isms, but wanted to be in control of his “I”, meaning, and as he says, “in search of freedom in art with reason”. NEW EXPERIENCES AND ACQUAINTANCES In 1952 in Rome, David meets the great surrealist master Salvador Dalí, whom he considered the greatest painter of the modern era. Back in Naples, he had put together an art show with Lo Russo, Gambardella and Bardone. In 1956, David launched the Manifesto of Fusionism which was divulged only to a few of his closest friends. In 1957, David met Professor
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Filippo Tintoretto, who held the chair of Art and Architecture at the University of Naples. With his expert teaching, guidance and encouragement, David overcame many obstacles in the world of art and especially painting. In this Partenopeian City, Professor Gustavo Lo Russo united with David in his intent to form and promote new artistic theories for the development of the new Fusionistic style. Together they formed an artistic tie with other associated writers, poets and musicians. If we were to compare his pictorial style from that period with that of today, we could affirm that Ivo David has emancipated, surpassed himself both in pictorial technique and in the chromatic language. In fact, his present style is totally different from that of the 1950s, but also different from the masters of the last 60 years. His style, strictly original, sincere and pure, was tabled by his European critics, Abstract Fusionistic Art. In a conference, Prof Gustavo Lo Russo of the Academy of Arts in Naples said: “Ivo David’s art consists of spontaneous drawing, richly worked, exaggerated brush strokes, new colors, impulsive and almost primary that art critics qualified as primitive, primordial, eccentric, barbaric, embryonic, rebellious.’’ Gustavo Lo Russo was nicknamed Gauguin by his friends and Ivo David was nicknamed Van Gogh. There is some truth to this. In fact, Ivo possesses within him the innate and necessary-light (Pintor nascitur; poeta nascitur) that others seek in the external reality, in the daily contingency. Moreover, David’s artistic spirit evolves, and configures as the fusion of freedom and reason, the synthesis of feeling and the social world. His painting contains that
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visionary light that fortifies his art. The natural and spontaneous distortions, many times called incomprehensible, primitive and brutal by art critics, were deliberate and Intentional from his genius and sprung from his “I”. These were also deliberately and Intentionally exaggerated with freedom and reason. The deliberate and intentional colors in opposition to certain normal rules are the technical result of a new style dictated by reason and willed by his “I” free to create. Every one of his paintings is a work of art because it contains this search for freedom. The new pictorial trend created by David and having never yet gone public at that time—Abstract Fusionism was duly noted by his colleagues in Europe and must not be taken as being a copy or plagiarism of other masters; it must be understood as an artistic innovation in painting; it must be studied through David’s works as a mature and forward step in contemporary art, meaning a historical document. In fact, it contains and is the abstract artistic fusion (name given by him), meaning the ethic and moral result of what other pictorial trends have taught. In 1957, Ivo David enlisted in the Military Aeronautic of Orvieto, but was later transferred to the Military Aeronautic School of Caserta. At the end of his military service, he was offered a teaching position in that school. At that time, Ivo befriended the general commandant Nicola Lupoli, whose family descended from a noble house of counts. Lupoli and Ivo became good friends, since the general was also an artist, writer and poet. For the time that Ivo remained in the Military Academy, he was assigned a special position. Among the privileges granted to him was free
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board and a room which he used as a private atelier in the Royal Palace of Caserta where the Aeronautic Military School maintained its headquarters. All this has contributed in making him a superior person. In fact, through his friendship with the Lupoli family, he began to follow a straight direction and Lupoli, on his part, became a collector of some of David’s paintings—his youthful works. THE FIRST PICTORIAL EXHIBITIONS In 1961, in Caserta, a National Exhibition of Art took place for the first centennary of the Unification of Italy under the auspices of the Minister of Public Education, G. Bosco. In 1962. Carlo Levi, a renowned painter and writer (author of Christ Stopped at Eboli), awaited the First Personal Exhibition of Ivo David, which was held at the Galleria del Ponte in Naples. It was a great success with the public and with the critics; all the paintings were sold. The critical reviews were favorable in the most important artistic magazines and papers and were also quoted and announced by RAI. The critics had expected that David’s paintings brought a new message, free and visionary. Looking and studying his paintings, a New York critic once said to him: “When I look at your painting it seems to me as if I were reading The Apocalypse of Saint John, where it seems that catastrophe can occur unexpectedly” (J. Pilchmann). All this still exists in David’s style wherein the rich and exaggerated brush strokes are not uncommon, the intense colors sometimes are created with high tones and sometimes with low ones. A long list of collectionists followed his first art exhibition In the
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Galleria del Ponte in Naples. Another exhibition, reserved for a selected and small public (private reception), took place at Ravello on the Amaifi coast and then at Sorrento. During that period, two paintings were donated by Ivo David to Jacqueline Kennedy (wife of John F. Kennedy, President of the United States): a water color Harlequin dedicated to her daughter Carolyn Kennedy, and a Madonna with Child (oil) to the First Lady. Ivo proudly keeps a Thank you letter sent to him from the White House by Miss Baldridge, social secretary of Mrs. Kennedy. PERMANENCE IN THE UNITED STATES In 1962, Ivo David joined his family in the United States. Here, he engaged himself studying English. Under the tutelage of Father Vincenzo Monella, founder of the Italian Cultural Center at Seton Hall University of South Orange, New Jersey, Ivo made great progress from the very beginning. Gradually he became part of the Italo-American community, teaching drawing and painting in the Center and helping Prof. Monella expand the cultural and artistic activity. Moreover, he illustrated and designed a few books and magazines for the Culture Center. Orazio Tanelli, also a member and founder of the Italian Center of Culture, helped Father Monella with the magazine Itala Gente where he published some of his poems and a few articles on David’s painting. Ivo David also organized painting exhibitions to raise funds necessary for the Italian Cultural Center: his paintings have been auctioned at the Robert Treat Hotel in Newark (New Jersey) to raise funds for
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the center. Prof. Monella’s collection includes the famous painting “New York Triborough Bridge” (oil on board) among others by Ivo David. A turning point in Ivo’s career in the United States was when he became a professor of drawing and painting, artistic consultant for various industrial and commercial companies, as an architectural designer/teacher in private schools of art and design. From 1974, he began working in Real Estate, buying and selling houses, buildings, apartments, and land. During all this activity which helped him pay for the daily living expenses, Ivo David always continued in art, and even today he is engaged in many commissioned artistic works for companies and private entities. Furthermore, in the United States he met his beloved Nancy who became his faithful wife of many years. In 1964, he was invited to prepare his first exhibition in the United States at Crespi Gallery on Madison Avenue in New York City. The success was great, and the art criticism was good, favorable and esteemed. Present were many important personages such as the Italian Vice Consul, collectionists, representatives of galleries and various artists. Ivo proudly safe-keeps all the newspaper and magazine clippings published about this exhibition. During that exhibit there had been certain expert critics and art specialists who qualified his style as “barbaric and primitive in theme and impulsive in strong colors and filled with profound light.” They were right because his art contained an abstract and kind expressionistic message (Madonna with Child, Deposition of Jesus from the Cross, and many abstract expressionist subjects of New York City, such as Hot Dog Man,
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Brooklyn Bridge, Trinity Church at Wall Street, etc.). Many other art exhibitions followed at Crespi Gallery. It would be too long to list them here, but they resulted in many more news releases of the exhibits that he participated in the State of New Jersey. He became a member of various art associations throughout the United States, in New Jersey, the Metropolitan Museum of Arts, Fair Lawn Art Association, Clifton Association of Arts (Indoor Exhibition), Bloomfield Art League, Westfield Art Association, and others: Federated Art Association, Cranford Art League, State Museum Juried Show, Newark Museum’s William Gerdts (acceptance name on record), Clifton Art Association (Indoor Exhibition) and Exhibit at the Artistic Association of Westfield. The list of collectionists is much too long to be enumerated here, whether private collectionists or corporations or companies in the various commercial and industrial sectors. Other important exhibits followed. Ivo David has preserved all the newspaper and magazine clippings and news releases: among these we should mention the personal exhibit in the splendid red-stone villa of Dr. Rohrbach, a most influential personality in the cultural and political life of New York and Washington. Other important international art exhibits took place in France at Unet Museum and 4 times in Italy at the Biennale dell’Arte Contemporanea, Florence, followed by many others in the USA. THE MANIFESTO OF FUSIONISM After many years of waiting and maturing, of study and experience, Ivo David has finally decided to register his
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Manifesto of Fusionism with the Library of Congress in Washington, D.C. and to proclaim it publicly. Today, he is applying his fusionistic technique also in the illustrations of the Divine Comedy, which he has been working on during the last decade. The pictorial results are impressive, and he is preparing a personal exhibit exclusively on Dante’s subjects which will be presented either in the United States or in Italy. Soon he will abandon all his other employment activities to dedicate himself entirely to the art of painting, which is in great demand by the collectors, the specialists, and the general public. Today, his fully matured pictorial technique, on canvas as well as in drawing, is not static, all of his drawings are in continual movement; they are oriented toward a constant rebirth of themes and in an assiduous renewal of chromatic language: bridges, skies, buildings, shapes, people, still life, visible and invisible objects... Everything that surrounds him seems to be illuminated by a dark sun, by an artificial light. The childhood and youth myth are always present. The calm and serene climate of the Sannio, of the Mediterranean, Ivo David does not find it in the United States of America, where he feels in voluntary exile. Here he doesn’t smell the odor of the fields in the steaming dawn, he does not see the churches with red and blue roofs (Chagall), the hens on the threshing floor, the golden wheat (Van Gogh) in the fields of the Sannio burned by the dog-days. Here the myth of his childhood is only an oneiric memory which do not have the enchantment and the splendor of the gardens of Hesperides, of the Flegrei fields near Pozzuoli (Naples) or in Macedonia
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(Greece). Notwithstanding, even in this immigrant condition, he succeeds in regaining his patriotic love, the light of Sannio and Benevento, but only through his art and his social engagement in the Italo-American community. Thus, his art becomes an inexhaustible source of happiness, of human solidarity and, at the same time, vital, sacred and cathartic lymph for his expression of his own “I”. From his childhood memory he recovers those dreams that only in the paintings he succeeds in recovering and salvaging from forgetfulness in the recherche du temps perdu—his own Proustian reminiscences. Such vital and luminous lymph is inherent in Ivo David, is incorporated in him, in his intimacy, subconscious, psyche, oneiric and metaphoric self, metaphysical visions and in the theme of his return to his roots. The spiritual and pictorial roots of which Ivo David speaks in his Manifesto of Fusionism, is not that which exists in the things and with the material things of our daily life. In reality, the light with which he is so preoccupied is that of the spirit which he, through the fusion of the arts, the experience and knowledge of the past, seeks to express in the drawings of his pictures, in the colors of his paintings. His ideology on reality and on human condition leads to a pictorial and spiritual artistic vision that is not illustrative, nor decorative, nor eclectic, but original, authentic, new, metaphysical, surrealistic, transexpressionist, abstract/fusionist divine art of painting.
