A crew of artists that tell the first decade of the new millennium: from the fall of the Twin Towers to the first black president, from Berlusconi to Ratzinger, from the Chinese economic boom to the international crisis, from Osama to Tzunami, from the job insecurity to the relationship fragilty, from cell phone to facebook!
The children of a violent technology, the Matrix dreamily predicts the current non-life.
The optical fibber strings, Rimbaud like text messages, paperless letters and the images that wear out on a rotating signs.
I’m the boy of the zero years, those of the beginning of something nameless…
The new millennium began, a new century and a decade that has retraced styles and concepts of a plundered, not analyzed, old Story.
I am the boy of the unreal decade that leaves no trace because it consumes and burns fast polluting souls and atmospheres.
I am the man who doesn’t grow up since the illusion of being able to communicate makes me feel free of commitment.
I have many sexes, no family; I am the West rugged by absurd ambitions instilled by unattainable illusions.
I’m the human animal without the consciousness of the existential sense; I fuck all spontaneity to build a perfection that doesn’t stink of sweat any more.
I’m the survivor from the years of confusion, I do not know what I can build now when everything has been destroyed; we sell politics, even God.
The artists, we all became “artists”, chasing commodified communication styles, the words have lost value; the children of scheming projects we advance toward a big change trying to realize the missing presence.
What about Art? are Artists that still do it?