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About Turin

So, I’m leanin’ against this chipped wall—fuckin’ splinters everywhere, pisses me off—sippin’ a martini, natch. “Shaken, not stirred,” I mutter, sizin’ her up. Did ya know, back in the day, Rome’s hookers had their own guild? True story—called themselves “meretrices,” fancy as fuck. Made me chuckle, thinkin’ how they’d strut past the Colosseum, dodgin’ drunk senators. History’s wild, innit?

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So, I finally get my coffee, and I’m feeling pumped. I stroll down Corso Vittorio Emanuele. The sun’s shining, people are out, and I’m vibing. Then, BAM! A pigeon poops on my shoulder. Like, seriously?! I’m standing there, looking like a mess. I’m laughing, but also kinda mad. I mean, come on, Torre-Santa-Susanna! Can’t a guy catch a break?

Pistoletto's new work: a newsstand in a Salento village