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THE MANIFESTO OF FUSIONISM The historical and true meaning of the fusionistic movement, started by me, Ivo David, back in 1956, is contained and implied not only in my paintings but also in the aesthetic and pictorial principles stated and proclaimed in this Manifesto of Fusionism. Clearly and competently written and documented, such principles are valid for all the arts when they are suitably and intelligently applied. They attest to the sacred supremacy of art over life, of man over history, of the individual over established society, the domain of the modern painter over the various artistic styles that have preceded me and which provided me with analogies and colors to represent dream and unconscious. The fusionistic invention is a true artistic discovery that succeeds in creating intuitively and ingeniously new pictorial methodologies, new worlds and new contemporary myths. From here the great value of nature, of the Divine Comedy, of mythology, of archeology and of the Sacred Scriptures which are inexhaustible sources of inspiration. For me, the past is sacred as much as the world of infancy to which I return constantly to rediscover the enthusiastic fervor of the primordial elements that constitute the vital lymphs of my Samnite roots. This programmatical and methodological Manifesto of Fusionism will be very much talked about and will create controversies among the critics and the artists, because it is provocative and counter-current. If this will happen, I shall be overjoyed! It is peremptorily and categorically forbidden for anyone to plagiarize this Manifesto which is copyrighted and registered at the Library of Congress in Washington,
D.C. in the United States of America. Furthermore, it is forbidden to derive from this, other possible technical, poetical, pictorial, architectural, literary, musical... manifestos without my written authorization, signed by me in the presence of a notary public. Such prohibition has the precise purpose of protecting my rights of property and to assure that the ideas expressed here will not become altered in any manner. This notwithstanding, I invite and encourage artists of every sector and of every category to adhere to my Manifesto of Fusionism by writing to me at 3662 2nd Place S.W., Vero Beach, FL, 32968, USA. A Club of Fusionistic Artists has already been formed with the purpose of developing and promoting the fundamental principles of this Manifesto without betraying the fusionistic theory, that can very well be applied in the preparation, execution and technique of the various works of art. Herewith following are listed and discussed the fundamental principles of the Manifesto of Fusionism: 1. Fusionism is a pictorial technique that is the result of an elaborate research of plastic and chromatic mixtures and that encourages the synthesis of the best styles congenial to the author and to his subjective nature. 2. Life is a continuous conquest which is based on the freedom of choice, on the eschatological hope of a better future, therefore the artist cannot do without believing in God and the immortality of the soul. 3. The fusionists renounce the mechanistic conception of life, based on the principle of cause and effect: such vision of reality leads to the historical materialism, to atheism and
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to anarchism. 4. I highly recommend the ethics of Vico, Kant, Hegel, Croce and Gentile which are founded on the idealistic philosophy, even though they are accepted by me with a few modifications and exceptions. But let it be known that there are no ethics nor morals that can be imposed upon man (and on the artist) without infringing on its natural and civil rights, without tampering with his freedom of choice. Art must not be slave either to politics, or to religion, or to any social institution. I adhere thereby to the autonomy of art preached by Croce in his aesthetic theory (without accepting its reduction to pure intuition, as in the case of poetry). 5. The organic material of color must participate to the moulding of the original design, and it is performed with brush or pencil strokes to evoke landscapes and characters congenial to the artist. In the use of the chiaroscuro technique, the vibration of light must be strong and blinding, without revealing the definite form in neat contours, because the suggestion must transport the viewer in the oneiric world of metaphysics: thus the indecipherable acquires various symbolic and metaphoric meanings that the observer encounters in the round coloring, in the long necks and in the figures lifting towards the sky. Mine is an ascensional painting that departs from reality to explore sublime dimensions through strong and impulsive colors (scarlet red, bright orange, yellow, blue, acid green), that reinforce the psychic tensions of the characters and makes more incisive the language of the dramatic content. 6. The fusionists must never renounce either every visible reality, or thought, or action, or exclude from life and from
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art theological sense of reality and of thought, furthering the poetry of the absurd, of the grotesque and of the banal. They must have a great respect for freedom, intelligence, fantasy, human dignity, social solidarity, nature, justice, country, and God. 7. If the color can awaken the idea of musical accord, Fusionism restores harmonically the world of things that are a projection of the world of the spirit in the sensibility of the tonal rapport and of the rhythm of the signs which are capable of evoking images and bringing visions to the surface of the unconscious memory and of the creativity of fantasy. Thus, through the careful chromatic composition I can evoke the primitive world of my infancy or create a metaphysical new world, both forcefully fused onto the canvas, exalting in the sacred temple of the memory and surpassing the limits of reality. 8. The intense chromatic vibration doesn’t debouch ever in decor or in the complacency of banal and narcissistic rhetoric: decorative decadence has already made its own historical course. The Surrealism of Andre Breton was sunk to an amphibious pictorialism ornamented to negate its own plastic essence� (Mario Salmi, L’arte contemporanea, Sansoni, Vol. Ill, p. 1036). I want to concentrate on painting the essence of reality and sublimate it through the use of its own matter: the colors, separating and uniting them in the manner of Paul Cezanne, by deforming the objects themselves (were it necessary) with the purpose of taking it to synthesis, to an absolute vision. 9. Having rejected any form of decoratism, every pictorial-fusionistic element on the canvas emerges from the
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geometric rigor of the artist and of his design: the linear and spatial geometry of Euclides has been exceeded, to give place to the spherical and cosmic roundness of Poincare upon whose theory is fusionistic drawing founded. 10. Returning to the lesson of the Cubists, the fusionist modern painter must give life to the material translating it in its own movement by evoking a dynamic vision of contemporary reality, stretching to the exaltation of movement (that which involves light, space, state of mind, mechanical velocity, metaphysics of liberty, metaphor of dreams). 11. Time, which causes the artist to relate between subject and environment, measures human pain through the sand that runs in the neck of the hourglass: this should be depicted and portrayed as the synthesis of what has been seen and recorded in memory, and of what is anticipated for the uncertain, precarious, temporary, contingent future. Time is the duration of the vital energy, as Henry Bergson would say. Such energy creates a synthesis - always consistent with the present Manifesto, which evokes the objects in such simultaneous dynamism that the colors trickle and stream by the overabundance of memory and by the divine embrace of Mnemosyne: the images vibrate on the canvas, as if they were alive, clamoring the liberty invented by their creator, which surpasses time and becomes immortal in history through its art. 12. Fusionism is neither imitation nor eclecticism, but contains new hypotheses to be followed upon, symptoms of a living ferment of liberty and desire of innovation. My teachers are Leonardo, Rembrandt, Dalí, Chagall, Gauguin, Van Gogh, Koch, Blake, Modigliani, De Chirico, Guttuso
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and Martin. I have also learned a great deal from the Surrealists: Apollinaire, Aragon, Artaud, Breton, Char, Desnos, Duchamp, Eluard, Ernst, Giacometti, Gorky, Magritte, Masson, Miro, Picabia, Picasso and many others; but I have surpassed many of them with fusionism be it in the pictorial technique as in the ideology of art and life. 13. I give full autonomy of expression to the fusionist artists, provided their technique is dictated by fantasy and by reason and that their “I” desires the freedom to create. The fusionist artists must paint with capricious, spontaneous style, with feeling and with a controlled impetus. The images painted on the canvas must be the product of infinite pretexts for the use of bright, warm, strong colors which can profoundly reveal the “I” of the artist in a symbolic and mythical form, at times difficult to decipher and interpret. Herein consists the arcane and magic mystery, the oneiric and metaphysical miracle of the fusionistic paintings: the yellow will replace the green; the blue will take the place of the cobalt and the deep blue; the bright orange will take the place of the red and violet, and so on. All these colors must be controlled by the stronger primary colors. 14. Art must primarily be based on the principle of freedom with reason both for the artist and the spectator, both for the critic and the collectionist: all of them can see in the fusionist paintings that which they can easily suggest with complete freedom of thought and critical autonomy. 15. Through light and color the artist expresses his invisible “I” to harmonize the ardent and brilliant tones with somber tints in chaotic and apocalyptic situations. Many times resorting back to the methodological technique
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of chiaroscuro, obtaining it through nuances and overlaps of complementary and primary colors. The objects evoked by the fusionist paintings through this original technique do not belong to this world, because it is difficult to discover them here and to find them in the reality once they are expressed on the canvas, but they belong to a world that exists elsewhere. 16. The artist has an inner light in himself which is born with him (poeta nascitur). That inner light cannot be invented or artificially given to people or to objects if it does not exist a priori in the artist (pintor nascitur). 17. Now, in my mature years, in a different continent than Europe, after a long pictorial experience which has remained faithful to Fusionism, I want to make the Manifesto known to the vast public. With my theories and my painting, I have exceeded both Realism or Surrealism, I proclaim that the omnipotence of dream cannot be divided from the use of thought and reason. Fusionism is a controversial current that perhaps the academicians will not accept for obvious reasons. But it exists also in fashion and in architectural reality: an example is the pyramid constructed by the Chinese architect Ieoh Ming Pei in the Parisian grand plaza in front of the Louvre Museum. Such a pyramid, made in part of glass in a very modern style, contains offices and museums and is like a modern challenge to the traditional style, a historical and archaeological residue of the Egyptian pyramid. This is how Fusionism poses also as a parody of reality itself, that which preexists and is created by man with a fantastic and truly original invention. I started the fusionistic trend in
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1956 with works and exhibitions which provoked much controversy and much critical pandemonium. During that period it was an Abstract Fusionistic Art, but then, slowly and gradually, imbued with philosophical-ethicalsocial ideologies, I have oriented toward the research of “liberty with reason�. This artistic trend created by me (art as Abstract Fusionism) has never been exposed publicly, but during that time it was noted only by a few of my friends: Gustavo Lo Russo, Prof. Filippo Tintoretto of the University of Naples, Nicola Lupoli, Domenico Cotugno from the Academy of Fine Arts in Naples, Renato Bardone from the Academy of Brera in Milan, and others; they knew of my fusionistic art and supported it in one way or another. This Manifesto does not deny any form of tradition; it does not promote the merciless denigration of the past and of history, because we learn from those who have preceded us, the experience of life and the message of honesty even passing through the tombs in the beautiful cemeteries where ancient wisdom is celebrated, where the silent marble headstones speak to the wayfarers. But the past cannot preach the coming of a new age and the triumph of a new era; in vain classical art wants to ambitiously lean towards the future; man of the atom age steps towards the universality of the planetary and metaphysical cosmos. There is no activist frenzy nor extreme nationalism that can succeed in obliterating completely and inexorably history and the arts in all the nations of the universe. Fusionistic painting must be understood as power of the instinctive and primordial strengths that are controlled through the impulsive
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violence of colors, well thought out and calculated, rational and inventive. Poetry, like painting, sings of the suggestive inner life of the artist who recalls to the myth of infancy as he returns to the Garden of Eden and the Golden Age in an oneiric-metaphysical vision of reality, without falling into the rhetoric or into the narcissistic and sentimental effusion. Art expresses the total person and inseparable unity of the author that is also often revealing himself/ herself through philosophy, sociology or anthropology, philanthropy or misanthropy. The age of “pure intuition” of Benedetto Croce has waned long ago, but it is not for this reason that we abandon our teacher in the fields of history, philosophy and the “religion of freedom.” Historiographer Croce’s liberalism is present in the fusionistic art just as are present the philosophies of Vico and Kant, Hegel and Gentile, even in the disparity of their ideologies and in the dichotomy of their ethical doctrines which are fused, miraculously, in the symbiosis of the total synthesis. My poets have been Homer, Virgil, Dante and Leopardi, but I do not disdain foreign poets nor the Italian contemporary writers and poets. The fusionists learn the divine arts of painting and of poetry from the best artists and from the most heterogeneous materials: such supreme and arcane arts express the anguish of the modern human condition through the essential word (poetry), skyscrapers (architecture), impulsive chromatism (painting), vibrations of the light of conscience (religion and psychology), rebellion against the governmental establishment and capitalistic system (politics), without debouching into anarchism, in civil
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disobedience, in rebellion, in the “great refusal” (Marcuse, Adorno, Fromm, Horkheimer). Signed by Ivo David, this 13th of October, 1989. Signed by the Notary Public this 13th of October, 1989. Copyright in the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C., USA. Catalog Card Number: TXU-398-811
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If you are mediocre, even if you make a great effort to paint very very badly, people will still see you are mediocre. Never, never, never, never, has the excess of money, of publicity, of success, or of popularity made me feel, even for a quarter of a second, like committing suicide... on the contrary, I love it all. —Salvador Dali
Critical Opinions
Giudizi critici
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CRITICAL OPINIONS ALBERTAZZI, MARIO: Ivo David is an erudite painter, sagacious observer of human life who has the great merit of not overloading, not tiring, but clarifying his theses, his philosophy.... We find ourselves in the presence of a painter of extraordinary capacity whose surrealistic experience is always thought and reason, that impede him from reaching the absurd, the grotesque and the caricature.
BARBIERI, CARLO: At the Galleria del Ponte, the young Ivo David, who is on his personal first of painting, already shows that he knows how to project himself in the proper direction, setting aside the most unripe tests, following illustrative goals and also symbolistic ambitions. He now directs toward many other results in a specifically coloristic orbit, in the sensitive interpretation of the aspects of the real.
ALEMANNO, MICHELE: Ivo David pursues sensations; the hallucinating moment of visions that hook themselves to turbulent states of the soul, extrinsic in subject and themes make up in profound and hidden existential mechanisms. Impulsive and impetuous, the color mixes in powerful effects imposing the symbiotic spirit/matter in rich luminescences of strong contrasts knowledgeably and adequately fused. The hints of Dante and the Bible seem to be motives for liberating themselves from invisible interior prisons where every flight becomes conquest, paid with the powerful emotivity of he who averts the dimensions of the impossible and the limits of human comprehension.
BELTRAME MASONE, ROSALBA: The art of Ivo David, as I observed with the setting of New York Times Square (oil on canvas, 24x30), offers the impression of a gigantic movement. New York is represented as a scenario of depth, filled, without aperture to the sky. Everything is reduced to Lilliputian dimensions there in the bottom, where movement takes place the hinting of a living without lenitive stopping but to push and push again, with releases, in the narrow streets, in the melee, in the masses, in the chaos: In the world of speed. Men have become robots who are refused the comfort of sleep, enchantment. He is lifted on the left squinting at the stoplight with his choppy language, high on the deafening rank dustily warmed by the machines. But on the left of the painting the oneiric is imposed, the surreal, the unconscious; a kind of jousting with lunar horses, like in fairy tales, that carry colored trees, merrily with fruits, flowers and stars.
ARENA, GIUSEPPE ANTONIO: I had the opportunity to visit the atelier of Ivo David, and I was amazed by the numerous paintings contained in a large space. My personal interest in the Illustrations of the Divine Comedy was in synthony with this great artist who really understood the work of Dante and its allegorical and metaphorical symbolism. Such illustrations overcome the expectations of the viewer since they are rich in spiritual and philosophical meaning.
