Between the Church of San Giovanni dei Cavalieri, not yet monumental, and a small street partially occupied by large and unsettling iron structures with fascinating shapes. It was the 1970s, and even in Catanzaro, different winds were blowing. The fervor of a transforming nation could be felt even in this city, which had long aspired to be the regional capital. In those streets, in those alleys, one could sense both tradition and innovation at the same time.
The works that unknowingly occupied the city's space were the result of a man who always wore a hat. They called him, and
still call him today, U Ciaciu—his real name, Mastro Saverio Rotundo. A blacksmith, mechanical metal artist, and visionary, a serial collector of our discarded objects, he has been gifting his vision of art for many years, forging and imposing on space a reflection on who we are, where we are, and why we are walking a certain path.
Some have called him a "gypsy of art," perhaps for his ability to reignite imagination in a workshop where ideas quickly turn into a critique of existence. Even the one who shouts capra! on television once described him as the last wonder of Calabria. An artist who has always amazed me with his baroque style—or rather, with his way of being post-baroque himself.
I saw him one day by chance during another assignment of mine at the Academy of Fine Arts in Catanzaro, and there, in that place of learning, he took his rightful place as a Maestro. Welcomed by students moving between classes, he was a living example of artistic longevity—surrounded, admired, and besieged by all. Many presented him with their works, drawings, collaboration proposals, or simply tried to steal glimpses of his art from the very words he spoke, his voice as strong as his iron yet hoarse and rough like the drippings of welds.
I had found him again, in the flesh. I had left him parked next to
my dad’s red Junior, and now, I knew him as a pop icon—not only of Catanzaro but of the entire world.
I finally stepped into his studio, crowded with raw materials. A light like a blade cut through the darkness, casting shadows over his face as he approached something—something that would become a work of art only once placed at the center of a room full of souls. Souls of our discarded and abandoned world, reassembled in his visions.
I never wanted to subject him to a photo session. I experienced him at the bar, during a walk, and even in his studio, I tried to capture his essence and return it unchanged, just as I had known him, just as he had brought me back through memory.
In his studio, I once again breathed in the scent of my dad’s car seats and the strong aromas of food that, like back then, filled my nostrils. I touched the chrome and the roughness of iron. I looked at his hat and the dust of metal shavings on his lenses.
To Mastro Saverio Rotundo, I owe a farewell.
To Mastro Saverio Rotundo, I owe an emotion.
Oreste Montebello
English 
Italian