The best italian journalist writes for the Corriere della Sera: Gian Antonio Stella.
I have no words to describe his raw and essential style.
He is an infinite gold mine of information that he uses to accuse the endless mischief done by italian rogues.
This week, until Friday, he is a guest of Radio Tre from quarter past seven in the morning, to chat about daily news and to answer to the questions of radio listeners.
Switch off the television, switch off the other ignorant radios (“only great successes!” the shout other radios. Only great successes?!?! I want to hear what I don’t know, not great success!) and switch to Radio Tre.
I you’d like the MP3 it’s here
http://www.radio.rai.it/radio3/podcast/lista.cfm?id=811

I admit that on my side it is schizophrenic to be part of a world and at the same time criticise it.
I am that guy that spits on the plate he eats in.
It’s true, I admit it, but it is stronger than me.
On a recent issue of the fabulous magazine MAX (I collaborate with it) there were some wonderful photographs (not mine) of a lady, Roberta someone, that works on television and in the glittery world of showbiz. I don’t know her, because I don’t really watch television, cut she’s surely good and gorgeous.
Ok.
Somewhere along the article there is a resume of her artistic and working life. Above the scanned image of a detail of her prestigious curriculum.
In the year 2000 the fundamental turn of things…

Maybe wings and halo are better suited to the model I shot…

The good and the bad.
Bene_d’usi [good_of use]
Settimio Benedusi=sette demoni sì bui [seven demons yes dark]
“self portrait” photo by c.v.

It is more and more common the need to change oneself.
To change, to modify something on our body. The women, but also the men, seem never satisfied of who they are.
So go with modifications, changes, and corrections…
Smooth wrinkles, lengthen the nails, add some hair with extensions, take away the fat, hair implants, bigger tits, modify the cheek bones, paint the skin with tattoos (a dolphin on the ankle, an oriental glyph that means “love and harmony” on the shoulder…), they are destroyed, to reconstruct them smaller… and so on, in a constant change of who we are.
It is aesthetic surgery.
That’s it, I also want to be part of this.
I also want to modify myself.
I also want something different.
I don’t like who I am.
I also want to try surgery. The ethic surgery, leaving out the “aesth”.
I want to be more intelligent.
I want to be more cultured.
I want to know the Divine Comedy off by heart.
I want to memorize all the poetry.
I would like to have read all the books in the world.
Have seen all the movies of this earth.
I want to be more likeable.
I want to be more charismatic.
I want to be smarter.
Does someone know the way to hospital were they practice this kind of surgery?

Record of pages viewed in one day since my website exists: yesterday there were 4.192!
Thank You!

I read a very particular book: “Banvard’s Folly” written by Paul Collins and published by Adelphi. This book tells the story of 13 people that in their lives have been exceptional for something: for their enormous failures.
John Banvard, for example, was a famous painter of the 1800. Actually, even more than famous, he was the most famous, celebrated by his contemporaries as a genius and the first painter in history to become super rich with his art. He was really famous in Europe and in America, and he built a castle in New York where he lived with his family like a Lord. Someone knows today who John Banvard? Someone remembers him? Absolutely not, completely forgotten. His paintings are lost and without any value.
The failure, and this is a book about failure.
Brilliant subject, I’m fascinated from it.
Most of the people I know are failures, maybe failures of success, but they are failures. (not you my friend that is reading, you ain’t, you ain’t a failure, all the others are…).
Also, in some ways, I am.
As we were saying, failure… failure is a marvellous thing, the true justice. Failure is the proof that there were no short cuts, there was no corruption, and if there were they were… unsuccessful, for it is also an act of justice: you are a failure? You didn’t corrupt. You are a failure and you also corrupted? It is right that you failed.
The ones that have had success probably got to it by going along paths they didn’t even decide, they had to conform… they took paths stimulated by cleverness and interests.
But if a drunk shouts: “You’d also get drunk, if you knew life like I do!”, what is he?

Some news on the website.
- New pics from sport illustrated 2006, here is the LINK
- Jucca ad, LINK
- Take Two, LINK
- New editorial for uovo magazine, LINK
It’s a death story. Death?! Off course! Death!
I thought that the argument is abundantly confronted by any aspect of human creativity: cinema, music, novels… even children stories (little red riding hood…) but fashion photography seems to ignore it. Only hot chicks jumping happily! What is there to jump happily about? So in my story I made them die suicides, although their beauty, the clothes are magnificent, with their opulence and their richness. The appearance is not everything…

Finally I travelled a lot these holidays: I read everything and anything. Reading is the best of travels.
Of the things I read, I noted these words from the diary of keith haring:
“I’m trying with all my strength to draw some sense from all this madness. My life, my love on the wrong course, my friends, the suffering, the pain and the small blows to my wisdom. I have to get better, I think, but it looks like it’s getting worse. How long still? And who am I to ask questions? It’s not a question anymore to comprehend, but an acceptance. I accept my fate, I accept my life. I accept my defects, I accept the fight. I accept my incapacity to understand. I accept what I’ll never become and what I’ll never have. I accept death and I accept life, I don’t have a profound consciousness: it’s a blind acceptance of some kind of fate. All of this is making me dull, that is, in some way, even more frightening. There is nothing strange left that will shock me. I’m becoming more rigid outside but also more tender inside. I have to exceed. All f this is my own life.”
Keith Haring
Diaries
Keith Haring died of aids on the 16th of February 1990

Apologies, I went skiing…