Over the years, I have had many opportunities to reflect and write on the subject of art, the artists and their poetry: from newspaper articles to essays, catalogue prefaces and indeed entire volumes. Following a first hand encounter, it comes naturally to emphasize the symbolic condition of art, which in its existential and emblematic nature is a dimension unto itself; a dimension defined by intuition, hand downs, of new occasions and of returns to the past – the currents which guide us toward the horizon of art and poetry. Until now, visits to the Fonderia Artistica Battaglia, in Via Stilicone, Milan have been almost completely undocumented experiences. Having visited the foundry, one is left with a multitude of emotions evoked by thoughts that span the arc of 20th Century Italian Sculpture, the most part of which was created in this space; but one also feels a sentiment of confusion – a strange feeling which one understands only when confronted by the act of sculpture within its temporal context – its material, its dust: when one is witness to the life of a sculpture freed from the vanity of museums and from the superficial worldliness inherent in artistic definitions. I visited the vast laboratories, courtyards and offices of the Foundry, which have been in existence since 1913. The director, Danilo Bosio, is a person whose knowledge, direct participation and supporting role in the activity of the foundry since 1988 gives one the key to almost a century of history and many of anecdotes that have shaped the life of the Foundry. The unforgettable characters of the craftsmen are difficult to describe, their work seems to be held in the midst of a ritual, pronounced only in the austere silence of their words. As an unexpected presence, I thought I glimpsed the figure of a woman fleetingly in one of the rooms. In a numbered edition, dedicated to the Foundry and published in 1965, is a list of the artists who entrusted the production of their works in bronze to Battaglia. It is inspiring and moving. I call on the names of a few of these sculptors, many of whom are now deceased. They belong to the memory of history, and in some cases belong to an image lost in real time: Adolfo Wildt (who has recently been commemorated in a homage to his work at the Museum Bodini of Gemonio), Arturo Martini, Marino Marini, Giacomo Manzù, Francesco Messina, Lucio Fontana and Luigi Broggini (a sculptor whose all-consuming figure was much appreciated by Alberto Giacometti); I also note the name of Mario Negri (for whom, in 1985, I had the opportunity to edit a selection of his writings in the refined edition published by Vanni Scheiwiller). Frequently, when approaching a theme or work of a contemporary nature, the inevitable reality that we are submerged in a periodic cycle of change becomes clear: the words have all been consumed; art itself seems to disappear into the unadulterated synthesis of stylistic language. In the loss of our memory, the names and faces, the familiar forms, everything seems to take place in the context of an empty superfice – existing in the form of simulated citations and languages within languages. A world created by the media. Certainly, one must resist the temptation to rely solely on nostalgic memory and the potentially repetitive citations of the past. But then again, some of these historic records, when lived through dimensions like that of Fonderia Battaglia, appear in a different light – those few, stupendous pages which speak of sculpture as an archetype read true once more, their presence is physically embodied in a form which is seen, through the keyhole of memory, without the scope of a finite existence. On this subject, Baudelaire, in his Writings on Art, reminds us that the origin of sculpture “loses itself in the notes of time”. An ancient rite which differs from the art of painting with its myriad of colours, perspective views, and epiphanies on the light of the invisible. In his texts La scultura lingua morta and i Colloqui sulla scultura, the reflections of Arturo Martini are indispensable to any critic. I visited Vado Ligure, a town adored by the artist (it was in Vado Ligure that Martini met his wife and is buried) to meet with Martini’s firstborn daughter, Maria. Maria offered me an incredible insight into the human and artistic figure of the man who was her father. For Arturo Martini poetry, music, architecture and painting were capable of transforming and translating themselves into subjects which adhered to the limits and requisites of life and the imposed styles of new eras. Sculpture, according to Martini, did not: the essence of sculpture remained, as it had done for centuries, “a noble and priestly language” embodied in its infallible forms and ancient gestures. In the writings of Marino Marini - Pensieri sull’arte (Thoughts on Art) – the artist speaks of the world that is “completely expressionist”: counterbalancing this affirmation with the counter-statement that “true sculpture is silent”. Giacomo Manzù once said that sculpture is a gesture of the hands – a “gesture of love”. I would also like to mention the book written by Giovanni Testori, La cenere e la carne, (The ashes and the flesh) dedicated to the sculptors of the 20th Century, and quote the phrase: Sculpture is lost piety, a choral embrace. The preface to Testori’s book, written by Vittorio Sgarbi, states: “One enters into the great theatre of His word, the ashes of bodies return to flesh”. In the foundry one feels the living sensation that the sculpture is a primordial being. The moment in which these forms are created is inspiring and emotionally tense. The masked craftsmen work silently, composed and severe, surrounded by a subtle emotion of suffering: the casting is a magical, mysterious moment. The sculpture comes from the indistinctness of the earthen form, from the convulsion of molten metal and the metamorphic process of the elements. Today, the concept of continuity still acts in sculpture: it is almost a cyclical course that leads from the figurative to the informal, and eventually to the conceptual core of these elements. During my visit I met Bernabò Visconti, a young man with a spirit of refined enthusiasm and an intellectual approach: his role is a clear recognition of the life and progress of the Foundry and of the importance of its sculptors. My words are a reflection on sculpture, but mostly on the atmosphere of the Foundry, where the artistic “imprint” of the works blends with the creative energy of Danilo Bosio. In the Foundry I rediscovered sculptors as real life figures, characters whose “sense” is discovered through their work: I rediscovered the language, and often the very words that exist unto themselves both before and after their reading. Vanni Scheiwiller (a protagonist in the publishing world and nephew of Adolfo Wildt) loved to recount an episode, in turn told to him by Francesco Messina: Arturo Martini, while at the bar, turns to the waiter: “Please serve a pernod to the greatest sculptor in the world.” The waiter surprised replies, “Where is he?”