Dario Cuzzilla

Good morning. In the romantic myth of art, wings grow on their own, spun from sleepless nights and the quiet fever of a blank canvas. It’s a noble story, except gravity rarely yields to poetry alone. Passion brings you to the ledge, yet living off your work takes more than flailing in a vacuum. What looks from afar like mere connections is often a delicate architecture of trust: a collector who sees their own restlessness in your art, a gallerist willing to wager on your voice, an outstretched hand arriving the exact second you doubt flight is possible. We stitch these wings in solitude out of time and our own skin, hoping a life in art isn’t just an abstraction kept alive over morning coffee. Still, the wind that lifts us almost always comes from the outside. A question for today, both fragile and audacious: who will give me wings and where is my coffee?

The Creative Process When I pour everything out, I’m left hollow, stripped to the bones. What others mistake for catharsis feels more like tearing out the very thing that, despite burning within me, was holding me together. Then begins the quiet struggle to survive. With trembling hands and whatever strength remains, I gather my broken pieces and stitch myself back together, thread by thread. Not to heal, but simply to keep from falling apart. The seams are rough, the stitches fragile, just enough to hold me together until tomorrow. And so I sit in silence, holding my fractured self together, waiting for the wounds to close and the flesh to grow back over the seams, hoping to mend just enough that, next time, there will still be something left to tear away.