In light of my invitation to participate to the 2015 “The Arctic Circle” Exploratory Residency in the North Pole (here is a link to my application proposal), I chose Berlin as my think tank and ask GlogauAir to be my “partner in crime” to develop a all new body of work.

Well GlogauAir accepted and I’m extremely honored to be part of their Artist in Residence.

I’ll be in Berlin for the next 6 month after 12 years of absence.
Thank you Berlin. So much has changes in me and in you.

Updates about it all will come soon, for now below is something a wrote on my first week here.

Due to dyslexia and English as a second language spelling and grammar mistakes will apply 😉

  The is something silently amusing about intuitively know were the light switch is positioned in Germany vs Us , Italy, or any give country. To know that turning a key clockwise will open doors in the Americas and close doors in Europe. To know that “Kalt” (cold in German) is so phonetically similar to “caldo” (hot in Italian) causing to doubt your self every time you turn open a faucet no matter in which country you are currently in; or to even know the actual difference of building in different countries.

 It makes me smirk. It is my little secret. One that  no one is particularly interested in knowing, yet one that makes me profoundly who I’m: down to the very core, a nomad and eclectic soul .

I make thee like a North African, yet have my 4pm English Breakfast brake like the queen of England. My English is colored with shadows of Italian, Brooklyn slang, Hawaiian pidgin and Australian accent. With my mother I get in argument in French, with my father in Italian or “Barese” dialect and in English with my man. I hunt fish, shellfish and sea urchin like a fisher man because I was taught by a fisherman. I cook couscous to feel at home, Ramen in memory of good friends long gone, and I’m condemned to crave a good “Possole” any day, especially because it is impossible to find one worth of its name outside Mexico and especially outside of my cousin kitchen.

I learn to walk on height-heals and which high hills to buy form fellow strippers in LA. I lived in a palace. I have been a professional sailor yet to concentrated in dreaming about long distance crossing to score a race, until I got to do exactly that.

I build thing all my life. Worked in movie sets, restoration and construction with the strength and stubbornness of a mule. So, when I found my self on high-hills cutting a piece of wood with a jigsaw or walking my way to a meeting on my tailleur to pitch some advertising campaign I laugh, not with pride nor content; because, one again, I have escaped any definition even my own.
That is in essence what  amuse me the most to be me, to be a mutt, a nomad, incapable to fit within the boundary of any country , culture or professional milieu.

I escaped and  thrive in between  the cracks despite what Facebook or Google or data aggregations software has me categorized as.
But I’m not alone.
So many of my kind have been forgotten, obliterated from census and statistics or even physically eliminated because proven faulty, uncomfortable to a nationalistic “omologocoltural” narrative.

We are the prove we don’t need brothers, nations or categories.
We are the prove that an educated electric society can exist.
That we don’t need gods nor cultural pride.
That we don’t need to be woman or men.
That this border-less eclectic culture doesn’t threaten one identity , but strengthen it .
That it doesn’t create friction or wars, but builds bridges and harmony.

Yet we don’t exist.
We live in the shadows, mistaken by one thing or the other, maybe even holding a couple of passports up our sleeves escaping definition and cultural imprisonment.
We are many. We are chameleons; besides, you are going to see in us only the little bit needed in  support your own narrative.

You want to make us pawns of your game therefore we hide, we protect our freedom. Blurring and crossing “the line” in incognito.
Endless clandestine seeking our home in the cracks of your broken system.