BERTIN, GERMANO: Freedom with reason. For Ivo David, art is almost above the real, and life itself becomes almost absurd, and as the poet Jorge Luis Borges said: “a metaphor of the literature�. Without the color of the art, for the Italian-American painter, life
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would risk merging into the common mediocrity, would lose the stimulus, the horizon and its transcendental dimension. The artist’s research not only aims at discovering new forms and innovative color intermingling, but above all it pursues freedom with reason, immerses itself in the interpretation of the universe and daily living. David’s Fusionism is meant to be a hymn to freedom, a vigorous stimulus to praise idealism steering toward the human oneiric dimension. Ideal and real, classic and modern, dream and reason are summoned to create an artistic fusion through the evocative power of chromatic devices traced by the artist from Benevento. His images, subjects, frequently suffer somatic contortions which the artist needs to express the suffering of the human condition and, at the same time, to glorify the joy of life or the magic unattainability of landscapes and natural elements. BERTUCCELLI, PIETRO: From the folds of the poetical-pictorial material of Ivo David emerges the validity of the drafting of the texts and of the aestheticideological presentation that compels the mind to deep meditations and sends the reader to the dialectic and expressive safety of which our painter is a renowned master. The accurate evocation, pregnant with symbolic and metaphoric meaning, reveals his classical and modern maturity, the elaborate poetic inspiration of Ivo David that pushes to follow the wide and attractive course of his existence and of his artistic vocation, exposed with intuitive knowledge and penetrating psychology.... BOLLETTINO, VINCENZO: The art of Ivo David reveals through an array of bright vivid colors offering glimpses
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of history and mythology. His portraits contain a cultural force and a sovereign, unique hand that controls a varied and multidisciplinary universe. Ivo David’s art stands tall and original among the great minds and painters of the twentieth century. His supreme gift lies in assimilating and fusing together artistic preoccupations, social and historical concerns as well as elements of physics and anatomy. The result is a magical rendition of a ward that hides behind dynamic historical events, social happenings and epidermical observations of reality. BUSÁ, NlNNJ DI STEFANO: The lymph, the light, the emotion from which Ivo David attains color and life are contained in the depth of an emotive spirituality originating from the psyche. Thus it gets unbound through experimentalistic features to reach the mature equilibrium and the oneiric vision of a metaphysical, cosmic and universal theme. The poetical-pictorial elaboration results in integrating his patrimony more interior and individual than classical and erudite. CALABRESE, FRANCO: Ivo David has found in Dante the ideal inspiration to express his abstract Fusionism. It is an admirable artistic marriage between the antique and the modern that the Artist initials with images, dramatic and luminous scenes gradually as he passes from the realm of the infernal sin to that of the purgatorial expiation and, at last, to the celestial redemption of the Empire. Ivo David, with creative intelligence, suffering, geniality, courage, faith and will, sentiment and perseverance, typical dowry from the people of our south, has known to give the stairway to Destiny, granting to humanity, dispersed and wavering, a
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magic ray of light and hope. CECE, ANTHONY: I learned to appreciate Ivo David’s art through II Ponte Italo-Americano magazine and two exhibits he held: one in the Union Public Library, another at Ramapo College Student Center. I can easily state that I’m amazed by his artistic talent and the originality of his paintings, the rich amount of details and the exuberance of the chromatic technique. I especially love his works on religious subjects and the illustrations of the Divine Comedy, rich in colors and ideas as well as in spiritual communication. COURGET, PAUL: La quete artistique d’lvo David est tournee vers la condition humaine et sociale, percue et evoquee dans la dimension eschatologique de la vie et de la mort. II s’inspire des tendances picturales contemporaines (cubisme, surrealisme, fauvisme, dadaisme, futurisme, expressionisme, impressionisme, art abstrait ...), mais ne devient pas esclave d’elles, au contraire il les domine toutes, grace au fusionisme des couleurs qui estune technique nouvelle, authentique et originale. The artistic quest of Ivo David is turned toward the human and social condition, perceived and evoked in the eschatological dimension of life and death. He is inspired by the contemporary pictorial tendencies (cubism, surrealism, fauvism, dadaism, futurism, expressionism, impressionism, abstract art...), but does not become a slave to them, on the contrary, he dominates all of them, thanks to the Fusionism of colors, which is a new technique, authentic and original. D’ANGELO, ROSETTA: Ivo David has executed a beautiful surrealistic painting for my home in East Brunswick,
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NJ, and I am very satisfied with it. His conferences on Fusionism held in Ramapo College of New Jersey and in the Association of the Italian-American Educators held in Long Island, were very informative and kept the attention of the students and faculty. Ivo David’s art contains colors and ideas which are fused in a harmony of beauty and elegance. I love his scenes of New York City for the preponderance of size and space. DALÍ, JOSE VAN ROY: The Echo of Fusionism - founded by Ivo David in 1956 - reached Italy when he was still an adolescent... The work of this painter - almost by Machiavellic inspiration of nature, innate in his technical capability - skillfully associated the immediate chromatic brilliance of Miro´ to the cultural refinement of Dalí. The capable strokes of Van Gogh to the metaphysical impudence of De Chirico, the imperceptible touches of Rembrandt and the minute dissatisfactions of Cezanne to the exact dose of iridescence and refinement of Renoir... Salvador Dalí affirmed: “...For he who doesn’t want to imitate no one comes out of nothing!” I retain however the engagement of Ivo David and the love for painting with which he has affirmed to the world, a just reply to the paternal precognition, and a confirmation to his role as poetic mediator, founder and divulgater of a Universal Fusionism. DE CADAVAL, RUDY: The images that Ivo David proposes are always placed to the internal of a perfectible space with a movement that from the center expands toward the external to refold itself right after on itself, in a meditative condition that aspires to the phase of reflection. That scratching of color, tile insistence of more intimate vibrations,
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the dramatization of the vision to the baroque emphasis, in the apprehension that our discourse cannot be sufficient to document the interior tension of the artist. DI MARZO, FIORENTINO: For many years I admired Mr. David’s art which cannot be surpassed in our days. The beauty of the images and the strength of the colors are perfectly matching with his ideology of freedom and morality. Educated in the old school, it was not easy for me to appreciate Ivo’s paintings which are really full of life, ideas and splendor. DI NAPOLI, FRANCESCO: The deep meaning of the expressive message of Ivo David is given, on my part, from his disarming immediacy, from the absolute capacity to decipher images subtracted from the sublimated temporality in its movement. The Artist knows how to perpetrate, thanks to the magic plasticity of the forms, moments and characters particularly emblematic and the content with inexplicable naturalness and simplicity, notwithstanding warning all the precariousness of existence. FISCHER, ELLEN: Italian-born Ivo David is an artist for whom the mantle of “maestro” is neither heavy nor constrictive, indeed, the term clings to him as gracefully as a hand-tailored Armani suit. And why shouldn’t it? FRATTI, MARIO: The voluntary exile of Ivo David leads him to a path of freedom and to the recuperation of the infancy lived in Benevento and to the memory of the first youth spent in Naples with his friends (Lo Russo, Bardone, Tintoretto, Cotugno) who, with him, developed painting in Fusionistic terms. The originality and authenticity
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of his art does not exclude a return to Surrealism and to Abstract Art, styles that he has surpassed through a new chromatic technique that makes of Ivo David one of the principal protagonists of contemporary painting. GIZZI, CORRADO: The artist Ivo David, departed from classical, is reaching a very personal style, theorized by his Manifesto of Fusionism, revealed in 1956. After a wide and varied production, he has imposed an ambitious program, that of illustrating and interpreting the Divine Comedy. He searches for subjects of universal interest that can contribute to recovering with fascination the pictorial invention. LUPOLI, NICOLA: Ivo David’s art represents an era and is also part of myself for I participated in his very first exhibitions in Italy. I enviously preserve his paintings which are, at the same time dream and remembrance in the adolescent reality and in his existentialist experience in Italy and in the United States. MANZI, CARMINE: Ivo David is a conceptual painter, studying everything, because it is only with full and penetrating depth in the vastness of his world that he succeeds in reading his painting. A painting that from the beginning looks already impressed by the fascinating strength of his colors— burning, vibrant colors that seem to be born from the depths of the earth and the soul, ready to espouse beauty and the suffering that life brings with it.... His language, that derives from the fusion performs to perfection through the classical and the modern, has an expressive strength that is perhaps unique, always lyrically sustained by movements and by imperceptible recalls
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of his soul. If we observe carefully his paintings, the feeling of the marvelous, mysterious, transcendental does not ever result tarnished or cracked by the shadow of doubt. His brush strokes always run limpid, favoring the light of thought and is the spokesman of the richness of his tensions and all his aspirations. ROSSI, VINCENZO: The works of Ivo David reveal intimate coherence in the formulation and development of forms, signs, and the distribution of colors and light. His technique and themes are coherent, even if the interior history does not miss contrasting signs and moments which, as it happens for the great minds, indicate a crisis of development, growth, and not a contradiction. In David’s creative corpus there does not account for the presence of breaks, hiatus, and selfdenial. Even though there is a constant technical and substantial search for a strong phylosophical-literary matrix, his sincerity of inspiration is always touching, suggestive and involving. SCUTELLÁ, SAVERIO: With the idealistic ideology and the spiritualistic theory, Ivo David applies himself to the realization of fusionistic subjects that will warrant the validity of his art seen under a spectroscope of every subjective execution. Applying himself with total conviction on his sacred subjects, such as the Baptism of Jesus, we feel that the work is less dramatic but genuine in its conception and execution. In The Last Supper the scene takes place in a restaurant in the midst of two rival groups. The Cyrenean, instead, contains a dramatic art that renders the sacred drama inaccessible mercilessly. In all his works, the congenial expressions amalgamate
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with original and inventive fantasy that give the subject its own quality through a remarkable impressionistic technique. SLRENA MASTROCRISTINO, ANTONIA:
Ivo David has found the vision of creation through the spirit of what God has endowed in his poetic inspiration as a gift of talent and originality. His art originates new forms of expressions geared to spiritual subjects containing a divine message to mankind. Ivo David has overcome the wonder of the arts, found his way in this world and has triumphed in his own soul to express the creation that has penetrated and conceived his spirit. SISCA, MICHAEL: Ivo David’s art, in its historical development goes back to his first beginnings in Italy where the painter started a long series of technical revolutions and innovations that we call modern art, and forward to Surrealists, Impressionists and Expressionists, who represent so well the disturbed experiences of our century. TASCON, CHRISTINA: Ivo David, poet and painter, carries more than just his sketchbook with him when he travels. David takes the history of art along every time he picks up his pen or charcoal pencil to rough out a sketch of a beautiful scene before his eyes. TINTORETTO, FILIPPO: Ivo David is an instinctive painter who has known how to find in himself the strength to express himself and convey impressionistic and expressionistic experiences in a performance that is surprising and fearless at the same time. He knows how to reap the most consonant aspects of his own sensibility and set them in rapid and synthetic emotions of color (still life, flowers, landscapes).
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Freeing himself gradually from certain analytical experiences and giving chromatic insistence of 19th century flavor, revealing finally in the Madonna with Child, the presence of images with surprising brevity of signs and colors; while in Transparence, the sonority of color assumes a spatial validity. VANNINI, ALESSANDRO: ...It is our duty to spend a word on design and graphics of Ivo. At this point, we had spoken about Ivo, a poet and an artist, being a colorist, inherited from Van Gogh and from many “devilish” Neapolitan artists, spiritual relatives of Ivo, of which we love to mention; Reco and Ruoppolo. The graphics and the design of Ivo David is always realized with vibrant colors in every occasion. Ivo is an anti-academic. His art could be very close to the expressionist art of Heckel. VIOLA, CARLO: From a summary look of the paintings exposed at the Galleria del Ponte, Naples, Italy one realizes immediately that this very young painter, presented by Filippo Tintoretto, is a romantic. A romantic of our times, we mean, who makes one forget the scenes of nature and succeeds in realizing on canvas with an impressionistic expressionistic impetus, often with a certain expressive vigor.
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b) what his production says to the receivers. WALL, CATERINA: Ivo David’s art is original, authentic, innovative, robust, full of ethic values. His technique reveals a great experience in the subject where the perception comes from reality but the overall look of the paintings takes the viewers to a metaphysical world of dreams. All his paintings are wellbalanced, accentuated with impulsive colors containing a spiritual and ethical lesson about behavior and life in general. ZlNNA, LUCIO: The Fusionism of Ivo David is a hymn (non rhetoric) to freedom of art because it is the ferment and earnest of man’s own freedom. It is evident in the Manifesto of fusionism even the artist’s role us substantially evasive with regard to the establishment, whatever it is, does not mean anarchism of civil disobedience. Freedom with reason, says David, because the artist’s research of form and colors is also a search for the truth, interpretation of the universe, live hermeneutica. Science and conscience are mingled together in the synthesis of the artistic creation.
VIOLA, R. CARMELO: Without doubt, Ivo David possesses an unusual artisticpoetic potential of the figurative kind. He has therefore good subjective motivations for constructing another “ism”. At this point, the bio-social analysis leaving without consideration the exquisitely technical valutations, distinguishes it in two parts: a) what the painter says of his own production; 33
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Dear Ivo, only today I received your letter in which you informed of your trip to Italy to participate and exhibit at the “ Biennale Intemazionale dell’Arte Contemporanea” (Florence). If I had known it sooner I would have asked you kindly to come to Pescara, so I could be acquainted with you in person, embrace you and compliment you for your prodigeous artistic activity. Your “Caron Dimonio” (Inferno III, ... 82-117)is sublime and places you among the most celebrated illustrators of the Divine Comedy....... I embrace you, ‘Corrado Gizzi
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Samnite’s Songs
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Italia mia a tua materna immagine emerge dai pallidi bagliori d’una notte d’esilio che dilata i margini alla laguna. Laddove l’orizzonte bacia l’azzurro del mare come novello Ulisse abbraccio il tuo emblema d’amore che mi sfugge nel tremolio di Van Gogh i girasoli. Cristo, il tuo corpo gelido è portato dalle Pie Donne verso la tomba della resurrezione e nell’immagine della Veronica riscontro anche il mio volto. Anch’io risorgerò con Te fra gli uomini del Sud che affondano l’aratro nelle zolle seminano i campi di speranza, mentre le vecchie donne attendono il ritorno del marito legano le nodose mani con la corona del santo Rosario.
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My Italy our motherly image emerges from the pale flares of a night of exile that expands the edges of the lagoon. Where the horizon kisses the blue sea like a new Ulysses I hug your symbol of love which escapes from me in the trembling of Van Gogh’s sunflowers. Christ, Your cold body is carried by the Pious Women toward the tomb of the Resurrection while in the image of Veronica I see my own face. I will also resurrect with you among the Southern men who deepen the plow in the clods putting the seeds of hope in the fields, while old women are waiting for their husbands to come back they tied their knotty hands with the crown of the Holy Rosary.
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Ricordo di mio padre rdito e fiero ti ricordo, o Padre mio, che dai monti Carsi scendesti ai crinali dei colli Sanniti e poi andasti alla terra di nessuno. Qui ti raggiunsi perchè m’insegnasti l’arte per non farmi morire. Il mio pennello scorrerà sulla tela fin quando la luce del crepuscolo mi troverà in piedi nel mio lavoro quotidiano nel ricordo della cara Mamma. Da voi ho appreso un messaggio d’onestà la fedeltà alla madre terra il credo metafisco nell’aldilà.
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In Memory of My Father h my Father, I remember you proud and bold coming down from the Carsian Alps to the slopes of the Samnite hills and then going to the land of nobody. Here I reached you because you taught me the art that doesn’t make me die. My brush will run on the canvas until the twilight will keep me standing on my feet in my daily work in the memory of my dear Mother. I learned from you a message of honesty the faithfulness to mother earth the metaphysical belief in afterlife.
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San Nicola Manfredi enni dalla terra di San Leucio per infondere le linfe dell’adolescenza nelle zolle apriche di San Nicola. La tua torre domina le case basse nell’umiltà del popolo sannita nella fertile campagna aprica popolata di vigne ed oliveti. I contadini partono prima dell’aurora quando l’alba semina il grano nella purezza del tuo suolo amato. Le cicale scandiscono le ore meridiane sulla scorza degli alberi nei rintocchi dell’orologio della Chiesa. I dipinti di mio padre sono là oggetto di venerazione. Ancora al mattino l’emigrante parte verso ignoti lidi verso terre ostili. Porta seco l’anima della sua infanzia. Anch’io ignaro di strani presagi attraverso l’oceano col canto del ritorno che m’invita a salire al calvario dove innalzerò la bandiera della mia libertà.
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Saint Nicholas Manfredi came from the land of Saint Leucio to infuse the lymph of my adolescence in the fertile clods of Saint Nicholas. Your tower dominates the low houses in the humility of the Samnite people in the fertile sunny fields crowded with vineyards and olive-groves. Farmers leave before the dawn when the daybreak is sowing the wheat into the purity of your beloved soil. Cicadas count the meridian hours on the bark of the trees in the tolls of the Church clock. My Father’s paintings are objects of veneration. In the morning the emigrant still leaves toward unknown shores of hostile lands. He is carrying the soul of his infancy. Unaware of strange presages I also crossed the ocean singing my return which invites me to climb the Cavalry where I will raise the flag of my freedom.
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Canto del ritorno ome un piccione viaggiatore salgo fin dove la montagna bacia il cielo. Vengo lassù dove il tremolio delle acque è ancora alle origini limpide della fonte. Canto la nostalgia del mio ritorno come uccello delle altitudini, bevo l’odore puro delle tue pietre, terra mia natia. Da quest’esilio raccolgo la saggezza della tua voce, mi esalto nel tuo nobile retaggio sannita.
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Song of the Return ike a traveling pigeon I climb up where the mountain kisses the sky. I’m going up where the trembling of waters is still at its origins of the limpid fountain. I sing the nostalgic song of my return like a bird of the altitudes, I drink the pure odor of your stones, my native land. From this exile I pick up the wisdom of your voice, I elate myself in your noble Samnite heritage.
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Il silenzio della valle i è passata l’ansia di chiedere il perchè d’ogni cosa. I miei sogni inseguono i tuoi sentieri ornati d’erba e di rosmarino laddove il silenzio della valle respira il profumo del tabacco si diffonde sulle croci inchiodate al cimitero. A me bastano pochi colori, un pennello ed una vecchia tela per ritrarre l’ombra dei canneti, il verde dei salici nella valle, i fiori dei mandorli a primavera, l’effige della mia ansia tumultuosa che si appaga nel ricordo della mia terra.
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The Silence of The Valley o more I’m willing to inquire the reason of everything. My dreams pursue your paths decorated by grass and rosemary where the silence of the valley breathes the perfume of tobacco is spreading over the crosses nailed in the cemetery. I need only a few colors, a brush and an old canvas to paint the shadow of the reed thickets the green of the willow-trees in the valley, the Spring almond flowers, the image of my tumultuous anxiety that is satisfied with the memory of my land.
