Mario Schifano had done I don’t remember how many paintings by transferring onto canvas some of the 100 chairs exhibited in 1990 in his and – on the occasion – my gallery owner’s premises… but not only that, because in response to the proposal for a new exhibition of the above-mentioned artefacts , with the intention of not exposing the chairs in their usual black-curial appearance for the third time, I proposed to my painter friend to smear them, dirty them, in short to violate their surface as he wished. Neither the paintings nor the intention to alter the surfaces of the chairs received the gallery owner’s approval. Far from it, but free and autonomous, we still decided to follow up on the idea of ​​his pictorial intervention on some of my projects. I then designed a series of furnishing accessories on whose surface my friend would exercise his versatile talent, on a par with what was planned for the chairs. The intention was always fueled by the desire for shared work, even if Comare Secca – from one day to the next and without any warning – mowed down his life, preventing his intervention when ten projects had now taken concrete shape. Artifacts which, as usual, came from unaware and unconscious sketches, resulting from life experiences, books, films, dreams, visions and anything else obscure, left to flow by an autonomous pencil even if conditioned, always and in any case, by the constraint of a function: an essential legacy of my profession as an architect. They are nothing more than explosions, slips and rotations of an expressionist nature, on volumes and surfaces that were once simple and reassuring, all altered by intent and a few glasses of a soft and allied red. Lastly, urged by Achille Bonito Oliva, there was the request for a posthumous reading, piece by piece, of what rational could be gleaned from it. Here then is Tarkovsky’s martyr table, Pope Luciani’s pregnant crosses, Rilke’s old Lamentation and the bomb that explodes inside a conventional piece of furniture… and then the Holy Spirit that descends and alters, with its essence, the ordinary functionality of a chest of drawers… and then Holderling’s God and Nietzsche’s… and so on. This is what it’s about