. Martini replies in dialect: “I am he, idiot… ”. Reproductions of works by Giacomo Manzù were published in the prestigious Florentine journal “Il Frontespizio” (May 1937), accompanied by a short text by Alberto Savino, the elder brother of Giorgio De Chirico. Savinio, with tongue in cheek, Manzù’s first commission from a businessman from Bergamo. The moment for payment arrived – Giacomo Manzù expected “two thousand lire”. The artist opened the envelope as the businessman was leaving. It contained notes amounting to only two hundred lire. Giacomo Manzù shouted after the businessman’s car “Porca miseria” (damnation!). In the Foundry, art exists without symbols or metaphors, but rather surrounded by the aura of the work itself - the sculpture. As I made to leave, Danilo Bosio cleaned down my dust covered pants with an air hose.

Stefano Crespi

The word ‘foundry’ brings to my mind a fascinating image composed both of reality and fantasy. I see a gushing stream of shining molten metal bursting forth from the fiery mouth of a crucible, twisting and writhing as it is freed, enveloped by a steaming mass of vapour as it enters the brownish earthen mass of the form. I seem to see many men crouched around a hole in the ground, in which that block of earth swallows the stream of molten bronze, filling its internal matrix. The men crouch, silently observing, intent and visibly anxious, awaiting in trepidation the completion of this unique, mysterious event. It is probably the memory of those extraordinary pages in which Benvenuto Cellini dramatically narrates the adventure of casting the sculpture of Perseus, which influences me, mixing with my own recollections of those few occasions in which I have been witness to similar scenes while following the work of sculptor friends at the foundry. But certainly it must be said that, even if technology has rendered les pictorial many things, if it has for the greater part eliminated the uncertainties that surrounded the final result, even of it has made the work of this ancient craft physically less demanding, the magical, a creative power unto itself, essence of the art remains – the enchanting rite of melding and casting metal – a fundamental skill at the base of all civilisations. In the laboratories, in the dark meanders of forms, the material is fused with the spirituality of art; the molten bronze becomes the eternal flesh of the statue. Here, no machine could ever completely substitute the hand of a craftsman, as happens so often in other fields with the advancing synergy of technology and industry. I believe it is precisely for this reason that the atmosphere of the foundry remains so particular, singular. The dedicated labour required in the casting of a sculpture, no matter which part of the process one follows – from the humblest to the most important, renders each craftsman involved in the process a citizen of the greatest free republic – the only frontier less republic – that of the Arts. A citizen by right, as has been said, but also, a citizen by choice. A craftsman is knowingly a citizen that does not participate in the secretive life of the arts, one that never works half heartedly, but with tireless skill and dedication and the silent knowledge that allows the work to arise from the shadows to take on a life of its own. The craftsman works with profound humility, with sincere respect for the work and its significance for the civilisation to which it is testimony. Every time I have been so fortunate as to set foot in an artistic foundry, I have always been struck by the humble dedication of the craftsmen, devoted and straight forward, fulfilled by the simplicity and humility necessary to best serve the work of the artist. Battaglia is but one example. The aura of the craft, with the love that forms the base for its labours, the atmosphere of continual experimentation born of each individual’s capabilities and resources gleaned from personal experience, of the inventive discoveries born of necessity - none of these creative elements have been extinguished by the cold impersonal function of industrial tools. At Battaglia, the warmth of humanity continues to thrive – the essential life source for the works created in its laboratories and a vital resource for any artist. This explains why the foundry has been able to, and continues to produce colossal works which are, at times, extremely challenging, but always exemplary; it is for this reason that the product is never anything less than perfect, that no matter which material is used the result is always Excellence. Artists have known this for more than half a century: not only Italians, but also numerous foreigners entrust their works to Battaglia. There is something else, a secret element that is embodied in the form of constant discretion practiced with cordial generosity: that cordiality which at times is tinted with well meant brusqueness, a sort of shield of modesty against sentiment, which is thoroughly Milanese. By this I mean the physical help offered to the artist in many ways, the trust intelligently given to his ingenuity. How many artists and craftsmen, and above all, those of the younger generation, have found encouragement, tranquillity and moral support in these elements in moments of difficulty?