By Claudia to Adriano
Dear Adriano,
anything that I would write about you, would be misunderstood and therefore useless given that I’m your wife.
Would sarcastically criticized. Perhaps also rightly.
I wouldn’t have talked about our private, about all these years that we lived together our wonderful adventure.
But it would be a good opportunity to say publicly what I think about you as an artist.
That you are the greatest Italian artist, one of the few best in the world and the best known. Genial and genius like few others.
Free, innovative, revolutionary and ever reactionary, sincere and sometimes honest up to self-harm, good. Yes. Good.
Unpredictable.
Always irregular. Or almost.
I wanted to say that your singing and your voice sweep away all the others.
I wanted to highlight your extraordinary and unique career that a few had in the world, even today, with great success.
I could point out one of your lack. One of all, that you know that really bothers me, it’s your way of telling me that “it’s not my fault that I have no doubt,” and I, hoping to convince you, answer you that “really great people are full of doubts” and you, with your pretty nice and brazen face, reaffirm:”Not my fault if I have not!”.
I know that partly it’s a game between us but I also know, with mildly concern, that in what you state, with disarming provocation, you trust.
But I realized that all these things and more, for better or for worse, it would be useless for me to say because I am your wife. Your companion ever since.
And as such as, relegated to the role of suspected unreliability.
Dear Adriano the only thing left for me to say on this occasion is that ever phrase more beautiful, but more unsuitable to you was created by the great Mogol: “I don’t know how to talk about love”…
You know how to talk about love to and about this I have always a bit suffered.
With love
CLAUDIA