When the Mythic Greek hero Ulysses returns to Ithaca, transformed by the goddess Athena into an old man, wretched and frail, only his dog and his nurse Euryclia recognize him. Euryclia identifies him by a scar on his leg. Penelope had lost all hope of her husband ever returning after 20 years of silence. Thus, as he reveals his identity to her, she looks deeply into the eyes of the foreigner and inquires: “If you, stranger, are pretending that you are Ulysses, you should know where our palace is built, otherwise, you are not!”“Our palace is built on the hill where we used to go alone as lovers and our bedroom is in the same place where the olive tree was growing and we made love, and our bed is the tree itself.”In this ancient story, where life metamorphoses into art or poetry, it is hard to say which is art and which is life. I create my pieces as “Art” and “Life”, rarely knowing which one is more fascinating, more dangerous, more real; for me they are the same.
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