At some point, with that pride that characterizes youth, I set up on my own and began making small nativity scenes with tuffs and bits of bricks salvaged from the kiln. In time, the space at home proved to be a limitation for my imagination, so I began to take advantage of some rooms adjacent to the farmhouse chapel dedicated to St. Roch. It too soon failed to contain more mountains, hills, rivers and villages, so I began to wander the churches of the Sorrento Peninsula.
When you are young, you are inclined to think that the greatness of what you do is directly proportional to the gratification that will come from it. Then, as the years go by, you realize that it is not so much the greatness as what you can communicate that makes the difference. So it was that in the 1990s, with the same brick clay, I began to model small nativity scenes, realizing with amazement that everything I made in large spaces, I could contain in the palm of one hand. In those small microcosms I immortalized everything around me: the Sorrentine cottages, the Roman ruins of the Villa Pollio Felice lying on the cliffs overlooking the sea, the extraordinary vegetation of my land, the ancient customs of my people.
Participating in several group exhibitions, as the years went by I realized that a fair amount of acceptance of those terracottas was growing on the part of the public. I was thus faced with another fork in the road: continue the family tradition or start a new path. Amid the skeptical astonishment of relatives and friends I chose the more difficult path, left the kiln and began to chase my passion. From the linear forms of the bricks I moved on to the more articulated forms of the cribs.
The early days proved very difficult, especially economically, so I began to model single figures that I could sell in the most famous street in the world for nativity scenes: San Gregorio Armeno in Naples. I remember it now and a smile comes to my face, but how many times did those Madonnas, Saint Josephs, bagpipers, angels and shepherds travel with me, on the train from Sorrento to Naples, both on the way there and on the way back.
The turning point came in 2001, when I managed to open a workshop in the historic center of Sorrento, with great sacrifices but helped by my older brother. Since then, in addition to nativity scenes I began to model other subjects related to the traditions of my land, such as the processions of the hooded men of Holy Week, so dear to those who live in these places, scenes from the Old and New Testaments, Trees of Life, crosses on which, with different scenes, I tell the story of Salvation.
Today, how do you keep alive such an important tradition as the Neapolitan Crib?
One of the most difficult things for contemporary society is to maintain and pass on not only traditions but everything about the authenticity of our country. The world is running too fast and we with it: that must be why we can no longer see the essential, which, as Antoine de Saint-Exupéry said, can only be seen well with the heart.
Today, new terms have enriched - or weakened, depending on your point of view - our language, leaving on the margins what for centuries have been real lessons and models for other peoples as well: art, culture, traditions, solidarity, passion. It is precisely the passion of so many women and men that can significantly reduce that gap that has arisen between the old and the new generation, increasingly distant from our history, increasingly close to stories that do not belong to us. This also applies to the Neapolitan Crib.
What is the most important work, or the most complex one made so far?
I am attached to so many works, perhaps because in making them my first goal was to satisfy myself above all. However, there is one work that, if I may use the term, I love the most. It is a Tree of Life, which was placed in Mirandola Cathedral after the post-earthquake works: a cross two and a half meters high, on which the story of Salvation is told through the most salient scenes. Before its final placement, Vita Semper Vincit - this is the title of the work - was displayed in Sorrento in the Cathedral, in Naples in the Church of Sant'Anna dei Lombardi, and in Florence in the Basilica of Santo Spirito.
Where does the inspiration for your works come from?
I never work on a project at a desk. Inspiration is instantaneous, it comes from the imagination, the same as a child playing, and I believe this is the only way to create small worlds. In this I feel fortunate because even though I make sacrifices, even though I take time away from my family, I have never thought of mine as drudgery but as fun.
How much time does it take to make a medium-sized nativity scene?
It is precisely for the above-mentioned reason that I have never gave importance to time; I believe that in creative work it is relative. In my case, for example, there are days when I manage to do much more than I had planned. On others, however, I realize that it is better to leave everything behind and enjoy the beauty of the area. Then, there are the nights--should those also be counted? Nights when you don't sleep for fear that that spark, that idea might be lost in your sleep. Nights you spend in the workshop, troubled by an uncertainty you can't solve, so you frantically remove and place bits of clay until you find the right solution. Still, time it takes, though it remains the least of my problems.
You have just been awarded the title of MAM - Maestro d'Arte e Mestiere, a biennial recognition from the Fondazione Cologni dei Mestieri d'Arte to master craftsmen who stand out for their talent, savoir-faire and very high competence. What was it like to receive this recognition?
To have this recognition at the age of fifty-eight, forty years after I joined the Naples Chamber of Commerce, made me realize that, after all, a mark along my path I have left, and this makes me immensely happy and proud. At the same time, I feel even more the weight of responsibility towards this extraordinary world of artistic craftsmanship. Paradoxically, especially in tourist places, intensive tourism has disrupted the identity of the territories, and many artisans, even to survive, have found themselves transforming their productions based more on quantity than quality. Now, even more than before, I will do everything not to sell out to fads and circumstances.
Do you organize courses and workshops to pass on this art, or would you be willing to pass on your knowledge to those who want to learn the craft?
I have been doing this for years, mostly in schools, often helped by other artisan friends. In recent years, what is most lacking is storytelling. On the one hand there is a shortage of charismatic figures, who know how to tell, and on the other hand there are those who no longer want to listen: especially young people, who are tired of being betrayed by an increasingly distracted society. Here, the master craftsman can-through his gestures, his passion, his story-transmit his knowledge, and eventually this too can become an art, the art of passing on. Too often, even in the recent past, the craftsman's grave has become -- through jealousy or ignorance -- the vault of his secrets, and that is how so many activities have disappeared. This we can no longer afford. We have to find a way to enter the school world or try to welcome children into our workshops, trying in every way to enthuse them, even approaching their language.
I imagine a place where multiple workshops can coexist, in which master luthiers, goldsmiths, ceramists, cabinetmakers, inlayers can work and be observed, because everything starts by watching hands working. My recollection goes to the words of writer Mario Stefanile, who recounts one of his visits to San Gregorio Armeno this way: “then I would look at the younger artisans, with their pained faces, the teenagers with their dark eyes of greek olives, the red wool scarf around their puny necks, the cough inside their chests: and I dreamed of being one of them, of being there myself to manipulate the clay, to roll it up, to stretch it out, to make it take on movement and life, grace and sweetness.”
