I’m not talking about me. It would be useless. I show what I did. I reveal what I think. And I try to give birth, accompanied by you, to what I have in mind to do. Indifference and ignorance are certainly the status that has caused the decline of consciousness in people. The frightening hiatus between the well-being of the few and the poverty of the majority, the food and health inequality emerge from the dry statistical numbers that are provided to us every day by reliable and responsible sources. Year after year the squandering and the cult of the useless are more and more driven, the lack of discernment and the contempt of the common rules of common sense are tangible and envelop us in ever tighter spirals. And these coils end up suffocating our planet, now distorted and devastated to the limits of reversibility. In the vulgar and guilty disorder, art has taken on a function that is increasingly of rebellion and accusation, with different voices striving to be heard: the only hope behind an already announced end, inevitable if this spontaneous sob of denunciation remains unheard . The love for art that permeates these pages is therefore instinctive and intellectual, complicated and simple. It is love for these artists who compose a veritable language of the heart, caressed, bent and sculpted with an ever-watchful sensitivity. They are pages of when life is a continuous discovery, exploration of other people’s identity and search for one’s own, when art embodies an attitude towards the world ready to open up to every experience, to enjoy every joy, to expose itself to every wound.