To enter in the the world of Manzò is a bit as to penetrate in a parallel world where mute characters, inhabitants of a planet called Art, transmits among them, and to that human that succeed in entering us, through gestures, expressions of the faces and postures of the bodies, all those emotions, that feelings that at times us men we don't succeed in communicating... also possessing the voice.
Detaining to attentively look at a scene, through that silences it succeeds in feeling, to perceive what among them they communicate, sounds and odors, laughters and vibrations of ropes are gathered, songs of joy, songs.. creakings of wheelbarrows
Through foreshortenings and small roads made of cork and wood, of musk and colored earth, they succeeds in gathering fragments of a past that it returns to exist every time that someone detains nearby.
Manzò is not only a sculptor but above all a narrator that across its scenes tells the life of every day, the joys and the pains of a humanity done of difficulties, of miserable and of poor people.. and of another, made of Fastis, of opulence, of wealth.
He speaks to us of songs of love, of happy serenades on the notes of guitars and mandolins among the columns of the cloister of Saint Chiara or of a tender and solitary serenade whispered to the clear one of moon on the roofs in a Naples pander.
It is a singer of histories to three dimensions. It tells the life through his rites, his traditions, his wars and his loves, through the sacred and the profane..
..and the extraordinary fact is that its stories don't go out of its mouth ..but from its hands.. they don't have the sound of the voice or the music.. but they are music and voice that comes out of its Soul...
and they speaks Neapolitan.