An artist's work inevitably ends up becoming part of the life of those who were able to recognize and appreciate it, so when an artist dies it is as if a part of what we love or have loved also disappears with him.
Giuni Russo
I learned the news of the death of Giuni Russo I was watching the news and immediately a phrase from a great Indian master came to mind, which was reported to me some time ago, during a discussion on art, by another artist, Alberto Fortis: "Art, like life, does not arise as a commodity to be placed on the market. Art is a flower that grows spontaneously on the side of a road, always ready to be picked by those who know how to recognize it."“
I don't know why I immediately associated this phrase with Giuni Russo. Perhaps it was because I knew Alberto Fortis was a great admirer of hers, or perhaps because Giuni Russo's immense artistic talent was far removed from the parameters many record companies use when judging an artist. Giuni Russo couldn't be sold by the pound, like the second-rate artists invading the temple of Italian music, so admired and pampered by record companies. Giuni Russo was truly that spontaneous flower that the inattention or insensitivity of the Italian record industry, attentive only to the merciless rules of the market, failed to recognize.
Many newspapers have remembered this artist, with her extraordinary voice, retracing the stages of her career. I thought I'd remember her through the affectionate words of a friend of hers, Ivan Cattaneo, who wrote a poem for her that contains the story of a beautiful friendship.
THE FIRST NIGHT
And it immediately rained
After your fall from life
And they never stopped covering you
Endless spoonfuls of earth to seal your body
While we all are amazed, scattered and confused
We looked around for some distraction from the sky.
And it was your first night… alone down there
Behind that gate that separates life
And stubborn like you, the water that never stopped falling
That soaked and penetrated everything disrespectfully
Until reaching your slender body… in its first rest
And then it was lightning and a furious storm… furious at your hasty fate!
And your still slim body smiles
Surrounded by roses & rosaries on the bamboo bed
And your white and dull hands… white fingers
Which now resemble seagull wings
And now I'm here in my bed and I can't sleep and I'd like to run there
In front of that gate that separates everything
I would like to go in and put an umbrella on your grave so that you don't get wet... so that your beautiful voice doesn't catch a cold or get low.
So that your soul, always brave and proud, does not have
For the first time fear or human sense of loneliness.
Here I would like to be there Giuni… to keep you company and to shelter you from the unfathomable!
But this is life and this is death that separates everything!
Which tears us away from our warm homes to mix us back into nature
And there you are, in the storm and tempest, rain and fog… there you are.
On your first night alone.
Inside earth and mud and the wild shuffling of the world
Ah, how much injustice you suffered… how many wanted to shut your throat!
But you know: too much art, too much courage and skill.
It annoys hypocrites and mediocre people!
There under the earth I thought of you: as a woman, as a lover…
Like a lost child… too accustomed to the Mediterranean sun
To be able to remain there now helpless in a Lombard cemetery
Between fog and mist
But then I'm sure
If I had come that first night of yours
At the gate… I would have surely seen suddenly
A voice evaporating above the earth and mud
A voice transforming into a seagull soul
And it is stubborn to evaporate from matter
To reclaim the sky…
Regaining his flight to the Sicily of his childhood
Towards the dazzling sun that at dawn emerges from the sea
As you now Giuni are coming out of the fog and mud
And you fly away forever towards the only true freedom.
Screaming Giuni…
Screaming with sublime shivers of voice…
As only you knew how!
Ivan Cattaneo, September 2004
