Now he is only thinking of his Muses, the solemn mountainous
chain that closes Friuli to the north of Tarcento. Everyday he goes
to look at them, as if with a pressing date. It is a great project
in which once again he includes all his painting. He
screws up the canvas to feel its beat under the colour, those soft
and tender colours that he discovers in the raw rock which seems
to give in, mysteriously, to the insinuating lights which follow
one after the other and want to penetrate it.
He dies in a few days, almost without a reason.
Only a month before, suddenly, he had decided upon a brief holiday
in Venice: who knows for what unconscious impulse he had wanted
once again to go along those roads of long ago and now quite unusual:
Burano, Malamocco, San Pietro in Volta.
And he had asked room at Bevilacqua La Masa for an anthological
And yet his speech was not at all concluded, or rather the last
part had only just begun: in his painting the noise had not been
quashed and the silent signs continued to show the shivers of discovery.
All Biography translated by Nicolette