Incipit. The gallery's (studio/repository, rather) fittingly grand name, “Framart Studio,” after having more modestly been “Studio Incisetto Numerico,” is located in a fascinating and decadent former psychiatric hospital, adjacent to an abandoned and unsettling villa, which was rumoured (but who knows...) to have belonged to the mathematician Cacioppoli, who died by suicide (in short, a story worthy of... Priest's hat, (with a ghost of Coriolano of Santa Fusca and Don Cirillo). He was a gentle giant, named Nicola Incisetto, a lover of all “creative” works, but above all of art risky, as Heidegger said, which has to do with inventive and experimental madness and not with honest decoration. Ground floor, workshop, carpentry, where the works took shape, in the presence of the authors, with artisans, true sons of the technique of transforming mercury into gold. Two in particular, of whom I remember only one name, Salvatore, tinkered about from morning to night, with all materials imaginable. He, Nicola, upstairs, in a large hall full of works, an immense kitchen, entirely wallpapered with works of art. A tiny room (with a bathroom) for guests (among the most frequent, in recent years, myself and Vettor Pisani) and then his own, always small, with a perpetually unmade bed and holy of holies, ...from his immense archive. Giritiello, was the cook, capable of cooking for thirty-six hours a day, with the proceeds from a vast garden, turned into a market garden, managed by Flavio, a mysterious man from Friuli in Naples, who invented something new every day. Then there was Giovanni, the jack-of-all-trades, a great card player, who had millions of lire in winnings from briscola documented in his ledger, and who did everything (without succeeding) to lose games so as not to irritate Nicola, who accused him of every kind of cheating.
At lunch, ever-present, were the critic Arcangelo Izzo and Professor Orabona, elegant and great connoisseurs of Giritiello's cuisine; sporadic but active presences were those of Carmine Rezzuti and Quintino Scolavino, refined artists and extraordinary visionaries. The names and works were mind-boggling, from Duchamp to Dennis Oppenheim, George Brecht, Wagner K, Hidetoshi Nagasawa, of whom there was a monumental porphyry table, once of intertwined silver reeds, Vettor Pisani, as if it were raining, many Dragomirescu and Dadamaino, Cotani, and I'll stop, as I could go on endlessly, with Michele Zaza, Nicola Carrino, Franco Ciuti. Thousands of works, including sculptures by Patrizia Guerresi and a huge painting by Liliana Malta, beside and around which, the splendid hand of Crescenzio Del Vecchio Berlingeri, with coffee tuff and rubber pencil, had taken care to arabesque, an atlas of humour, in the style of Pulcinella and Totò (Prince de Curtis) on Asses of the alleyways, but also on the refinements of Neapolitan Baroque. Am I forgetting someone, but I don't want to, the mythical and most beautiful Adriana Bucciano, a true expert, collector, gallerist, comparable to Marisa Del Re, collaborator of Ileana Sonnabend, whose balance kept the “Circo Framart” standing. The name of Nicola Incisetto will remain in the memory of a great, great entrepreneur, in the irreplaceable era of the Morras, Rummmas, Trisorio, to whom Artiaco, Raucci and Santamaria, Scognamiglio and Teano, Cicelyn, Solito have been added. From Incisetto, a long succession of exhibitions, catalogues, fairs, monographs, in an accelerated time, when all that was beautiful and sublime could happen. I almost forgot, for a long time, in the uncultivated field, where sculptures lay upon sculptures, overrun by climbing plants, there was a lion, in a cage. And I would have liked to see that it wasn't there. It embodied his strength and his passion. I was “cock-a-doodle-doo”.
KLESSIDRA | EDITED BY FRANCESCO GALLO MAZZEO
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