A colleague tells with his paintings a life of dreams, hopes, joys and sometimes bitterness. Franco Rossi, born in Florence July 24, 1947 enters in Tuscany Bank in 1971 and is now in operation at the MPS Group Cosorzio. Among colleagues is very well known as the “Rossi Machine Room”, the way he answered the phone to the callers for a terminal failure or line in the 70s – 80s. But even before 1971, since long before (1963), he started his painting career. His works are for years all over the world, both in private collections, both in public institutions: suffice to say that in Japan, in Tokyo, Universities and Hospitals are exhibiting his paintings (see website, documenting a life of dreams, hopes, joys, sometimes bitterness. “A life vented” because the painting of Franco Rossi connects everything except commercial: it is an introspective art, emotional, affecting the fund, which enriches, it makes you think, meditate, “fly”, as someone has repeatedly defined it.

How did your adventure in the world of painting?

I do not know the exact answer, but I could tell when: around three or four years. My parents read the Corrierino of Children and I amuse myself copying the images with pencils. Then, in elementary school, the teacher was amazed by my way to draw and at the end of my middle school teachers recommended to my parents to enroll me in the artistic school. They, and I thank them, fearing that I would become unemployed, opted for the high school.

Nothing artistic school, then, you are a self-taught. There is someone in the family from which you have inherited this particular gift?

No, no! Even my grandparents have always wondered from whom could I have taken, but in my family there is no one who knows how to hold a pencil in his hand.

What is it for you to paint?

A drug. If you do not throw out what I have inside painting I enter into crisis, I get nervous, grumpy. As soon as I start to paint here comes the therapeutic effect, although it is also a torment to have in mind the idea, feel it deep in all its details and translate it exactly on the canvas. Torment you, it is the right word. But at some point, while you paint, you feel that something inside begins to subside, the idea takes shape, convince you, you realize that you can make it, that you “will sign” the canvas. And when you’re signing, you’re fine. You feel better. Look at the right distance that you have done and you feel you raised, victorious, as if, instead of at your work, you would look at the kidney stones they have just taken from you, and that were making so bad.

And then?

After two or three days time restarts. The pot starts to boil. For one reason or another, no matter: joy, pain, dreams, disappointments, who hasn’t them? It is a world that swells in and that words are not able to describe. In my mind images of images begin to surface , I look for among them the most suitable metaphor to depict what I have inside. As soon as I “feel” it , I begin to focus on it, to snatch every nuance and then down, everything on the canvas!

There are about 700 new paintings around the world: there is a work in particular are you most fond of?

I would say that each canvas is linked to a particular moment of my life. And as for everyone, for me there were beautiful and less beautiful moments. Every canvas that I painted are a piece of the soul from which it was painful to secede. And it’s like if they were all my daughters, I can not have preferences. Obviously, the last one represents the life I’m living now, I feel it close to me more of the previous, but only for a contingent matter. Do you have a special tip for those who want to follow your example? Never do anything that you don’t “feel.” If all that is natural for you, now you’re an artist. Because artists are born, not made. Who is an artist, is an artist inside even before to externalize it off with his works. And work, work, work every day, otherwise the artist remains inside. And paint for ourselves: if you do it in order to please others, to sell the canvas, you can be a talented craftsman, but you’ll never find the artist inside you, because the artist really doesn’t exist.

(Filodiretto, 16 Febbraio 2007)