The Space Between

I have long believed that art is more than form, more than material—it is a vessel for something greater, something immaterial. Yves Klein sought to tame the infinite with pigment. Joseph Beuys made objects that opened spaces of great spiritual significance. Auguste Rodin left his sculptures Non-Finito, unfinished, to create a space where form dissolves into the immaterial—where presence transcends physicality, and the eternal emerges through suggestion.

In Roccaporena, the birthplace of Santa Rita, I found myself at the threshold of that dimension—not as an observer, but as a participant.

Cascia: A Compendium of Collective Devotion

The Church of Santa Rita in Cascia, grand and impressive, houses the saint's remains. Yet its true spiritual essence emanates not from physical relics, but from the collective devotion of pilgrims who come to honor her memory. Their prayers and unwavering belief create an atmosphere that transcends the material world—her body no longer the vessel of her spirit, but something deeper, more intangible, that would reveal itself in Roccaporena.

In the church, I recited the prayer that had been spoken by generations of the faithful before me:

As soon as I finished, a sister began reciting a long series of Ave Maria, Pater Noster, and another prayer I could not recall. It was a wonderful serendipity. I found myself swept into the rhythm of the chant, lost in the mantra for a good ten to fifteen minutes, carried beyond time and space into something far greater.

Yet, even in that moment, I sensed that my journey was not meant to end in Cascia.

Something pulled me onward—to Roccaporena.

The Arrival: A Greeting From the Landscape Itself

We drove into Roccaporena, and the shift was immediate. The grandeur of Cascia faded behind us, replaced by a sense of something untouched, something preserved. The road curved, opening up to a dramatic landscape—rock formations rising like silent sentinels, a passage between towering cliffs, reminiscent of the backgrounds in Leonardo da Vinci's Madonna paintings.

In Renaissance paintings, such landscapes serve as portals into another dimension, drawing the viewer beyond the material world into the realm of the sacred. They are a threshold—a passage from earthly existence to something beyond.

But this time, I was not looking at a painting. I was inside it.

The spiritual dimension did not wait to be sought; rather, it descended upon my reality, turning the world upside down—il mondo capovolto.

And then, the greeting came.

Two cats emerged from the scenery.

One, despite having lost an eye in a catfight, was friendly and welcoming, rubbing against us, seeking connection. The other, equally beautiful but distant, sat nearby, watching but never coming close.

A duality.

• One open, one withdrawn.
• One eye lost, yet fully present.
• One whole, yet keeping its distance.

A few feet away, an asinello—a small donkey, reminiscent of the Nativity and the wisdom it represents—stood motionless, observing us.

It felt like an invitation, a sign. As if Roccaporena itself was offering its introduction—one side revealed, the other withheld.

Santa Rita's Home: A Portal Through Time

Then, I saw it.

An ancient stone structure, standing alone, small yet utterly magnetic.

I knew instantly—that was where we were meant to go.

There was no need for maps, no questioning. This was the place.

We parked the car and walked back to it. A simple chapel, nestled into the landscape, unassuming yet filled with an almost unbearable weight of presence.

This was Santa Rita's home.

• This is where she lived.
• This is where she endured.
• This is where she transformed suffering into transcendence.

As I entered Santa Rita's dwelling, I felt something shift. Here, time did not move forward. It folded inward.

The air seemed thick with the weight of history, as though the walls were not simply holding space but holding time itself.

The centuries collapsed.

I was no longer just a visitor—I was merely another presence in an unbroken line of pilgrims who had stood here before me.

I offered a prayer for my mother—that she may have peaceful days in the life she has left on earth, and for a sweet passage into eternity.

A candle flickered beside me—its small flame alive, dancing, breathing in the stillness.

Il Orto dei Miracoli: The Garden of Miracles

Up we scaled the abrupt pathway to Santa Rita's Orto.

