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Rating: I know him, Simone. Yes, I'm reviewing a person I know, a friend, but above all an artist, and I'm doing it in the most impartial way possible that exists and that he knows. To say, or reiterate, depending on the point of view, my personal esteem for him, would be as banal as it is unnecessarily demagogic. But, on the other hand, expressing my intellectual esteem for him is the most just thing I can do. We don't agree on many things, on artistic, existential, sentimental themes; at times, we are the polar opposites of a scale, we are as far apart as possible. But, precisely for this reason, perhaps, his counterargument is important, necessary, inspiring to me. His great naturalness in expressing himself rather than arguing is admirable, and this makes him an authentic, honest poet. A great poet is one who explains nothing, who doesn't argue, but simply narrates the internal and external reality that conditions and torments him. "Dipinto" represents all of this. If you seek answers from this poem, don't read it. It is not a breviary that provides lysergic advice on love themes, but it is what the great Norberto Bobbio would define as a "semi-artistic work of allergic interpretation." Yes, because to interpret it would mean to denature it. For each person, this poem can represent everything and its opposite. And therefore allergic, devoid of any ideological impact, of any belonging. Happiness and pain alternate within the poem, like two lovers who observe and repel each other, but cannot do without one another. The musicality is evident, the use of lexicon is sophisticated but not ostentatious, it is incisive but not rude. It is a succession of snapshots, of moods, of paintings (indeed) imprinted in the mind more than in the heart. And those same paintings weave under the skin, pressing us and urging us according to our intentions. It almost seems like a collection of thoughts spoken aloud, a compendium of modernity, supported by a nearly tangible truth giving substance to his words. What makes this poem different from others is the search for a different perspective, a point of observation that is both external and internal, realized with a sharp, totemic gaze devoid of any prejudice. So, is it perfect? No, absolutely not. It is certainly perfectible, both in substance and form, but it is a great starting point for a young artist like Simone Filippetti. I close thus, with a phrase from a great contemporary intellectual that, in my opinion, fully encapsulates the essence of the poem and the artist himself: "For writing I have done everything, I have even reduced myself to living.”
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