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Visione della morte a morte è una certezza che mi assale al crepuscolo nell’ansia della libertà. Nel cielo fioriscono le stelle che alimentano i sogni in una notte d’illusione senza fine, senza rancore. La morte mi libera dalla paura di esistere in questa pianura del cimitero dove i singulti dei defunti vagano come spettri nelle profonde radici della sera. Il cuore del merlo ancora batte fra le zanne della tagliola. In questo labirinto minoico della vita la notte raccoglie il pigolio dei passeri: nei nidi sotto le tegole nascono i piccioni impauriti dalla voce rauca dei corvi. Il silenzio inghiotta la mia anima nei bisbigli delle foglie, nel chiarore autunnale delle stelle. Io mi attristo nel cuore della notte che conduce Dalì negli spazi metafisici.
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Vision of Death eath is a certainty that assails me at dusk in the anxiety of freedom. In the sky are blooming the stars that feed the dreams in a night of illusions endless and without rancor. Death frees me from the fear of existing in this plain of the cemetery where the sobs of the dead wander like ghosts in the deep roots of the evening. The heart of the blackbird is still beating among the teeth of the trap. In this Minoan labyrinth of life night gathers the chirps of the sparrows: in the nests under the tiles are born the pigeons frightened by the hoarse voice of the brows. The silence engulfs my soul in the whispers of the leaves, in the Autumn glow of the stars. I become sad in the heart of the night then leads DalĂ in the metaphysical spaces.
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Come Paul Gauguin ome te attraverso gli spazi infiniti per recarmi fra gli indigeni per fuggire questo mondo d’odio e di rancori. Non si ode più il cinguettio dei passeri ora che una nuova primavera di colori mi annuncia il sentiero dell’esilio che non conduce alla statua della libertà. Scivola sulla terra il verme, striscia la serpe fra i ciottoli del fiume. La lupinella è più bassa dei papaveri che crescono nel colore dell’iride dominano le biondi messe sannite.
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As Paul Gauguin ike you I cross the infinite spaces to go among the natives to flee from this world of hatred and rancor. The chirping of the sparrows is no longer heard now that a new Spring of colors announces to me the path of exile which is not leading to the statue of liberty. The warm slips over the heart the snake strips among the pebbles of the river. The sainfoin is lower than the poppies that are growing in the colors of the iris and overcome the blonde Samnite crops.
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La pace francescana i avete insegnato il saluto di pace e bene nell’umiltà serafica che più non trovo in quest’esilio. Dall’erba esce la vipera nelle corti si uccide la libertà. Io porgo l’orecchio all’acuto sibilo del vento per ascoltare la voce della madre terra che ancora ci rende fratelli per raccogliere un canto nelle gole delle pietre, nelle ombre eloquenti dei miei canneti. L’occhio del pittore spazia nell’infinito orizzonte dove canto l’amore fraterno, la pace francescana che trovo nell’umiltà dei miei contadini. Il trifoglio meco piega le ginocchia per pregare al Creatore di questo mistero.
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Franciscan Peace ou have taught me to greet peace and goodness in the Seraphic humility that I don’t find any longer in this exile. From the grass comes out the viper in the courts of justice the freedom is killed. I tender my ears to the acute whistling of the wind to listen to the voice of Mother Earth that still makes brothers in order to pick a song in the gorges of the stones, in the eloquent shadows of my reeds. The eyes of the painter are reaching the infinite horizon where I sing the brotherly love, I sing the Franciscan peace that I find in the humility of my farmers. With me the clover bends its knees to pray to the Creator of this mystery.
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Voglio tornare oglio tornare ai paesaggi di querce e di tabacco dove i pioppi dondolano come giocattoli dove i grattacieli sono solo fantasia. Vedo la lepre balzare fra le viti, sento l’odore del sambuco e del rosmarino. Voglio tornare alla terra degli oleandri dove l’aria aprica si dilata sulle case, la vita palpita di libertà nella voce del vento. Qui mi ferisce il rumore di strani motori, mi percuotono il cuore i metalli che rotolano sull’asfalto, sul cemento nell’inesorabile ora del risveglio. Qui non vedo nude fanciulle scendere nel candore del fiume. Qui non odo la campana che a sera da lontano invita alla preghiera.
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I Want To Return want to return to the landscapes of oaks and tobacco where the poplars are swaying like toys where skyscrapers are only fantasy. I see the hare leaping among the vines, I smell the odor of the elder and rosemary. I want to return to the land of the oleanders where the sunny air expands over the houses. Life beats of freedom in the voice of the wind. Here wounds me the noise of strange engines, beat my heart the metals rolling on the asphalt, on the concrete in the inexorable time of the wake. Here I don’t see naked girls going down into the candor of the river. Here I don’t hear the evening bell that from afar invites me to the prayer.
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Freme la mia anima d’artista orrei riattraversare i miei luoghi Sanniti, paesaggi dell’anima immortalati nelle mie tele. Vorrei tornare a Napoli, a Roma, a Caserta per stringere la mano ai miei amici, per ritrovare i miei vecchi amori. Vorrei tornare nel Friuli dove sono le radici di mio padre che coltivò la mia anima d’artista. Al mattino freme il mio cuore allo spettacolo arcano dell’alba; la sera il mio spirito si rifugia nei sogni onirici che attraversano l’oltretomba dantesca sui sentieri di Ulisse. Sento il pigolio dei passeri nel giardino il rumore delle macchine nelle autostrade. Al crepuscolo m’invade la nostalgia se una lucciola vagabonda freme nella memoria della mia terra natía, nel pianto atavico di quest’esilio.
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Thrills My Soul of An Artist would like to cross again my Samnite sites, landscapes of the soul immortalized in my canvasses. I would like to return to Naples, Rome, Caserta to shake hands with my friends, to find again my ancient loves. I would like to return to Friuli where are my father’s roots who cultivated my soul of an artist. My heart trembles in the morning in front of the arcane spectacle of the dawn; at evening my spirit takes refuge in the oneiric dreams crossing Dante’s afterlife pursuing the Ulysses’ paths. I hear the chirping of the sparrows in the yard the noise of the cars on the highways. At dusk, the nostalgia assails me if a vagabond firefly trembles in the memory of my native land, in the atavistic weeping of this exile.
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Ritorno all’infanzia el limbo dantesco ho evocato il mito della mia infanzia. Domani il mio pennello dipingerà il mio corpo fanciullo che cerca vimini fra i ciottoli del fiume. Ricordo i tedeschi che dilaniarono il mio paese, gli studi fatti a malavoglia, i compagni che mi deviarono, gli amici che io deviai. Non mi piace vestire da balilla se la libertà si soffoca nel grido della guerra. Non mi piace giocare alla barriera se i sassi volano nell’aria e colpiscono la testa dei bimbi. Odio la guerra che rende l’uomo crudele fin dall’infanzia. Canto la mia infanzia ribelle: i salici dondolano al passaggio delle rondini che puntuali ritornano a primavera alla mia terra sannita. Non ho dimenticato la via del ritorno in questo di lacrime ultimo esilio che recide la furia del vento, scandisce l’oscuro colore del mare in tempesta. Ora a sera ritorno al focolare dell’infanzia per ascoltare le favole della nonna per dire una preghiera con mamma e papà.
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Return to My Childhood n the Dante’s limbo I painted the myth of my childhood. Tomorrow my brush will paint my body as a child looking for wickers among the pebbles of the river. I remember the Germans that tore my town, my studies done unwillingly, my companions who deviated me, my friends that I deviated. I do not like to dress up like a fascist if freedom is killed in the cry of war. I do not like to play the game of war if the stones fly in the air and hit the heads of children. I hate the war that makes man cruel since his childhood. I sing my rebellious childhood: the willows sway at the flying of the swallows that punctually return every Spring to my Samnite land. I did not forget the road of the return in this tearful valley of my exile that severs the fury of the wind, scans the dark color of the stormy sea. Now in the evening I return to the hearth of my childhood to listen to the fables of my grandmother to recite a prayer with mom and dad. 57
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Alma Tellus na lama di fuoco avvolge l’orizzonte laddove i Sanniti sconfissero i Romani. Le Forche Caudine esaltano la forza del mio popolo testimoniano la civiltà della mia gente. Ora piove a dirotto nelle zolle riarse dell’Alma Tellus. La mia anima si purifica all’odore dell’erba, la mia passione giovanile finisce in due rossi capezzoli che cedono ai denti dell’amore. Ed io bacio di nuovo le aurore e i tramonti della mia terra, sento l’odore dei fiori alpestri nei campi infuocati dal solleone in questo ferragosto che conduce nel sogno la mia anima lavata dalla pioggia.
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Alma Tellus blade of fire envelops the horizon where the Samnites defeated the Romans. The Caudine Forks praise the strength of my people witnessing to my people’s civilization. Now it is raining hardly in the dry sods of my Alma Tellus. My soul gets purified by the smell of the grass, my youthful passion ends up in two red nipples who submit to the teeth of love. And I kiss again the dawns and the sunsets of my land, I feel the smell of the earthly flowers in the fields burned by the the hot sun in this mid-August leading the dreams of my soul washed by the rain.
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La voce del vento a voce del vento tra le foglie scuote le ferite del mio sangue fa cadere i fiori dei mandorli a primavera. E nevica in questa bianca primavera che mi conduce all’innocenza dell’infanzia. Cerco nei luoghi solitari la mia libertà, trovo sulla tela il genio di mio padre. Io abiterò fra i morti sanniti dove un’epigrafe immortalerà la mia arte manderà ai posteri il mio testamento. Artista di due mondi, non voglio essere cittadino di questa terra in cui il negro non mangia alla mensa dei bianchi.
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The Voice of the Wind he voice of the wind among the leaves shakes the wounds of my blood make the almonds’ flowers fall at Spring. It’s snowing in this white Spring that leads me to the innocence of my childhood. I look for my freedom in solitary places, I find on the canvas the genius of my father. I will live among the dead Samnites where an epitaph will make immortal my art will send to posterity my last will. Artist of two worlds, I don’t want to be citizen of this land wherein the black man does not eat at the table of the whites.
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Cimitero sannita ui monti sanniti la luna inventa tremuli sogni nella notte. Le serpi strisciano fra le tombe, le lumache salgono lente sulle lapidi. Nel cimitero del paese leggo nomi di congiunti con volti noti e con nomi sanniti. Fra i miei defunti farò dimora per trovare la mia libertà immortale. Fra le fitte siepi dei rovi cercherò i nidi d’uccelli; annegherò i piedi nudi nel trifoglio, dove l’anima ritrova la sua infanzia nell’odore di menta e di sambuco.
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A Cemetery in the Samnium n the Samnite mountains the moon invents tremulous dreams during the night. Snakes slither among the tombs, snails climb on the tombstones. In the cemetery of my town I read the names of my relatives with known faces and Samnite names. I will live among my dead to find my immortal freedom. Among the thick edges of bushes I will look for the nests of the birds; I will drown my naked feet into the clover, where my soul will find again its childhood into the smell of mint and elderberry.
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To, Ivo David, Here there are not mallow roads the light doesn’t fall on the tobacco leaves among the green corollas of the Samnite hills. I am a seaweed in the shipwreck among high waves that are raising on the livid horizon of a Van Gogh painting.. The farewell kiss to your native land is a clear sign of the pain of your exile is a measure of the sand in the throat of the hourglass. —Orazio Tanelli
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Ricordo della mia terra a fantasia crea felci gigantesche nelle forre della memoria nella psiche dei canti danteschi. Hanno l’aspetto mostruoso questi grattacieli nel Cocito infernale impresso sulla tela. Vorrei perdermi fra le querce di Benevento in cerca d’una strega, una zingara che mi dica il mio destino di esule mi legga il palmo della mano, le carte della sorte nell’oracolo sibillino. Il tempo misura il ritmo del cuore il respiro delle stagioni in una notte di luna. Qui non vedo i tuoi occhi di smeraldo, fanciulla sannita con la chioma al vento. Italia mia, terra d’oleandri e sambuchi, radice e culla della mia infanzia. I tuoi tramonti dissipano la nebbia della notte, le chimere leopardiane nella psiche dell’infanzia, mentre le giovani stelle sono prigioniere dei miei dipinti sui paesaggi d’una terra utopica.
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Memory of My Land magination creates giant ferns in the ravines of my memory in the psyche of the songs of Dante. These skyscrapers look like monsters in the infernal Cocytus imprinted on the canvas. I would like to get lost among the oaks of Benevento in search of a witch, a gypsy who would tell me my destiny of exile reading the palm of my hand, predicting my fate with a Sibilline oracle. Time measures the heart’s rhythm the breath of the seasons in a night of moon. Here I do not see your emerald eyes, Samnite girl with your hair in the wind. My Italy, land of oleanders and elders, rott and cradle of my childhood. Your sunsets dissipate the fog of the night, the chimeras of Laopardi in the psyche of my childhood, while young stars are prisoners in my paintings of landscapes of an utopian land.
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La mia libertà iente può fermare la mia ricerca di libertà nascosta nel volo d’un gabbiano che attraversa torrenti e monti impervi. Sono piccione viaggiatore che vagabonda nel mondo dei sogni, dilata gli orizzonti alla laguna, penetra le siepi in fiore dove palpita la vita nel nido dei passeri nell’insidia d’una serpe che divora. La strega sventola una bandiera rossa che non può affratellare le genti indigeni. Ma dai cavalli marini emerge il presagio dell’esilio scende una bandiera tricolore che sventola sulla terra ausonica. Io, Ivo David, cantore della libertà, ti inseguo fra l’erba sotto i mandorli in fiore in questa primavera che non teme le ortiche pungenti. le unghie dei falchi: la farfalla si posa sui cardi.
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My Freedom othing can stop my search for freedom hidden in the flight of a seagull crossing streams and inaccessible mountains. I’m a traveling pigeon that wanders in the world of dreams, expands the horizons of the lagoon, penetrates the flowering hedges where life throbs in the nest of sparrows in the assault of a devouring snake. The witch is waving a red flag that cannot bind the native people. But from the sea horses emerges the prophecy of the exile, a tricolor flag is waiving over the Ausonic land of Italy. I, Ivo David, singer of freedom, pursue you among the grass under the almond trees in bloom in this Spring that is not afraid of the stinging nettles the nails of the falcons: the butterfly rests on thistles.
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Amore della solitudine on ho paura del silenzio dei ciclamini nel cimitero se sulla tela mi svelano il mistero della vita, la solitudine di Gauguin sulle spiagge di Haiti. Il grano riarso ancora ondeggia nelle messi gialle di Van Gogh ora che i girasoli fioriscono al solleone e sovrastano i papaveri rossi sotto i ciliegi in fiore. Non ho paura della morte se sulla tela inseguo il mio destino solitario in un sentiero che conduce al cimitero. LĂ , sotto i cipressi, raccolgo la saggezza dei miei patriarchi, ammiro i volti dei miei antenati. I defunti hanno un linguaggio biblico che contiene un messaggio di onestĂ , la fiducia antica dei miei avi, la fedeltĂ alla terra dei miei patriarchi.
