Francesco Riccardi

This is a stage of a tortuous journey—physical and mental. The world of art, once my refuge, now transforms. I leave behind Viola, Campus, Brackhage, embracing a POP that defies debate. My banal, fake images connect elementary interpretation with puns, leaving a synaptic imprint, a worm. Sbooby, Trainspoppins, Kamasushi, Starbugs—a struggle to pronounce correctly. Consciously, you might not see art, but I anatomically unlock something inside you