There, among the rocks, I noticed small notes, folded papers, prayers left behind by other seekers—each carrying a wish, a plea, a devotion. One stood out: a pacifier tucked into the crevice of a rock, placed there by a parent in search of a miracle.

It was a quiet yet poignant reminder that faith takes many forms.

I closed my eyes and began my breathing meditation.

I recited a deeply personal mantra—words that anchor me in wisdom, grace, and light.

And then, I spoke sacred ancestral words, carried through generations for thousands of years, their resonance bridging time and spirit.

The Church Bells & The Farewell of the Asinello

We walked back down to the ancient church of the village, a structure that dates back to the 11th century, layered over centuries. Inside, frescoes adorned the walls, their colors softened by time.

Two cords hung from the ceiling. I wasn't sure what they were until Claudio pointed out: they were the bells.

Claudio, ever the gentle soul, pulled lightly—a soft chime echoed.

I, on the other hand, gave a strong tug, and the bells rang out beautifully—two distinct voices, two different chimes, resonating into the valley.

This moment reminded me of the old cowbell in our house in Gstaad—the one I rang when Gigi died, the one I rang again when my father passed.

A bridge between earth and the universe, between our temporary existence and eternity.

As we returned to the car, I turned to Claudietto and said, "Have you ever scratched behind a donkey's ear?"

He shook his head.

"We have to say hi to the donkey."

Just then, as if on cue, the asinello called out—a deep, resonant bray, a farewell or an invitation.

We found a path, and as we approached, he pressed his head against my chest.

I scratched behind his ears, feeling his warmth, his trust.

The one-eyed cat reappeared, joining us, watching. The three of us—the donkey, the cat, and I—shared a quiet, unspoken bond.

Finally, I returned to the car. My heart full. My spirit lifted.

Epilogue: Passage, Transfiguration & the Weave of Time

Rodin, Klein, Beuys.

Santa Rita.

The immaterial, the threshold, the space between.

A journey not to a place, but to an understanding.

Auguste Rodin famously said:

Yves Klein similarly grasped the necessity of passage, stating:

Joseph Beuys called art social sculpture, understanding that it is not an object, but an unfolding process shaped by human interaction.

This pilgrimage to Santa Rita's sanctuary revealed itself as not separate from my work, but as its essence distilled.

In Roccaporena's quiet corners, I found confirmation of what my years of curatorial practice have taught me:

• Spirituality exists not in monuments, but in moments of deep recognition.
• The Non-Finito, the incomplete, creates space for the infinite to enter.
• Art, like faith, serves as a threshold between dimensions, a passage between the tangible and the ineffable.

The Yves Klein Connection: An Offering to the Infinite

It feels significant that my middle name is Yves, given in honor of Yves Klein, an artist whose work was a constant search for the immaterial. His deep blue—International Klein Blue (IKB)—was not just color, but a gateway, a vibration, a space where the finite dissolved into the infinite.

In 1961, Klein made an ex-voto for Santa Rita, the patron saint of impossible causes. It was a transparent plexiglass box containing pure blue pigment, gold leaf, and three small gold bars—his offering of gratitude. This was not an artwork in the traditional sense, but an act of devotion, a statement that art, at its highest level, is not an object but a passage.

I think about Klein's ex-voto as I reflect on my journey. His work, like this pilgrimage, was not about permanence but about presence—about the act of offering something to the unknown.

Santa Rita's presence was strongest not in the grand church of Cascia, but in the small home where she lived. In that humble space, mythology and transformation remained alive, present, and evolving.

Just as Beuys understood that sculpture is not the object but the space of transformation it creates, and Klein knew that what remains is only a trace of something greater, Santa Rita's Roccaporena whispered an undeniable truth:

These insights now find their home in my gallery space in Dallas, where I have created a contemplative environment that explores these thresholds between the material and immaterial.

Here, artworks serve not as mere objects, but as portals—inviting visitors to experience their own moments of passage, their own encounters with the infinite that lives in the space between.

