Among the many definitions born from the incessant reflection that the human being has led along his path, this one by the great Dutch painter is the one that most resonated within me on my journey into art. It was a journey that began a long time ago, when I was a child, simply with the first readings and which was then enriched by ranging in various fields, musical, pictorial. But nothing is stronger than the memory of the sensation of discovery that a novel that I still consider a remarkable work, White Fang, by Jack London, gave me. I counted the times I read it and started over. I kept it under the counter, I don’t know if my teachers Ivo and Maria Grazia pretended nothing happened, but I leafed through it secretly. In the meantime I was writing horrible poems that they appreciated, perhaps because I was the only student who wrote about them … I then moved on to Little Women, by Louisa May Alcott and there, while I was crippling a sachespeare (I read it like this) it seems to me pronounced by Jo March, yes it opened up an unexpected world that those who stumbled upon it understand. It is very difficult to describe that kind of feeling that makes you feel alone but in harmony with the universe, which you feel when you start digesting the written word and become addicted to it, when you open a book and everything else disappears. On the one hand the desire to have your say in this existence which is immediately full of suggestions, which leads to writing, on the other hand to see in black and white what others think and discover many times the magnificent way in which other existences are said. Each time in a different way. Each book has its own voice. Nor is it envy that you feel when faced with the great author’s proofs, those masterpieces you wish you had written, it is a feeling of astonishment and wonder in the face of beauty. The same I feel when I see a beautiful painting, a beautiful object, a garden well kept by a sensitive farmer. Art is everywhere where there is beauty, and this is what gives meaning to the words of van Gogh who introduces man into his aesthetic concept, because without the human gaze, Art is not given. Does not exist. Even the magnificent rock paintings of prehistory are imbued with this element, that of the aesthetic sense, and not only with the celebration of hunting or natural elements. The most recent studies are demonstrating that in addition to the apotropaic meaning, auspicious, the immense hunting scenes, the gigantic aurochs, the “Chinese” horses were made out of a deep desire to leave an artistic trace behind them. And that’s why they are so beautiful, objectively, after centuries and centuries of artistic evolution. In this corner of the “Little Letters” I would like to talk about all this, through poetry, literature, photography, music. And whoever wants to share his thoughts will be very welcome.  Rossella Bonari