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Love for the Solitude do not fear the silence of the cyclamen in the cemetery if they reveal to me the mystery of life on the canvas, the solitude of Gauguin on the beaches of Haiti. The parched grain is still wavering in the yellow crops of Van Gogh now that the sunflowers are blooming in the Summer heat and dominate the red poppies under the cherry trees in flowers. I do not fear death if on the canvas I pursue my solitary destiny in the path leading to the cemetery. There, under the cypress trees, I gather the wisdom of my ancestors, I admire the faces of my relatives. Dead have a biblical language that contains a message of honesty, the ancient faith of my ancestors, the loyalty to the land of my patriarchs.
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Canto dell’esule l vento trasporta una nuova serenata tra i pioppi della valle. La tramontana viene da ponente fa dondolare questi grattacieli che non sanno reggersi in piedi come la trottola dell’infanzia sul selciato della vigna, fra i verdi uliveti. Il dramma dell’esilio conduce sul calvario di una terra senza ideali e senza confini non ha il nettare dei baci al risveglio delle prime stelle. Per me l’alba segna l’inizio d’una nuova via crucis che conduce l’esule su spiagge utopiche mentre la farfalla ancora succhia il nettare bagnato di rugiada.
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Song of the Exile he wind carries a new serenade among the poplars in the valley. The north wind comes from the West shakes these skyscrapers that do not know how to stand on their feet like the spin of the childhood on the ground of the vineyard, among the green olive trees. The drama of the exile leads to the Cavalry of a land without ideals and without boundaries does not have the nectar of kisses at the awakening of the new stars. For me the dawn marks the beginning of a new way to the Cross leading the exile on utopian beaches while the butterfly still sucks the nectar wet with dew.
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Sogno d’un artista ella dimensione onirica della mia arte io popolo il bosco di ninfe e di chimere sulla tela pongo il fiore dell’amore fra le labbra di ragazze mitiche nel seno di liane fra i mirti. La mia Diana non s’infila le calze la mattina ma nuda rincorre i cacciatori sotto le stelle nuda danza con le baccanti all’ombra dei garrubi del Gargano nell’incanto magico d’una terra di fiabe. Qui la procellaria dell’esilio sfida i flutti in tempesta sotto il ponte di Brooklyn nell’amena festa di San Gennaro a Mulberry Street, Piccola Italia. Il naufrago finisce contro gli scogli della montagna del Purgatorio.
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Dream of an Artist n the dreamlike dimension of my art I populate the forest with nymphs and chimeras, I paint on the canvas the flower of love between the lips of mythical girls in the bosom of nymphs among the myrtle trees. My Diana does not slip her stockings in the morning but chases naked the hunters under the stars dances naked with the Bacchants in the shade of the garrubi trees of the Gargano in the magic enchantment of a land of fables. Here the petrel of exile challenges the waves in a storm under the Brooklyn bridge during the beautiful Feast of Saint Gennaro on Mulberry Street, Little Italy. The shipwreck ends up against the rocks of the mountain of the Purgatory.
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Ricerca esotica ulla pelle delle ragazze cerco bianche robinie trovo giacinti e narcisi sul loro seno nudo che sublima il silenzio impulsivo dei miei quadri. Rembrandt e Mirò sotto il ponte ascoltano le cicale assordanti, il mormorio d’un’acqua che non scorre. Le carovane degli zingari attraversano il tratturo della mia anima che sogna le pecore che una volta transumavano lungo gli antichi tratturi. É una visione onirica questa d’un cieco errante che vede con gli occhi omerici sa intuire le carezze di Argo privilegia il mugolio del gatto. Le tele gialle di Van Gogh non contengono i limoni dove il Vesuvio risplende nelle ginestre in fiore. Affondo audace il piede nel cratere morbido del vulcano per sentirmi vicino al cuore dell’universo.
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Exotic Search n the skin of girls I search for white diamonds I find hyacinths and daffodils on their naked breast that enhances the impulsive silence of my paintings. Rembrandt and Miro’ under the bridge listen to the deafening cicadas, the murmur of a water that does not flow. The caravans of the gypsies cross the cattle track of my soul dreaming about the sheep that once were moving down along the ancient cattle tracks. It is a dream-like vision this of a blind wandering man who sees with the eyes of Homer and knows the caresses of the dog Argos favors the whine of the cat. The yellow paintings of Van Gogh do not represent the lemons of the Flegrei fields where Vesuvius shines in the gorse in bloom. I sink with my bold foot into the soft crater of the volcano to feel closer to the heart of the universe.
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Paesaggi dell’anima e querce ornano i Monti Sibillini, mentre passeggio sulla battigia di Margellina: Al Vomero e a Forcella incontro i miei amici vagabondi. Crescono gialli i limoni a Caserta, La notte oscura mi spinge a dipingere, in luce cambia le ombre sulla tela. Se potessi accarezzare la chioma di Diana, toccare il suo corpo con le mani mi sentirei come un dio sul Monte Olimpo. Vorrei toccare la mia terra come un’ostia sacra, ritrovare il candore ribelle di bimbo che andava a scuola come per gioco. Vorrei tornare fra i miei contadini per scivolare nello stradone della vigna per sentire le donne cantare gli stornelli. Da bimbo guardavo sulla neve i pettirossi infreddoliti i passeri che gemevano nella tagliola. Sentivo il bacio della vita nell’alba primaverile dell’infanzia.
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Landscapes of My Soul he oaks adorn the Sibillini Mountains, while I’m walking on the shoreline of Margellina. I meet my vagabond friends at Vomero and Forcella. Yellow lemons grow in Caserta. The dark night pushes me to paint, changes the shadows into light on the canvas. If I could caress the hair of Diana, touch her body with my hands I would feel like a god on Mount Olympus. I would like to touch my land as a sacred wafer, regain the rebel candor of a child who was going to school for fun. I would like to go back among my farmers to slip on the main road of the vineyard to hear the women singing folk songs. As a child I was watching on the snow the shivering robins the sparrows who were groaning into the trap. I felt the kiss of life in the Spring dawn of my childhood.
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Lidi utopici ra su viali solitari vorrei condurre la mia anima smaniosa di silenzi, di infinità. Cercare un quadro di Dalì nell’amplesso dell’aurora, nel viso di Gala più rosa. Trovare una barca che scivoli su acque di coralli dove i pesci s’innamorano; cercare un fiore tra la neve, una gonna scarlatta tra la folla. Arrivare alla scogliera d’una terra utopica dove l’azzurro del cielo si confonde col mare l’onda bacia la battigia la conchiglia nella solitudine della risacca.
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Utopian Shores ow on the solitary roads I would like to lead my soul eager to silence, to infinity. I would like to look for a Dali’ painting in the hug of the dawn, in the pinker face of Gala. I would like to find a boat that slides on the water of corals where the fish fall in love; I would like to search for a flower among the snow, a scarlet gown in the crowd. I would like to reach a cliff of a utopian land wherein the blue sky meets the sea the wave kisses the shore the shell in the solitude of the surf.
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La tua pelle ra i filari dei pioppi l’estate accende i papaveri i raggi solari baciano la tua pelle. La luce spoglia le fanciulle nel ruscello, nella nudità dell’acqua che avvolge le loro forme snelle. Il mio sole si ferma nel profumo della tua chioma. La tua pelle s’infiamma ai dolci baci tra l’odore del muschio il crepitar del fieno e della paglia. Il velluto della tua gonna ritraggo sulla tela incantata come la chioma della mia terra dove sui crisantemi cade la prima neve, dove cadono le foglie anche se il vento tace nel chiarore della sera.
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Your Skin mong the rows of the poplars Summer lights on the poppies the sun’s rays kiss your skin. The light strips the girls into the stream, in the nudity of the water that raps around their slender shape. My sun stops in the scent of your hair. Your skin gets inflamed by my sweet kisses between the smell of the musk and the crackling of the hay and the straw. The velvet of your gown I portray on the enchanted canvas like the hair of my land wherein the first snow falls on the chrysanthemums, wherein the leaves are falling even if the wind is silent in the glow of the evening.
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Il crepuscolo uardo le lucciole che al crepuscolo creano visioni sul paesaggio beneventano. Vorrei fermare il tempo nella brezza che sussurra sui mandorli in fiore, nelle rondini che volano ebbre di luce verso il profumo della mia terra, dove l’arcobaleno crea miracoli di colorì. Vorrei contare i tuoi capelli d’oro per misurare la gioia del tempo infinito, mentre tu, fanciulla sannita, mi inviti sul prato, raccogli viole. Al crepuscolo l’erba diviene bionda sotto il pennello di Van Gogh.
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The Twilight watch the fireflies at dusk creating visions on the landscape of Benevento. I would like to stop the clock in the breeze whispering on the almond trees in bloom, in the swallows flying drunk with light toward the scent of my land, where the rainbow creates miracles of colors. I would like to count your golden hair to measure the joy of the infinity, while you, oh Samnite girl, invites on the lawn, while picking violets. At twilight the grass becomes blond under the brush of Van Gogh.
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Ricordi di guerra icordo i tedeschi che imponevano timore al mio paese. Le finestre chiuse ascoltavamo il rumore dei carri armati. Ricordo gli aerei che svolazzavano nella valle come le Arpie nella selva dei suicidi. Ricordo le campane che suonavano il coprifuoco atterrivano i bimbi. Il Duce gridava vittoria in cielo, terra e mare dai gradini d’un palazzo bianco. Allora i sogni di gloria si dilatavano nelle dighe della ragione, nei merletti delle donne d’Etiopia nel fuoco della sabbia del deserto.
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Memories of War remember the Germans who imposed fear to my town. The closed windows were listening to the rumor of the tanks. I remember the planes fluttering in the valley like the Harpies in the forest of suicides. I remember the church bells that announced the curfew terrifying the children. The Duce was shouting victory in the sky, land and sea from the steps of a white building. Then the dreams of glory expanded in the dams of the reason, in the laces of Ethiopian women in the heat of the sand in the desert.
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L’Italia d’oggi e reti del ragno non prendono più gli astri lontani d’una antica gloria. L’Italia è ridotta in frantumi, nessuno canta l’Inno di Mameli. La guerra ci ha dato vuote medaglie ha distrutto i palazzi e le vigne ha abbattuto le chiese e gli oliveti. Ora nel viale ombroso la rosa non fiorisce non odo la voce d’Italia sferzata dalle dure catene delle brigate rosse. La droga e la malavita sono più forti del governo che nella democrazia garantisce troppi diritti e pochi doveri.
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Italy Today he networks of the spider no longer catch the faraway stars of an ancient glory. Italy is shattered no one sings Mameli’s national anthem. War gave us empty medals destroyed buildings and vineyards has knocked down churches and olive trees. Now in the shady avenues the rose is not blooming. I do not hear the voice of Italy burst from the harsh chains of the Red Brigades. Drugs and crimes are stronger than the government that provides too many rights and a few duties in our democracy.
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Mito d’infanzia ’infanzia spensierata ed allegra è interrotta da una sirena che turba la pace della notte. L’orologio scandisce le ore delia guerra, le campane annunziano il coprifuoco. E tu risorgi, Cristo, il mattino di Sabato Santo. In un cespuglio di rosmarino è il mio ricordo del nido pieno di cardellini. I mietitori cantavano nei biondi campi, le fanciulle vendemmiavano nella vigna, le donne cantavano stornelli mentre le olive cadevano nel grembiule. Ed io, fanciullo spensierato, giocavo solitario fra i maggesi. Non sapevo che la tramontana si accaniva sui pioppi faceva cadere i nidi delle gazze. Ora nei miei sogni rivedo i grigi olivi benedetti della mia terra fiorita di lucciole a sera.
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Myth of Childhood y carefree and cheerful childhood is interrupted by a siren that disturbs the peace of the night. The clock strikes the hours of the war, the church bells announce the curfew. And You rise again, Christ, on the morning of Holy Saturday. In a rosemary bush is my memory of the nest full of goldfinches. The reapers were singing in the yellow fields, the girls were picking grapes in the vineyard, women sang folk songs while the olives were falling into the apron. And I, carefree child, I was lonely playing among the fallows. I did not know that the North wind was raging over the poplars was dropping down the nests of the magpies. Now in my dreams I see again the blessed gray olive trees of my land flowering with fireflies in the evening.
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Sicilian Queen Of Beauty u, regina di bellezza, porti al Nord il profumo del tuo Sud il candore esotico della tua Sicilia. Gli uccelli sbandati volano nel cielo vermiglio, sui limoni gialli di Trinacria nella Conca d’Oro che sovrasta Monte Pellegrino. Sui fichidindia della terra edenica affondo il piede audace nei tuoi occhi magici nel cratere fumicante dell’Etna per cercare nel tuo viso rare orchidee la libertà fra manti di trifoglio che ornano i crinali dell’Isola del Sole. Nella tua chioma trovo la battigia dell’anima dove rare conchiglie formano corolle edeniche fra le verdi alghe di Polifemo raccolgono l’ombra mitica dei Monti Peloritani. Ma strane zanzare penetrano il silenzio dei dubbi, acuiscono il rumore della città. A Milano non crescono i girasoli di Van Gogh, fra i grattacieli di Manhattan muoiono le ginestre in fiore. E tu, anima vagabonda del Sud, mi attendi sui binari d’un treno senza ferrovia, d’una terra senza chimere. Gialli i limoni resistono fra il gelo dell’inverno nella fedeltà dei campi che ti videro fanciulla innamorata in quella stazione dell’infanzia dove ancora si agitano fazzoletti sui binari dell’esilio, nel calvario dell’emigrazione. Tua sorella ti spinge nella solitudine esistenziale alla ricerca di miti e di terre utopiche nel candore ribelle d’una fanciulla sicula nei sogni che dilatano le lagune. Nelle notti allucinate ritrovi il volto dei genitori più umili e comprensivi, votati al dialogo nella primavera dell’infanzia, nel candore dei mandorli in fiore. La folla ti ammira sulla passarella della bellezza, ma non conosce il tuo cuore infranto, i tuoi sogni svaniti e dilaniati nella solitudine del canto delle cicale al solleone. 92
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Sicilian Queen Of Beauty ou, Queen of Beauty, are bringing to the North the scent of the South the exotic candor of your Sicily. The straggled birds are flying in the vermilion sky, over the yellow lemon trees of Trinacria over Mount Pellegrino overlooking the Golden Valley On the prickly pears of your mythical land I deepen my daring feet in your magic eyes in the smoking crater of Etna to search rare orchids in your face my freedom among the mantles of clover that adorn the hills of the Island of the Sun, In your hair I find the shoreline of my soul wherein rare shells shape mythical corals among the Eden algae of Polyphemus under the mythical shadow of the Peloritani Mountains. But strange mosquitoes penetrate the silence of the doubt, exacerbate the noise of the city. In Milan do not grow the sunflowers of Van Gogh, among the skyscrapers of Manhattan die the the brooms in bloom. And you, wandering soul of the South, are waiting for me on the tracks of a train, without railroad, on a land without illusions. Yellow lemon resist between the chill of Winter in the fidelity of the fields that saw you girl in love in that station of childhood wherein are still shaking the handkerchiefs on the tracks of exile, in the Cavalry of emigration. Your sister pushes you into the existential solitude in search of myths and utopian lands in the rebellious candor of a Sicilian girl in dreams that dilate the lagoons. In the hallucinated nights you find again the faces of your parents more humble and understanding, willing to the dialogue in the Spring of your childhood, in the candor of the almond trees in bloom. The crowd admires you on the stage of beauty, but does not know about your broken heart, your faded and torn dreams in the solitude of the song of cicadas in the Summer heat.
