Every now and then I wonder why my life is full, stuffed with mimmocentoinizi (i.e. Mimmo a hundred of starts). Here, even the typewriter betrays me: I wanted to write 'mimmocentonzi' and it came out, I swear, as natural as a sob, this even more mysterious ircocervo, which sounds precisely: “mimmocentoinizi”. And that seems even too much Ermanno Olmi, I know, neither nail does not drive out nail, every nail is indeed a beginning, every beginning a nail: stuck in the battered rib-cage of your day. Maybe I have this, in the swollen tripe of the hack-writer unconscious: the undone goad what ever it is, which one must start from some point, and there is no dilemmatic white-braking page by Stefani Mallarmé, which supports me and allows me to escape, in the meantime, Centonze is on his cell phone again (I don't know how much Mimmo Centonze - he himself - whom I rhetorically hesitated to let on the scene, but he is already here, imagine, and jumps between the lines of the typing, like an anthropo-grasshopper reinvigorated by the natural viagra of painting, I don't know how much he hangs out, Centonze in fact, the arabesque lines of the mournful mime of the Hazard, who will never abolish the dice, but I know that there is no blank page that holds him back or stems him,

I think that he has not yet drawn a white canvas from the talkative pen holder of his morning in Matera, that the picture Shed number 23,470 has already materialized by itself, lively and vociferous and terrible, avalanche burnt like burnt vegetables: there is the picture, clear and shiny like an ocar ina ethnic ceramic, mixed with colors - if smeared par ugly, as a too direct term - practically ready and baked and buttered with light, quick to send to the next reviewer, summoned in the meantime, one is not enough neither two nor three in the emphasis of fishing , unconditional, down in the greedy hole of the mails, more avalanches, as he plays Rembrandt.

Without the artist having even had to shake his hands or a finger, except the hands or the hooked fingers of the voice, of the Michaelstetterian telephone suasion: nothing! except trade in contacts, mobile phones, mailings, small messages and short messages of messages of messages, to say that he had said he had not said that he had said to, yes messages swollen like scuffed rabbits (I read that Elisabetta Sgarbi thinks of Soutin) swollen with pity itself, like fermented cheeses with incomplete verminosity, boxed like matryoshkas carved into the Lucanian stones, or cycling incitements on the night tour, like: "Go Marco I trust you", and meanwhile the painting is done by itself, levitates levitates like in a mediumistic contribution, practically acheropita, without any contact of human articulation or extremity, only a splintered condensation of agitated and mixed-frappe words, without letting the pestle of the whining uvula rest, "comeoniamyoungyoudonothavetobetrayme", chanted every time, like a conjuration yeyé.

Yes, Mimmo smodugno, I'm talking about your painting, do not get into tension, please, I'm talking about the feverish and incandescent cartilages of your brushstroke, hammered in a Wagnerian way, in the Mediterranean and vernacular theater of your Walhalla, a blacksmith's boggy brushstroke ironwork of hautes pa ^ tes obsolete, fallen from the fibrous and yogourth-reverse sky of the end of the decapitated world of painting (if anything, I would rather see Varlin than Soutine, for that slavinated and catastrophic flow, an archaeological-industrial and ultimately Lucretian flush 'unburnt and bouncing atoms, a broken flood of acidic and garagistic luminosity, dipped in the conversing and frowning gall of a northern south, atoms and molasses burned by the closed sun of rage, of a milky rage of numb and sickened lights, and bruised and almanaccated, as from the coachbuilder, of all the possible asbestos of our provincial parliamentary empyrean. But maybe the true relationship, almost one of quoting and chanting devotion, is with Lucien Freud, a Lucien Freud, who added in his DNA, as if pouring marsala, not the haughty and deterrent gaiters of Viennese grandfather Sigmund, but at most the skinned galoshes of Domenico Rea, with his 'bitch grape', damn him. Yes, yes, in the meantime he makes the song tu tu on the phone, and flaua: "write yes, yes, you write crazy things, okay, do, do, but favorable to me?

