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 exhibition.
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 S. James