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Serra studied at the London School of Economics, before becoming a journalist. She moved to Sky News in as a reporter, working on both domestic and international stories. She also worked as a news presenter for Five News.
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When doing so, she became the first newsreader in British history to read the news in h. Born: Barbara G Serra, 19 August age 45 , …. Occupation: Journalist, news presenter.
Account Status: Verified. Followers: 13K. I could perceive the same atmosphere he was painting.
Diego Cominazzini’s review of Gli italiani non sono pigri
Sacchi della spazzatura ammucchiati diventano colli urbani coperti da una mantello bianco. U n dilemma mi ha turbato per qualche giorno: alcuni quadri del mio nonno pittore Oreste Albertini mi sono parsi bellissimi nella versione fotografica in bianco e nero, non meno dei quadri a olio che ho sotto gli occhi tutti i giorni. Eppure sono fotografie di vecchi quadri che non ho mai visto. Stavo regredendo verso una confusione sentimentale? Sto commettendo un sacrilegio astratto?
Per liberarlo, ci vuole una tensione che non ha prezzo. I quadri di Oreste nella mia casa non accompagnano la mia vita quotidiana come decorazioni.
Sono momenti e luoghi della mia vita, dei frammenti che rivivono come per magia su una tela oppure su una tavoletta dipinta. N el ricettacolo bianco del cranio, attraverso la materia grigia del cervello, una conversazione inconcepibile fra la luce e gli alberi neurali sviluppa una fioritura di colore, suoni e sentimenti. Sono corpo e anima delle arti. Figlie della certezza solo in apparenza. I n cerca di compagnia, ho trovato alcune voci oneste e originali: Giuseppe Panza di Biumo, un collezionista con le sue memorie, Mark Rothko, Fernando Pessoa e Alberto Albertini, figlio di Oreste.
Io tutto questo lo vedo in relazione alle mie presenze, da bambino, quando dipingeva. Mi raggomitolavo contro una riva, al riparo del vento, al sole tiepido di marzo. For two years, before my living time began, the space between Milano and the Swiss border was a confused arena of bombing and killings. To see the end of fascism in person was a way to become witnesses, to be sure there was an ending to bring home.
April 25, , under the directions of the partisan command of Northern Italy, Milan was liberated.
April 28, , Mussolini was arrested and killed. His collaborators had the same destiny. I was an outcome of the war. By hope or by accident, I will never know.
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Mother was eighteen. In no way our transportation could be safe: they still used horses and carts in December the horse was old, maybe the driver was drunk and the steep road toward the lake covered with ice. Despite the fact that details about the accident have been steadily hidden from me, I do know that I did do the first somersault of my life.
I did not break from her body that day as the terrified members of my family expected. Christmas was approaching, I stayed warm where I was until the Alberto Albertini my uncle — In the early , the dying regime tried to save little pockets of power. Placing blockades near the borders, for instance. Besano, our village, was four miles on a steep road up from Porto Ceresio, where the Swiss border starts, and the blockage was mid-way between the two villages.
I only saved a few of them. A curious thing: the blockage controllers were a special auxiliary police whose members, on April 25, merged into the partisan forces, as if such a decision were normal. T he same happened with the customs officers. I was supposed to enlist with them exactly for this reason.
I never did, the X hour struck. On the way home from Milan, I had to wait for the night to find a train. But I also wished for a lift from some truck. There was none. Not far from me, a bunch of young black shirts was hanging about. One of them was my age. And the guy felt smart enough to tell me that his name was Felice Mascetti and he was happy Felice by name and by fact… when one has an idea! Comic and tragic facts followed. The corps of fascism, already decayed, enlisted young and very young boys who might feel proud of themselves thanks to weapons and uniforms.
It is difficult to read those eyes. What do they bring to me, to us, in? Do I see their pain because they are my tribe, from the village where I was born? In Palestine, in Africa, in Afghanistan? Is ours a completely different time? Images versus reality?
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A vague sense of real things in my guts tells me that the war eyes are still like the ones in the identity portraits made by Alberto. More than ever we need artists, hands showing the real thing, creating a new visual grammar, and new words, tearing off the lies of illusions. The greenness of night lies on the page and goes Down deeply in the empty glass. Look, realist, not knowing what you expect. The green falls on you as you look,.
Falls on and makes and gives, even a speech. And you think that that is what you expect,. That elemental parent, the green night, Teaching a husky alphabet. Alberto Albertini using the camera he had built for the identity portraits. On July 25, , I was on the train: groups of people taking shape on the sidewalks and, when the train left the station, swarms of people moving, gathering in different groups. They told me that fascism was down. In August, bombs on Milan.
September 8th, the army was headless. September was sultry. Growing hot, we took our shirts off. Skinny, with an exuberant breast, she gave off sweat, heat and pherormones, maybe only tired, maybe available.