There comes off the world running and jumping, it takes wings. Are the wings that Piero Manzoni sought in those twenty-nine years interrupted by a heart attack came too soon. There were to be expected great things from one to twenty-three years he signed his most famous manifesto, “the picture is our area of freedom – he said – art is the cocktail of freedom, invention, joy”, when I twenty-six I barely tell you what I’ve studied without getting bored too; and Palazzo Reale and its Milan dedicates an exhibition (you have until June, 2). Piero Manzoni soon realized that he needed to try those wings, cross, detached from the thought and the common perception of art. He finds them in an artistic journey that starts from sign’s organicity and get to the pure concept, his famous signature. He starts by a desire to exist images from white paintings made from pieces side by side and folded canvases, the Achromes, in search of the germinal moment in which everything is possible, where each image is possible. To get to the shit, yes the jar that contained the famous “Artist’s Shit”. Resounding manager himself, Piero Manzoni understand that art clings to the artist himself, that the concept behind the canvas or inside a box is stronger than any picture, which is something because “it just is”. He was an insatiable, an impatient, Manzoni ugly you don’t expect that shut himself up in his room and painted and manufactured seamless. And he find the point zero, the essence, from which every image in our minds or a pencil, starts. Twenty-nine years is too short, who knows what would have combined the restless Manzoni.
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