One cannot help but to stand in awe of  THE ANCIENT.  Never do I walk in Italy, Greece or Egypt without my mind being invaded by the scuffing of the earth.  I am constantly wondering what ancient object might be resting just inches below my toes.  On the Island of Delos, I was constantly dislodging chards of pottery from the path's edge as I walked each evening to Cleopatra's cistern for a cool drink of water . . . Libations . . . being wrapped by the sounds of dried standing wheat . . . longing to be submerged in some ancient king's marble tub open to the sea.  The mutual co-existence of me and THE ANCIENTS initiates hauntings and at the same moment reveals clarifications of my own mortality. This is the gift of RUINS while alone in their presence: time frames are gently altered. You learn within their golden textures and cooling shadows . . . life is a continuum . . . that you are not stuck in a passage of a one- dimensional you, and that you are the most recent installment of all that ever was. THE PAST endures constant battle in keeping itself alive and fresh . . . and for what possible purpose . . . one's individual completion.

Within such process, one becomes aware of MAN'S and NATURE'S capacity to create - destroy - restore. GRAVITY is an ancient ingredient in this recipe for Decay.  For LA FORTEZZA I chose an ARCHETYPAL process: the crumbling of a STONE WALL . . . not just any generic stone wall, but that of a mighty FORTRESS worn from a mountain to a mound from a moat to shallow trench.  Four stilted windows exhibit still lifes of fallen stone walls attempting to survive.  Both fortress and site are archaic symbionic gestures to survival. . . . a skeleton of what was, now awaits to be renamed Genesis.  In one of the windows rests a small string sphere . . . my genesis metaphor.  One can peer through windows of multi-dimensions.

To keep THE PAST present is an enormous everyday challenge to the soul of Italy and one which I am appreciative to its people.  As I write, the breath-taking church of St. Francis of Assisi has deeply felt the thrusts of a modern earthquake this very morning:  Giotto's frescoes crumble . . . the ambition of decay is never dormant.