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Thank You, Gorbachev! *
ou came from Privolnoye to Washington To win your country a race. In the square The crowd stood cheering by. You were able to hold aloft The challenging cup of a new freedom. It was a victory, not a defeat Now the historic stillness will be broken, But the laurel will never wither. The irony of the political congratulations Contains the richness of historic paradoxes. The garland of success is briefer than glory. The road to immortality longer than lifetime But not larger than the pathos of death. The vast Eurasia is no longer hidden From the rest of us In a red veil of deep mystery. The Cuckchy Peninsula, A short cold step from Alaska, Is now united by a long humane Fusionistic embrace. A man came from Russia To win his country a race. With impulsive heroic Fusionistic brush I see You removing that red Mysterious veil. Thank you, Gorbachev!
*From a Collection of Poetry edited by Mario Fratti, Professor of Italian Literature at Hunter College, New York, NY.
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Rapsodia natalizia i bruciano il cuore sette spade in questa terra d’esilio e di gelido silenzio. La neve disperde nel volo degli angeli il Natale del mio destino il trauma dell’emigrazione. In questa notte santa in cui Gesù torna a nascere i pioppi della mia terra dondolano al libeccio i bimbi attendono i regali all’Epifania. Il canto delle cornamuse e delle zampogne è un ricordo nello scrigno della memoria la strada dell’infanzia che vide la guerra. Ma il destino del sole nasce ancora ad oriente per redimere la notte cupa come l’abisso. Così il corpo si agita nel letto dell’esilio, mentre l’anima solinga cerca ali di uccelli sulla tela, voli d’angeli in una terra utopica, nella musica pastorale del Santo Natale.
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Christmas Rhapsody even swards are burning my heart in this land of exile and icy silence. The snow scatters in the flight of angels the Christmas of my destiny the trauma of emigration. In this holy night when Jesus is born again the poplars of my land swing to the South-West children are waiting for the gifts at the Epiphany. The songs of the bagpipes are a remembrance in the chest of my memory the path of my childhood who saw the war. But the fate of the sun is born again in the East to redeem the night dark as the abyss. Thus my body is stirred in the bed of exile, while my solitary soul looks for wings of birds on the canvas, flights of angels in a utopian land, in the pastoral music of the Holy Christmas.
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Sentiero d’infanzia a mia strada è segnata dalla voce dei pioppi che dondolano come le canne al vento, come i grattacieli di questa metropoli. Nel sentiero dell’infanzia il suono dei timpani si espande nella valle ricolma di mandorli in fiore, raggiunge i crinali dei colli sanniti, dove profumano i campi d’erica e di rosmarino. Il tuo paesaggio mi avvince l’anima che sulla tela incide sogni d’amore. E tu mi sei lontana, terra mia natia, dove la libertà non ha ieri né domani, dove vivono gemme sulla scorza della vita, dove le fanciulle sannite sfogliano le rose lungo i sentieri fioriti di ginestre.
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Path of My Childhood y road is marked by the voice of the poplars that swing like reeds in the wind, like the skyscrapers of this metropolis. In the path of my childhood the sound of my timpani expands in the valley full of almond trees in bloom, reaches the ridges of the Samnite hills, wherein the fields have the perfume of heather and rosemary. Your landscape captivates my soul that represents dreams of love on the canvas. And you are far away, my native land, wherein freedom has no yesterday or tomorrow, wherein buds live on the bark of life, wherein he Samnite girls browse roses along the flowering paths of gorse.
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Il profumo della tua bellezza l fianco della costa il profugo del sambuco e dell’oleandro penetra i fiori di acacia e si disperde fra i mandorli a primavera. Gli aromi agresti non sovvertono l’ordine delle cose ma viaggiano nell’aria aprica dove le rondini volteggiano poi migrano ai confini d’una terra indigena e selvaggia. Eppure mi fulminano il profumo della tua bellezza, lo splendore del tuo paesaggio, la fiducia antica della tua gente, terra mia natia. Mi folgora la luce della tua immagine che presto dipingerò sulla tela per rendere immortale la tua anima di bimba in un campo fiorito.
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The Perfume of Your Beauty t the side of the coast the perfume of the elder and oleander penetrates the acacia flowers and is dispersed among the almond trees at Spring. The rural aromas do not subvert the order of things but travel through the smelling air where the swallows are circling then they migrate to the borders of an indigenous and wild land. Still blows me the perfume of your beauty, the splendor of your landscape. The ancient faith of your people, my native land. The light of your image hits me that soon I will paint on canvas to immortalize your soul of a child in a flowery field.
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La pioggia ra la grandine raschia la porta di casa come la zampa del mio Simone, che mi saluta al ritorno da un giorno d’intenso lavoro. E sono contento d’aver fatto il mio dovere ora che il postino mi porta le notizie della mia terra. Se la terra è morbida di pioggia vorrei abbracciare l’universo intero in un amplesso d’amore e di perdono o vorrei piantare nel fango le mie inutili illusioni di gloria. La pioggia scende nel selciato sulla ringhiera del cortile sulla mia anima assetata d’amore. Il vento schiaffeggia il basilico sulla veranda, ma non toglie il profumo nel viso della rnia donna. Il cane mi lecca le mani ed il mio sogno raggiunge il cuore dell’universo.
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The Rain ow the hail is scraping the door of my house like the paw of my dog Simon, that greets me when I come back from a day of intense work. And I’m happy to have done my duty now that the mailman brings me the news of my land. If the ground is soft from rain I would like to embrace the whole universe in a hug of love and forgiveness or would like to plant in the mud my useless illusions of glory. The rain falls on the ground on the railing of the courtyard on my soul thirst of love. The wind slaps the basil on the porch, but does not take away the perfume from the face of my woman. My dog, Simon, licks my hands and my dream reaches the heart of the universe.
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Dipingo di notte uando la luna è alta nel cielo il mio studio è popolato di miti e di tele. Lavoro ai miei quadri fino a notte inoltrata. Spesso mi sorprende il canto del gallo al risveglio del mattino al primo sole. E non mi stanca questa di inutili sogni vaga chimera che mi conduce nel sentiero della metafisica. Da lontano il vento porta l’abbaiare dei cani che risveglia in me i ricordi dell’infanzia sannita. La luna, chiara nella notte, agita un’illusione di gloria fra questi grattacieli che sfidano il firmamento come la Torre di Babele. Eppure l’alba dissipa le ombre della notte, mena i contadini alla campagna, spinge le pecore sull’antico tratturo. Ma io resto con te, arte mia immortale, ora che la luce del giorno disperde i sogni nell’oblio così come il vento spoglia i rami delle foglie gialle e scopre i nidi vuoti sugli alberi infreddoliti.
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I Paint During The Night hen the moon is high in the sky my office is full of myths and canvas. I work on my paintings until late at night. I’m often surprised by the crowing of the cock at the awakening of the morning at the first sun. And it does not get me tired the vague chimera of my useless dreams which leads me in the path of metaphysics. From far away the wind brings me the barking of the dogs that awakens my memories of my Samnite childhood. The moon, clear in the night, shakes an illusion of glory among these skyscrapers that challenge the firmament such as the Tower of Babel. Yet the dawn dissipates the shadows of the night, leads the peasants to the fields, pushes the sheep on the ancient cattle track. But I remain with you, my immortal art, now that the daylight disperses my dreams in the oblivion in the same manner the wind strips the branches of their yellow leaves and discloses the empty nests in the cold trees.
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Fantasia di un artista ella mia fantasia l’erba è insanguinata di papaveri, il grano è dominato da girasoli, ma i tuoi occhi hanno il colore del fiume, l’umiltà dell’allodola che volteggia nell’arcobaleno. Non ho i colori per ritrarre la tua fedeltà a quest’umile esule: tu mi convinci di non galoppare su puledre indigene, negre e mulatte, che si avvingono al collo per strapparmi baci di dollari. Tra i fili della memoria la tua immagine di sposa, Nancy mia cara, appare nello splendore della Madonna, alla mensa sublime della Sacra Famiglia. Le lucciole a sera raggiungono la nostra finestra semiaperta e lampeggiano il sogno d’amore che proviene dai cespugli in fiore. Con te, Nancy mia cara, l’eternità è un attimo che non muore in questo sogno d’amore che ci avvince e non si estingue nel tempo d’addio.
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Imagination of an Artist n my imagination the grass is bloodstained by poppies, the grain is dominated by sunflowers, but your eyes have the color of the river, the humility of the lark hovering in the rainbow. I do not have the colors to portray your loyalty to this humble exile: you convince me not to gallop on indigenous fillies, black and mulatto women, that are gripping my neck to snatch kisses of dollars. In the depth of my memory, my dear Nancy, your image of the bride appears in the splendor of Our Lady, at the sublime table of the Holy Family. At night the fireflies are reaching our half-open window blinking the dream of love coming from the bushes in bloom. With you, my dear Nancy, eternity is a moment that never dies in this dream of love that binds us and is not extinguished in the farewell hour.
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Pasqua di Resurrezione ll’alba d’un mattino primaverile le pie donne si recarono alla tomba di Cristo. L’angelo annunciò la resurrezione e mi disse: Ivo, svegliati e cammini. Da allora, come novello Lazzaro, torna il figliuol prodigo alla mensa dell’Ultima Cena, per mangiare con Te il cibo immortale degli angeli. Ora non sono stanco di volare se il battaglio della campana è legato nei giorni di passione. La raganella gira per i vicoli del paese per annunciare di nuovo la morte di Cristo. Nella Sua morte io ritrovo la vera Vita: la mia fede mi dice che dopo la morte verrà la resurrezione, che è miracolo divino, sconfìtta della morte. Ed io esulto nel miracolo della mia arte nel mistero della Resurrezione: attendo qui fra le siepi in fiore il segno della vittoria di Cristo in una primavera che non ha estate in una gioventù che non conosce la vecchiaia in un’eterna stagione di alberi in fiore.
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Easter of Resurrection t the dawn of a Spring morning the pious women went to the tomb of Christ. The angel announced the Resurrection and told me: Ivo, wake up and walk. Since then, like a new Lazarus, the prodigal son returns to the table of the Last Supper, to eat with you the immortal food of the angels. Now I’m not tired of flying if the clapper of the church bell is bound in the days of the Passion. The frog rattle is going through the streets of the town to announce again the death of Christ. In His death I find again the real Life: my faith tells me that after death comes the Resurrection, that is a divine miracle, a defeat of death. And I exult in the miracle of my art in the mystery of the Resurrection I’m waiting here among the blooming hedges the sign of Christ’s victory in a Spring that has no Summer in a youth that knows no old age in an endless season of blooming trees.
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Infanzia sannita a bimbo schiacciavo i giovani fichi sotto i denti, mettevo i fiori nei capelli delle donne. Le cacce volavano basse sul tabacco beneventano atterrivano i contadini nella vigna. Da bimbo mangiavo i mandorli verdi, inseguivo i serpi nella siepe, scagliavo i sassi sui rospi. I carri armati e le autoblinde facevano tremare il mio paese, le donne avevano paura di affacciarsi alle finestre. Poi le stesse donne attendevano sulla soglia invano il ritorno dei figli e dei mariti. A quell’età la gioia di vivere non mi premuniva del dolore nell’età matura, non mi faceva pensare alla terra dell’esilio. I tedeschi bevevano vino dalle botti ricolme, uccidevano i maiali in piazza, violentavano le donne nelle grotte.
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Samnite Childhood s a child I crushed the young figs under the teeth I put the flowers in the women’s hair. The warplanes were flying low on the tobacco fields of Benevento terrifying the peasants in the vineyard. As a child I was eating the green almonds, I chased the snakes into the hedges throwing rocks on the frogs. Tanks and armored cars rattled my town, women were afraid to look out from the windows. Then the same women were waiting hopelessly on the threshold the return of their sons and husbands. At that age the joy of living did not announce to me the the pain of the maturity, did not make me think about the land of exile. The Germans drank wine from the filled barrels, killed the pigs in the public square, raped the women in the caves.
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Sogno e realtà ra la pena del lavoro è pena di vita, ma il ricordo non si cancella nella pellicola del sogno immortale. Allora correvo come un puledro sui prati in fiore, rincorrevo le farfalle sotto la siepe, mangiavo le more e le trigne, giocavo con le bimbe fra i cespugli fioriti della costa. Allora la mia vita era un gioco di libertà nell’infanzia spensierata: ora nei fili della memoria le lucciole sono ricordi delle sacre reliquie del tempio dove arcano è l’amore di mamma e papà. Ora la mia vita è la mia arte che mi salva dal naufragio jaspersiano.
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Dream And Reality ow the pain of work is pain of life, but the memory is not canceled in the film of immortal dream. At that time I was running as a colt on the meadows in bloom, I was chasing the butterflies under the hedges, I ate blackberries and wild fruits, I was playing with the girls among the flowering bushes of the coast. At that time my life was a game of freedom in the carefree childhood: now in the threads of my memory fireflies are remembrances of the sacred relics of the church where sacred is the love for mom and dad. Now my life is my art that saves me from the Jasperian shipwreck.
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Insufficienza dell’arte a penna non è capace di scavare nel crogiolo sacro della memoria: i lacerti dell’infanzia si confondono con i ricordi di guerra. Non trovo i colori adatti per dipingere un bimbo nella primavera in fiore. La parola non sa esprimere la gioia dell’amore materno, l’orgoglio d’un padre artista. Lo scrigno della memoria resta inespresso sulla tela e sulla carta: una sacra reliqua protegge i ricordi nel sentiero dell’eternitá, nel reame metafisico dei sogni. La sabbia marina è passata rapidamente nel collo della clessidra sulla battigia: la vita non ha un significato ora che ho perduto i miei genitori in questa di lacrime terra straniera.
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Art is Not Sufficient he pen is not capable of digging in the sacred crucible of my memory: the fragments of my childhood are mixed with the memories of war. I do not find the suitable colors to paint a child in the Spring in bloom. The word cannot express the joy of maternal love, the pride of an artist father. The casket of the memory remains unexpressed on canvas and paper: a sacred relic protects the memories in the path of eternity, in the metaphysical realm of dreams. The sea sand passed quickly through the neck of the hourglass on the beach: life has no meaning now that I have lost my parents in this foreign land of tears.