How can you hurt a dear remigant bacillus of the ante-Lucanian family of the “mimmocentonzi”, save to scramble the brush of the tongue? I understand why they call them 'antelucan hours': claiming that I would have asked for money from councilor voices, for my ear of a memory that was never even heard, or sheets of mails repeated in a carpet of repeated images, which seem to reverberate and reiterate in the abandoned silence of the lost letters, but the right and expected ones are missing: "sorry, I went to review, but I understood and you are right" or "I sent you my reproduction of Rembrandt when I was twelve that you appreciated so much ", In one go.

I don't remember ever meeting her, Mr. Job David Geremia, meditating on your centuries-old cosmic ruin (it is certainly impressive, if really twelve years old: this sense of collapse and sumptuous ruin, aspirated and rolling, rather than glowing, of painting). But I remember the first meeting with mimmo-centonze present here, albeit in a perennial photocopy of the telephone, waiting for aSgarbyincidentallylate, in a restaurant in a small town in Sicily, which I don't even remember now, waiting for the same to break down the gate with the carabinieri of the local Pinacoteca, the director asleep in protest, a visit together at a weird happy museum nativity, or the incestuous trade between a nocturnal, bristly Caravaggio and a Christmas Rubens.

Well I remember this young pyrotechnician, who also came from the night of a kilometer journey, and the desire to overturn on the table, among the clams, his book of girls abandoned on afternoon carpets of hyper-Freudian boredom and crystallizing portraits of very close ancestors. I don't know why, to pick up on the subject of my earthly day, but I know that Sgarbi's life is, like my very humble one, studded with these strange ephemeris-growths, which are called mimmo-centonzi and that maybe he it passes and mutates you, from the high chair of the Mayor with honorific sash, as if they were contagious and burning fevers, and I will not even neglect them, the obscure heirs of a prehistoric fauna with no more history, and this perhaps makes me nice, above all, Sgarbi. "Sgarbi at 4:40 a.m. he dictated his piece to me, you?". Terror: M. C.'s painting is also made up of these malnourished involuntary dawns and unanswered prayers, which they mount like mascarponi in olive oil.

But he, at least, Sgarbi, I mean, in his quiver-bag has also crammed flowers and thorns of politicians, revered and reverend ones, of shabby and histrionic actors, constant and dancers, and I find myself instead, I can not say happy of this, but at night, to have only beside a telephone and mental plantation of vigorous mille-mimmo-centontizero. In this regard I tried to consult the famous Borgesian encyclopedia, which also contains itself, and obviously contains enough pages dedicated to this strange species of mimmomultiplecentonzi, it is true mainly located in the Rio della Plata, from the time of the Plantagenet Pleistocene, but for what look in the folds of the great Argentine, indeed, a why, we have not yet managed to find it (there are many who want it) and finally solve this artistic enigma. Because this curious pictorial and writing fauna is not limited to sending news and dispatches, with incredible alternating Morse condensates, of suddenly knotted and percussive lumps of requests, which do not leave a breath, and then incredible curtains of suffocated silence, interminable dactyls or banks of 'a dormant silence, to immediately rekindle, treacherous snake.

Every time it seems imminent, indeed the last and fateful date for the delivery of the piece in the catalog with a gasping printer seems to be over and dead, and instead everything suddenly goes out, languishing like a wet firecracker, in a treacherous torpor, which will come knocking again, soon. distance. The nuttata has now passed, the space is over, the friends are not leaving: yes, of course, everything I said just wanted to understand the noble painter of Mimmo C., who paints as he telephones, you wrote him in the heart of the night a message of comfort, at half past seven in the morning his brushstroke lets you know that he has just deposited his first layer of anxiety-inducing density, he warns you with a trumpet that his painting has begun to howl, and to ask for an audience, respectfullyyourlord.