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About Florence

Picture this: seedy parlor, neon sign flickering "Massage" like it’s winking at you. Walked in once—pure curiosity, swear—smelled like lavender and regret. Lady says, “Relax, hon,” but her eyes scream, “I hate my life.” Everybody lies, told ya. Hands sliding everywhere, kneading crap I didn’t know was tense. Felt good, sure, but also pissed me off—why’s this not free? Capitalism screws us again. Little factoid: ancient Rome had these “massage” joints too—called ‘em *lupanars*. Fancy word for rub-and-tug. History’s kinky, who knew?

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Then I decided to stroll down to Piazza Matteotti. Man, that place was buzzing! Street performers everywhere. This guy was juggling flaming torches. I’m standing there, mouth agape, thinking, “Is this guy for real?” I mean, one wrong move and he’s toast. But hey, the crowd loved it. I was clapping like a seal.

Rome dedicates an anthological exhibition to Corrado Cagli, among the major protagonists of the 20th century