Dear Matilde,
I wasn’t able to do it sooner.
Forgive me.
Life had to pass through me first—slowly and relentlessly. I had to grow older, travel far, and become a father. People, often ask me,
“What was your friend like?” And I tell them, “She was one of a kind. A force of character. An artist like no other—uncompromising, brilliant, and profoundly misunderstood.”
I’ve kept the promise I made to you long ago—so long ago it almost feels like another life. We were seated at the kitchen table, arguing with passion over the state of the world: the emptiness of society, the decline of reason, and what—if anything—might await you in the darkness beyond. You were eating half an apple. I remember that. And I said, certain, “I’ll help you, Matilde. I’ll make it happen. One day, I’ll get you the exhibition you deserve. Don’t worry.”
But you had to wait. Too long. You had to vanish—fall quietly into that great silence you feared and speculated on. Now you drift through the shadows that once filled your thoughts, and I’m left here, holding on to fragments of your work, your words, your presence. You can’t see us now, hands carefully measuring, framing, handling your paintings with reverence and quiet awe. You can’t hear the admiration in our voices, or see how your art, at last, is being seen for what it truly is—powerful, hypnotic, unmistakably yours.
And still, I hear you.
“Ciao, sono io. What are you up to tonight? Free, or with your ladies?”
And my answer, always the same:
“Same place, same time. Wait for me.”
I had to meet Lorens—our friend Lorenzo Fornaca, the publisher from Asti who published Aldo’s books, your husband’s words. Then I met Gianfranco Cuttica di Revigliasco and his son Cesare—noble in name and in spirit. With them, we organized the exhibition at the monumental complex of Bosco Marengo.
And then there was Antonio Barbato, another friend, one who admired both you and Aldo deeply—even if he feared your Gin Gin, thinking him a fierce and biting dog. You knew them all. They all admired you. They spoke of your grace, your warmth, the effortless hospitality you offered so naturally—like a true Monferrina lady.
And the list of friends keeps growing. Maria Rita Mottola, president of A.L.E.R.A.M.O. Onlus, and her husband Giancarlo Boglietti—without their dedication and help, the Moncalvo exhibition would never have come to life.
Roberto Coaloa, journalist and historian, once a young visitor to the Romito, called you “the Italian Matisse” in a recent article published in Libero. There were others who held you and Aldo in admiration—like Pierangelo Torielli and Luigi Bavagnoli, speleologists and guardians of the Saracen treasures hidden in the Guaraldi Valley.
You were a discreet and tireless maker of an art both refined and powerful, still waiting to be fully discovered. You were a great artist—unrecognized, yes—but now, at last, there are those who are beginning to see, and beginning to truly value, the world you painted.
Better late than never.
What became of all our musings—about the world, about art, love, philosophy, and the lost dignity of human beings?
Who knows…
In the most elegant cafés of Turin, you couldn’t resist the temptation of cream-filled pastries or those chocolate-soaked babà. Faced with such delicacies, your willpower lasted barely a minute—always so delightfully indulgent. And while nibbling away, you’d turn to me and ask, “Do you think these will make me fat?” Only to drift, moments later, back to the realm of shadows, to spirits, to the mysterious phenomena you either witnessed or embodied.
Your mind would leap from the sweetness of a dessert to the metaphysical abyss, to the great mystery that gives life and just as swiftly takes it away.
And you never stopped asking yourself: Why? But how is all this even possible?
My dearest, most unique, ineffable friend—
what will become of us?
Perhaps some kind-hearted soul will try to rescue your art, and mine, from falling into oblivion. What is this strange mystery that still binds us, even after all these years since your passing? I wouldn’t know how to explain it.
What remains is a cherished memory: you, radiant with beauty and strength, holding your beloved Gin Gin in your arms;
and I, thin, awkward, the timid squire at the court of the Romito.
But enough—emotion now stands in the way of more constructive thoughts and actions.
We have taken up the torch, promised to carry your art forward, to bring you back to life—serene, vibrant,
filled with your passion for existence and the thousand mysteries nestled within that chaotic interval we call… life.
Your friend,
Mario