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La vecchiaia enectus ipse morbus diceva Cicerone. Il dolore presente mi conduce al sentiero radioso dell’infanzia quando mi nascondevo con le bimbe sotto la paglia, quando ignaro della guerra dormivo nelle grotte di pecore e di capre. Ora una luce bianca sulla quiete del mare mi dice che la vecchiaia si avvicina e leggo il mio destino nel cavo d’una conchiglia marina. Un giorno non lontano il mio spirito si libererà da questa parete di vetro, da questo labirinto somatico che imprigiona la mia libertà. Allora metterò nuove radici nella mia terra di oleandri dove gli alberi più si sprofondano nella zolla e più la loro cima si protende verso il cielo.
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Old Age icero used to say: Senectus ipse morbus est. Old age is a sickness by itself. The present pain leads me to the sunlit path of my childhood when I was hiding with girls under the straw, when unaware of the war I was sleeping in the caves of sheep and goats. Now a white light on the quiet sea tells me that the old age is approaching and I read my destiny in the hollow of a sea shell. One day not too far my spirit will be freed from this glass wall, from this somatic maze that imprisons my freedom. Then I will develop new roots in my land of oleanders where the trees then sink more deeply into the clod and the more their tops are jutting into the sky.
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La furia del vento l vento taglia le canne che serviranno per le viti così come la memoria strozza la gola alle parole in questo della vita ultimo volo verso l’azzurro d’un nuovo mattino, verso l’assoluto impenetrabile. Allora la luce apocalittica solleverà gli oceani, le anime riprenderanno il loro corpo nella valle di Josaphat per il giudizip universale. La paura nucleare ci spinge verso il cataclisma, in un mondo di autodistruzione. Non vedo l’alba d’una nuova ecologia in questa ‘’aiuola che ci fa tanto feroci". Eppure la pietà della terra addolcirà il senso delle cose nell’alba salvifica d’una nuova speranza. Allora non avrò più bisogno di parole inutili che decifrino il destino dell’uomo, spieghino il mistero della morte, tradiscano dell’infanzia i miei ricordi.
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The Fury of the Wind he wind cuts through the reeds which will serve for the vineyard as well as the memory is throttling the throat of the words in this last flight of life towards the blue of a new morning, towards the impenetrable future. The apocalyptic light will raise the oceans, the souls will resume their bodies in the valley of Josaphat for the Last Judgment. The nuclear fear pushes us toward the cataclysm, in a world of self-destruction. I do not see the dawn of a new ecology in this “flowerbed that makes us so ferocious� (as Dante said). Yet the mercy of the earth will soften the sense of things in the dawn saving a new hope. Then I will not need unnecessary words predicting the destiny of man, explaining the mystery of death, and will betray my childhood memories.
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Il giardino di Mnemosine el giardino di Mnemosine ritrovo il ricordo di mio padre e di mia madre. Quanti sacrifici hanno fatto per i loro figli in Italia ed in questa di Colombo benedetta terra. Rivedo mio padre dipingere nel suo studio, visitato da gente altilocata; rivedo mia madre in cucina che prepara il nostro pasto quotidiano. Rivedo pure i contadini che seminano il grano, i mietitori che raccolgono covoni, le spigolatrici che prendono le spighe cantando stornelli paesani. Rivedo pure le donne che colgono le ulive, gli uomini che vanno a caccia, i bimbi che giocano nel fienile. Ed io da questa terra lontana canto l’attesa dell’eterna primavera nel giardino di Mnemosine.
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The Garden of Mnemosyne n the Garden of Mnemosyne I find again the memories of my father and my mother. How many sacrifices they have done for their children in Italy and in this blessed land of Columbus. I see again my father painting in his studio, visited by aristocratic people; I see again my mother in the kitchen preparing our daily meal. I also see again the farmers sowing the wheat, the reapers collecting sheaves, the gleaners taking the ears of wheat singing country songs of the town. I also see again women capturing the olives, men who hunt, children playing in the barn. And from this distant land I sing the expectation of the eternal Spring in the Garden of Mnemosyne.
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L’autunno ra il ramo perde le foglie gialle che volteggiano come fiocchi di neve nell’aria fredda della stagione dei morti. Di pioggia gonfia una nuvola sul mio destino mi dice che l’azzurro diventa corallo, l’astuzia è segno di poca intelligenza. Oltre la siepe il gallo silvano cerca la libertà delle marine, il respiro di nuovi orizzonti si espande nell’attesa del Santo Natale.
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The Fall ow the branch looses its yellow leaves which are circling like snowflakes in the cold air of the season of the dead. Rain swollen a cloud over my destiny tells me that the blue becomes coral, cunning is a sign of little intelligence. Behind the hedge the sylvan cock is seeking for the freedom of the sea, the breath of new horizons expands in the waiting of Holy Christmas.
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La vita a vita è un fiume che scorre verso l’oceano infinito, un gioco in cui si può vincere o si può perdere. Sparge il vecchio letizia di scibile ora che l’orizzonte già s’imbruna e cadono le ombre alle colline. Non è più tempo di salpare per nuove frontiere né tempo di amare e di crescere: l’età ha raggianto il prato antico tra i muri di case scalcinate dalla guerra e dal terremoto, ove la memoria del passato è fissata nelle pietre e nelle statue che indicano la rabbia delle bufere. Ma calma fra le brughiere si avvicina la sera, nuda sulle criniere galoppa ed avanza la notte.
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Life ife is a river that flows toward the infinite ocean, a game wherein you can win or you can loose. The old man spreads the joy of wisdom now that the horizon is already getting dark and the shadows fall on the hills. It is no more time for sailing to new frontiers no more time for loving and growing: the old age has reached the ancient lawn among the walls of the houses dilapidated by war and earthquake, wherein the memory of the past is set in the stones and statues that indicate the anger of the tempests. But calm among the moors evening is approaching, naked on the hills gallops and advances the night.
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La mia arte ra la mia arte attende al varco il giudizio dei posteri: io ho raggiunto un bivio che conduce all’immortalità o all’infamia. Mi sconvolge l’indifferenza degli uomini con i quali non riesco a comunicare. La palma della mia vittoria non è il successo nelle gallerie, ma la mia stessa arte fusionistica che incide sul destino del genio di Dalì illumina la certezza della mia sorte. L’apatia è un muschio invischiato al muro scalcinato dall’invidia che cade al primo vento, crepita al primo tuono, finisce nella nudità della vita e della morte.
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My art ow my art is waiting for the judgment of posterity: I have reached a crossroad leading to immortality or infamy. It upsets me the indifference of men with whom I cannot communicate. The palm of my victory is not the success in art galleries. But my own fusionistic art affecting the fate of Dali’ genius brightens the certitude of my destiny. Apathy is a moss entangling the crumbling wall of envy that falls at the first wind crackles at the first thunder, ends in nakedness of life and death.
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Vita d’un genio l genio non annega la sua arte nel rumore della folla, nel silenzio della mediocrità, nella vanagloria del senso comune. La mia arte offre al prossimo la salvezza e la speranza, eleva il mio io nella sublimità dei cieli empirici di Dante. Il genio cerca il suo destino nel suono della conchiglia di Venere, nei colori dei girasoli di Van Gogh, nella delicatezza della "Primavera" di Botticelli, nell’ "Olympia" di Manet, nella "Eva" di Gauguin, nel "David" di Michelangelo. La campana suona a festa annuncia la Resurrezione del Genio all’alba fiorita del Sabato Santo.
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Life of a Genius he genius does not drown his art in the noise of the crowd, in the silence of mediocrity, in the vain glory of common sense. My art offers to the others salvation and hope, elevates my ego in the sublimity of the empirical heavens of Dante. The genius seeks his destiny in the sound of Venus shell, in the colors of Van Gogh’s sunflowers, in the delicacy of Botticelli’s “Spring”, in the “Olympia” by Manet, in the “Eva” by Gauguin, in the “David” by Michelangelo. The church bells ring solemnly announcing the Resurrection of the Genius in the flowered dawn of Holy Saturday.
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I miei sogni sogni vivono ancora nel subconscio dell’artista, nella maturità del poeta-fanciullo, anche quando la ragione tende ad opprimere le illusioni, a dissuadere a guardare il cielo senza pianto e senza rancore. II mondo non è una prigione, se nella mia arte io trovo la mia libertà, nella passione il mio sogno d’amore, nella tela le immagini della mia fantasia. Giovane è la mia arte nel gioco dei colori che fondono il sacro col profano, il mistico col sensuale, la terra ed il cielo. E non mi soddisfa la luce dei tuoi occhi verdi, fanciulla sannita che raccogli viole sulle rive del Calore.
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My Dreams reams are still living in the subconscious of the artist, in the maturity of the child-poet, even when the reason tends to oppress the illusions, to discourage looking at the sky without tears and without rancor. The world is not a prison, if in my art I find my freedom, in the passion my dream of love, on the canvas the images of my fancy. Young is my art in the game of colors that blend the sacred with the profane, the mystic with the sensual, the earth and the sky. It does not satisfy me the light of your green eyes, Samnite girl picking violets on the banks of the Calore river.
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Giorno di gioia iunto nella piazza di S. Maria Novella Era già mezzogiorno Quando il mio telefonino squilló Una voce profonda Quasi rauca diceva: Ivo sono Roberta E son appena arrivata Alla stazione Centrale. Mi diressi fremente di gioa Correndo tra le folle Entrai la grande sala d’aspetto E tra il frastuono dei binari E le voci delle genti Fu come trovarmi In uno stupendo giardino. La riconobbi subito Splendente come una stella Le andai vicino, la chiamai Per nome ci abbracciammo Con un forte bacio Ci avviammo verso il Duomo Tra la folla che ci ignorava Quanto era avvenente Col suo leggiadro incidere nel lungo ondeggiante cappottino finamente modellato ci sperdemmo tra le genti assenti mentre le fresche piante e I fiori dolcemente mormoravano.
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Day of joy t was already noon in the square of Santa Maria Novella when my phone rang. A deep voice almost hoarse said: Ivo, I’m Roberta, I have just arrived to the Central Station. I went trembling with joy running among the crowds. I entered the large waiting room among the din of the tracks and the voices of the people. It was like being in a beautiful garden. I recognized her immediately shining like a star. I went close to her called her by name. We embraced each other with a strong kiss. Then we walked towards the Duomo among the unaware crowd. How beautiful she was with her graceful dress and the long undulating finely pattered coat. We got lost among the absent people while the fresh plants and flowers murmured softly.
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Firenze Hotel Carolus uella notte lontana Nere nuvole minacciavano Il cielo il vento inpetuoso L’alba non voleva tornare Ecco il mio telefonino squilla Rispondo subito: Ciao sono "la zingara" Roberta Viaggio con l’autobus Questa mattina arriverò da te A Firenze alle 10:00 La sua valiggetta su ruote Era come una sua compagna Cercai di aiutarla Mi disse che non era necessario Era abituata a trasportarla Il suo lungo viaggio L’avewa stancata un po’ Conosceva il mio hotel C’era stata già’ prima con me Il giorno seguente ripartí Con un bacio mi disse: Ciao. Feb. 2. 2004
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Carolus Hotel in Florence hat far away night black clouds threatened the sky with a strong wind. Dawn did not want to return. Here my cell phone rings. I respond promptly: Hello, I am the gipsy Roberta I travel by bus. This morning I will reach you in Florence at ten o’clock. Her luggage on wheels was like one of her friends. I tried to help her She told me that it was not necessary. She was used to carry it. Her long travel got her tired a bit. She knew my hotel where she has been already with me. The day after she left; with a kiss she told me: Goodby. Feb. 2. 2004
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Un antico amore a luce dei tuoi occhi mi penetra l’anima e guizza tra le siepi in fiore, si espande la tua voce tra il profumo di mentuccia e di rosmarino. Il profumo della terra promana dal tuo corpo sensuale: non posso resistere alla tentazione. Questa fuga d’alberi in festa che insegue la mia partenza popola la mia giovane fantasia d’emigrante in cerca di nuove terre. Una volta tu mi aspettavi sotto un lampione, vestita a festa, inzuppata dalla pioggia, ed io tremai guando ti diedi il primo bacio stringendo il tuo corpo al mio in un amplesso tenero ed infinito. Allora anche il mio corpo ebbe l’odore della terra.
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An Ancient Love he light of your eyes penetrates my soul and flickers among the hedges in bloom, expands your voice among the the scent of mint and rosemary. The perfume of the earth emanates from your sensual body: I cannot resist to the temptation. This escape of feasting trees chasing my departure populates my young imagination of emigrant searching new lands. Once you were waiting for me under a street-light, dressed festively, soaked by the rain, and I was trembling when I gave you my first kiss tightening your body to mine in a tender and infinite hug. Then even my body had the smell of the earth.
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Ignaro della vita a bimbo non sapevo l’inganno della serpe nel nido, l’intrico del falco nella siepe, la violenza della volpe nel pollaio, la gioia del gatto fra i topi. Come per gioco il ragno afferrava le mosche nella ragnatela. Come per gioco i tedeschi saccheggiavano il mio paese. Il gatto giocava col topo prima di ucciderlo. L’uccello soffriva ancora vivo tra le morse della tagliola. La rondine piangeva nel mio tiretto. La lucertola strisciava sulla terra, sanguinava per la coda spezzata. L’innocuo piccione cadeva sotto un colpo di fucile. La guerra imponeva nei bimbi la crudeltà verso le bestie, la violenza contro se stessi. Ora io anticipo gli inganni in un paese di mare, colgo il significato della vita che non conoscevo da bimbo, spezzo l’incanto di quel gioco che mi rendeva felice.
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Unaware of Life s a child I did not know the tricks of the snake in the nest, the tangle of the falcon in the bush the violence of the fox in the hen-house, the joy of the cat among the mice. As a game the spider grabbed the flies in the spiderweb. As a game the Germans devastated my town. The cat was playing with the mouse before killing him. The bird was suffering still alive among the grabs of the trap. The swallow was crying in my drawer. The lizard was scraping on earth, was bleeding from the cut tail. The shy pigeon fell under a shotgun. War imposed on children the cruelty toward the beasts, the violence against themselves. Now I predict the deceit in a nation of sea, catching the meaning of life I did not know as a child, I break the enchantment of that game which was making me happy.
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Non posso sorridere on posso più tornare a sorridere come un bimbo che cade fra la neve, non si fa male, ma si rialza nella risata del giullare perchè ha la bocca piena di miele, i piedi scalzi nel viaggio favoloso del tempo. Non posso più sorridere tra gente indigena che mi tratta come uno straniero mi schernisce per i miei accenti. Non posso più sorridere se la mia arte non è apprezzata da questi manigoldi che pensano solo al dollaro.
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I cannot smile cannot return anymore to smile like a child who is falling on the snow, he does not hurt himself, but he rises in the laughing of a jester because his mouth is full of honey, his naked feet in the fabulous journey of time. I cannot smile anymore among the indigenous people who are treating me like a foreigner are making fun of my accents. I cannot smile anymore if my art is not appreciated by these rascals who are thinking only about money.
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Giovane amore l tempo dell’amore mi sorprese a sera sui prati del paese natio, al lungomare della città partenopea. La mia mano tremava nella mano della mia fanciulla innamorata, trovava il miele dell’amore il sapore della terra natia la gioia del sesso nel tatto. La luna ci spiava di dietro una nuvola incantata e vuota di pioggia, quando ci unimmo nell’amplesso.