A Journey in Images: The Space Between

Words can only take us so far. The landscapes, the sacred spaces, and the quiet encounters of Roccaporena are best experienced through sight and presence.

Below, I invite you to follow this journey through a series of images—fragments of a place where the material and the immaterial intertwine, where the past lingers in the present, and where a donkey, a one-eyed cat, and an ancient path reveal something beyond words.

Yves Klein sought to tame the infinite with pigment.

Joseph Beuys made objects that opened spaces of great spiritual significance.

Auguste Rodin left his sculptures Non-Finito, unfinished, to create a space where form dissolves into the immaterial—where presence transcends physicality, and the eternal emerges through suggestion.

The Church of Santa Rita in Cascia, grand and impressive, houses the saint's remains.

Yet its true spiritual essence emanates not from physical relics, but from the collective devotion of pilgrims who come to honor her memory.

We drove into Roccaporena, and the shift was immediate. The grandeur of Cascia faded behind us, replaced by a sense of something untouched, something preserved. The road curved, opening up to a dramatic landscape—rock formations rising like silent sentinels, a passage between towering cliffs, reminiscent of the backgrounds in Leonardo da Vinci's Madonna paintings.

In Renaissance paintings, such landscapes serve as portals into another dimension, drawing the viewer beyond the material world into the realm of the sacred. They are a threshold—a passage from earthly existence to something beyond.

But this time, I was not looking at a painting. I was inside it.

And then, the greeting came.

Two cats emerged from the scenery.

One, despite having lost an eye in a catfight, was friendly and welcoming, rubbing against us, seeking connection. The other, equally beautiful but distant, sat nearby, watching but never coming close.

A duality.

• One open, one withdrawn.
• One eye lost, yet fully present.
• One whole, yet keeping its distance.
  

A few feet away, an asinello—a small donkey, reminiscent of the Nativity and the wisdom it represents—stood motionless, observing us.

It felt like an invitation, a sign. As if Roccaporena itself was offering its introduction—one side revealed, the other withheld.

Then, I saw it.

An ancient stone structure, standing alone, small yet utterly magnetic.

I knew instantly—that was where we were meant to go.

There was no need for maps, no questioning. This was the place.

This was Santa Rita's home.

• This is where she lived.
• This is where she endured.
• This is where she transformed suffering into transcendence.

As I entered Santa Rita's dwelling, I felt something shift. Here, time did not move forward. It folded inward.

The air seemed thick with the weight of history, as though the walls were not simply holding space but holding time itself.

I offered a prayer for my mother—that she may have peaceful days in the life she has left on earth, and for a sweet passage into eternity.

A candle flickered beside me—its small flame alive, dancing, breathing in the stillness.

Up we scaled the abrupt pathway to Santa Rita's Orto.

There, among the rocks, I noticed small notes, folded papers, prayers left behind by other seekers—each carrying a wish, a plea, a devotion. One stood out: a pacifier tucked into the crevice of a rock, placed there by a parent in search of a miracle.

We walked back down to the ancient church of the village, a structure that dates back to the 11th century, layered over centuries. Inside, frescoes adorned the walls, their colors softened by time.

As we returned to the car, I turned to Claudietto and said, "Have you ever scratched behind a donkey's ear?"

The one-eyed cat reappeared, joining us, watching. The three of us—the donkey, the cat, and I—shared a quiet, unspoken bond.

In Roccaporena's quiet corners, I found confirmation of what my years of curatorial practice have taught me:

• Spirituality exists not in monuments, but in moments of deep recognition.
• The Non-Finito, the incomplete, creates space for the infinite to enter.
• Art, like faith, serves as a threshold between dimensions, a passage between the tangible and the ineffable.

These insights now find their home in my gallery space in Dallas, where I have created a contemplative environment that explores these thresholds between the material and immaterial.

Here, artworks serve not as mere objects, but as portals—inviting visitors to experience their own moments of passage, their own encounters with the infinite that lives in the space between.