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Young Love he time of love surprised me at evening on the meadows of my native town, along the beach of Naples. My hand was trembling in the hand of my girl in love, finding the honey of love the taste of the native land the joy of sex in the touching. The moon was spying on us behind an enchanted cloud empty of rain, when we united in the hug.
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Una favola antica vevano il sapore di una favola antica la tua bocca di miele il tuo seno di latte fra i sentieri di ginestre nei Campi Flegrei. E il Vesuvio dormiva nell’incanto della città dell’amore. Sotto la luna di Napoli sfiorai i tuoi capelli d’oro che avevano il profumo della terra e mi sentii come un dio olimpico nella favola dell’amore, nel ricordo di Psiche. Ora la memoria di te coincide con l’immagine di mia madre giovane che con mio padre inventava il destino di un bimbo. Ho raffigurato te nel ritratto di mia madre, un’antica Madonna che redime il dolore degli uomini, mi salva dal male della vita.
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An Ancient Fable Your mouth of honey had the taste of an ancient fable, your breast of milk among the paths of brooms in the Flegrei Fields. And the Vesuvius was sleeping in the charm of the city of love. Under the moon of Naples I caressed your golden hair that had the perfume of the earth and I felt like an Olympian god in the fable of love, in the memory of Psyche. Now the memory of you is similar to the image of my mother when she was young who together my father invented the destiny of a child. I represented you in the portrait of my mother, an ancient Madonna who redeems the pain of men, saves me from the evil of life.
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Destino dei figli li uccellini volano dal nido anzitempo così come i figli lasciano le case per avventurarsi sulle rive di frontiere dove le voci ed i pianti contengono la voce dei genitori. Figli che rimangono confitti alle ringhiere di bordo. E tu che passi, figlio d’emigrante, fermati un istante innanzi alla mia lapide e contempla il mio destino: ricordati di chi passò per queste terre prima di te con un dollaro insanguinato in tasca. Ricordati di chi attraversò questa frontiera d’emigrazione prima di te e vi piantò un olivo che ora è una croce. Tra le ossa dei miei morti di questa nuova terra non troverai le mie, dissipate nell’oceano verso i lidi italici, disperse dall’oblio del tempo.
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Destiny of Child ittle birds are flying from the nest early like do the children leaving their houses to adventure on the banks of the frontiers where voices and cries contain the parents voice. Sons who remain conflicted to the rings of the border. And you who are passing by, son of an emigrant, stop for a moment in front of my tomb and contemplate my destiny: remember who crossed this land before you with a bloody dollar in his pocket. Remember who crossed this frontier of emigration before you and planted an olive tree that now is a cross. Among the bones of my dead ones of this new land you will not find mine, dispersed into the ocean towards the Italian shores, dispersed in the oblivion of time.
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Canto d’emigrante l vento della storia non si piega al gioco traumatico dell’emigrazione, ma spinge le ceneri dei defunti sulla chioma enorme della terra natia. E tu, viandante, che leggi il mio nome sulla lapide, IVO DAVID, ARTISTA FUSIONISTA, fermati un momento e pensa senza pregare: le tue stesse ossa si riuniranno alle mie sotto i cipressi del nostro cimitero dov’è la lapide di tuo nonno, dove sono le donne che vinsero il tuo cuore dov’è la terra che diede linfa alla tua carne. La pietà del sole asciugherà l’erba dal pianto, l’occhio della civetta berrà l’ombra della notte, i morti si ameranno più dei vivi.
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Song of the Emigrant he wind of history does not give in to the unpleasant game of emigration, but pushes the ashes of the dead on the enormous hair of the native land. And you, traveler, who are reading my name on the thumb stone, IVO DAVID, FUSIONISTIC ARTIST, stop for a moment and think without praying; your own bones will be reunited to mine under the cypresses of the cemetery where is the thumb stone of your grandfather, where are the ladies who won your heart where is the land that nourished your body. The piety of the sun will dry out the grass from the crying, the eye of the howl will drink the shadow of the night the dead will love you more than the alive ones.
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La speranza a speranza non muore mai se la vita continua nel cimitero, se l’arte mi rende immortale. Da bimbo ho imparato un pò d’umiltà negli sfollati di guerra, nei palazzi abbattuti dal terremoto, nella vigna distrutta dalla grandine, nel rosso d’un cocomero sull’erba. Il contadino sparge il seme fra le zolle nel rito sacro d’un’antica liturgia: la sua fiducia è nella fedeltà alla terra.
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Hope he hope will never die if life continues in the cemetery, if art makes me immortal. As a child I learned about a little humility from the war refugees, from the buildings demolished by the earthquake, from the vineyard destroyed by the hail, from the red color of a water-melon on the grass. The farmer scatters the seeds among the clods in the holy rite of an ancient liturgy: his trust is in the faith to his land.
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La zingara nella grotta ’eresia della vita finisce nel grembo della madre terra che contiene la follia dell’arte, la musica dell’amore a primavera. L’infanzia è una siepe di rose senza spine: nella culla si odono ancora le nenie sannite della giovane madre, che allontana la fattura della strega, il malocchio dello zingaro. Dalle grotte dove le capre ruminano sento il lamento degli Ebrei che finiscono in un forno crematorio. La zingara con i capelli lunghi allatta il bimbo nella grotta di tufo sotto l’incubo delle bombe, nel timore della morte.
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Gypsy Lady in the Cave he heresy of life finishes in the womb of motherland, that holds the folly of the art, the music of love at Spring. Infancy is a bush of roses without thorns: in the cradle you can still hear the Samnite lullaby of a young mother, that keeps away the bad luck of the witch, the evil eye of the gipsy man. From the caves where the goats ruminate I hear the lament of the Jews who finish in the gas chamber. The gipsy with long hair feeds her baby in the cave of sand under the fear of the bombs, under the fear of death.
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La notte di Venerdì Santo cani abbaiano la notte di Venerdì Santo quando Gesù morto è portato in processione per i vicoli di San Nicola Manfredi: "Ferite, ferite, ferite quest‘anima, ferite quest’anima, che causa ne fu". Allora il popolo aveva fede nei valori eterni della vita, cantava la speranza dopo la morte, piangeva il pianto dell’amore: "Oh fieri flagelli del mio buon Signore!" Oggi Cristo muore ogni giorno sui marciapiedi delle città; nelle corti d’ingiustizia altri cristi vengono coronati di spine, vengono condotti in catene al Calvario della Crocifissione. Ed io mi commuovo dinanzi al volto di Cristo impresso nel velario della Veronica: "Sì vago è il tuo tormento bel volto del mio Bene!" La Via Crucis continua in chiesa dove i contadini si percuotono il petto: "Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa!" La loro resurrezione è un’utopia che si disperde nelle pagine bianche della storia dove non c’è spazio per l’esule, non c’è inchiostro per l’emigrante. Il destino dell’esule è l’oblio.
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Night of Holy Friday he dogs are barking the night of Holy Friday when dead Jesus is taken in procession through the streets of Saint Nicholas Manfredi. Wound, wound, wound this soul, wound this soul, that was the cause of it! Then the people had faith in the eternal values of life, singing the hope after death, crying the cry of love: Oh fierce flagellation of my good Lord! Today Christ dies every day on the sidewalks of the city: in the courts of injustice other Christs are crowned with thorns, are led in chains to the Cavalry of Crucifixion. And I get moved in front of Christ’s face impressed in the velarium of Veronica: So vague is your torment beautiful face of my Lord. The Way to the Cross continues in church where the farmers hit their chest: “Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa”! Their redemption is an Utopia dispersed in the white pages of history wherein there is no space for the exile, there is no ink for the emigrant. The destiny of the exile is the oblivion.
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Colombo utto il giorno a Genoa giocar con barche solea quel bimbo. Immense nuove Terre sognava ad occhi aperti, vedea stranieri cieli aldilà dell’orizzonte, folle dai più chiamato il gonfio ocean blue navigava con gli occhi. Neri eran gli occhi suoi, parean ancor più neri di rosso luccichio i riccioli dei capelli che il ciglio suo carezzan; grandi occhi di bimbo, profondi, scrutano già dietro l’orizzonte. Cariche di ricchezze numerose nel porto approdan d’itala gioventú differenti navi con insegne. Profondo il presagio premea del suo "concetto il succo" di un ricco prospero futuro, apportator di gioia il chiasso era con la confusione mercantile, l’andarvieni di uomini e il tremolar della marina. S’alzan le vele larghe s’apron qual fior gigante di fusionistìco stile; della carrucola il cigolìo stridean le nodose fune l’ancor, pronte per ripartir al "ricevere da Euro maggior briga". Studiò molti libri apprese più degli Avi suoi; delle sue idee a tutti solea parlare provare volea loro il vero. Portava sempre in cor quel desio e ciò che di "tanta speme resta" finì la sua gioventù coi riccioli neri l’ardore suo ferventemente non finì. Scioglieva già gli ormeggi con uomini di sì poca fede, il lor "naviglio" bagnato era dall’onde. Sentiva "dentro brillar" il suo coraggio unica guida solo amico fedele. Colombo balzava fuori dall’alta nostra civiltà, terra toccava e strani i riti per qual novello dio che per stupor le genti rosse compierò, e, dall’Alto l’etereo immoto Sole irradiava lor tutti.
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Colombus hat child was playing with boats every day in Genoa. With his eyes open he was dreaming immense new lands, looking at strange skies beyond the horizon, he was called crazy by many the full blue ocean was sailing with his eyes. Black were his eyes, looking even more black for the shining red his curly hair caressed by a dream; big eyes of a young boy, deep, searching already beyond the horizon. Full of richness many young Italians approach the port on different ships with symbols. Deep was his hope pressing on his project of a rich prosperous future, bringing joy while the noise was caused by the mercantile confusion, the going and coming of men and the shaking of the sea. The large sails rise, open up like a gigantic flower of fusionistic style; the pulley was making noise with the ropes of the anchor, ready to depart again to receive from Euro more strength. He studied many books he learned more than his ancestors; he was talking to everyone about his ideas trying to prove the truth to them. He always carried in his heart that dream and what remained of his hope he ended up his youth with his curly hair his ardor did not finish at all. He was already getting ready to sail with men of little trust, their ship was already wet by the waves. He felt inside shining his courage the only guide the only faithful friend. Columbus came out from our high civilization, touched the land and strange rites for that new god that amazed the red people and from the Skye the immovable Sun was illuminating all of them.
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Il ritorno bbaiano i cani al ritorno del padrone, muovono la coda e fanno festa. Lasciatemi tornare alla mia terra natia dove ti abbraccerò, fanciulla sannita, nello stradone della vigna che bimbo mi protesse dalle bombe e diede linfa al mio sangue nelle vene. Al mio ritorno brinderò con voi, contadini della mia terra sannita, fedeli custodi della civiltà agricola, che avete avuto il coraggio di restare, avete resistito alla tentazione di salpare per treni di frontiera. Lasciatemi tornare alla mia terra dove le canne ondeggiano al vento per un antico rito liturgico che unisce indissolubilmente l’uomo alla culla della sua infanzia.
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The Return he dogs are barking for the return of the owner, move their tails and celebrate. Let me go back to my native land where I will hug you, my Samnite girl, in the road of the vineyard that protected my childhood from the bombs and gave nourishment to the veins of my blood. At my return I will toast with you, farmers of my Samnite land, faithful retainers of the agricultural civilization, you who had the courage to remain, resisted to the temptation to embark on the train of the frontier. Let me go back to my land where the reeds are waiving at the wind for an ancient rite of liturgy uniting forever man to the cradle of his infancy.
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Natale a New York con gli "Homeless" Natale. Che notte fredda New York, Brooklyn, Manhattan. La lussuria, i cristalli e gli Angeli qui tutto rimarrà . Lenta, lenta, lenta la neve cade. Giungere le terre mai vorrebbe. PerchÊ celar le cose coprir d’un freddo manto gli "Homeless" ?
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Christmas in New York with the Homeless t is Christmas. What a cold night New York, Brooklyn, Manhattan. The lust, the crystals and the Angels everything will remain here. Slowly, slowly, slowly the snow is falling. It never wants to reach the ground. Why hide the things and cover with a cold mantle the “Homeless�?
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Al poeta Orazio Tanelli i scrivo dal mio studio mentre la mia mente è in contatto col mio amico Cerbero. Credimi che i demoni non sono stati creati da Dio, così buono per sua natura eterna. Iddio non creò il diavolo, ma uno spirito puro, angelico. Poi Lucifero diventò cattivo per le sue gravi colpe commesse. Si ribellò all’autorità di Dio e fu condannato all’Inferno. Diventò traditore e padre tentatore dei nostri padri: il bis-bis-bisnonno di David, Giuda, San Paolo e San Tommaso. Ma tu, poeta sublime, in volontario esilio come me, non potrai mai sperare ch’io dia a Lucifero sulla tela una poltrona comoda nel Cocito dantesco. Le sue unghie penetranti saranno attaccate dal duolo e dal fuoco, lui griderà dall’ira al puzzo del fumo, bestemmierà tutti e le sue unghie. Allora io riderò quasi impazzito dalla gioia riderò ancora di più e lo spingerò sempre più dentro nelle infuocate zone dei colori sulla tela. I pennelli caldi del mio Fusionismo non scioglieranno il ghiaccio delle Malebolge, ma manterranno Lucifero nel fuoco eterno, perpetuo, luminescente, doloroso in compagnia della mia tavolozza. Eppure ... non mi ribellerò a Diol
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To poet Orazio Tanelli ’m writing to you from my office while my mind is in touch with my friend Cerberus. Believe me that the demons were not created by God, who is so good for His eternal nature. The Lord did not create the devil, but a pure angelic spirit. Then Lucifer became evil for having committed grave sins. He rebelled to God’s authority and was condemned to the Hell. He became tempter of our fathers: the great great grandfather of David, Judas, Saint Paul and Saint Thomas. But you, sublime poet, in voluntary exile like me, cannot ever hope that I give Lucifer on the canvas a comfortable armchair in the Dantean Cocitus. His penetrating fingernails will suffer the pain of the fire, he will shout from rage for the smell of smoking, he will blasphemy everyone and its fingernails. Ten I will laugh almost crazy for the joy I will laugh even more and I will push him deeper in the flamed areas of the colors on the canvas. The hot strokes of my Fusionism will not liquify the ice of the Malebolge, but will retain Lucifer into the eternal fire, perpetual, luminous, painful in the company of my canvas. Although... I will not rebel to God.
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IVO DAVID: "LE DEJEUNIER SUR LA PLAGE" REVISED 2001 CHARCOAL SKETCH
Memories of an Artist 3rd Edition Revised, 2015 Italian-English Translation Edition All Rights Reserved. Printed by: ABC Printing Company 1547 20th Street Vero Beach, Florida, 32960 • USA Poems Translated from Italian by Orazio Tanelli Orazio Tanelli Italian American Poet and Writer 164
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