adults don't exist

Ink on paper, fixed by pins, 300x270cm, 2013

Since the dawn of humankind, initiation to adult life has been marked by precise rituals and trials: you had to find a trasure in a deep forest or in a labyrinth, to hunt the bigger prey, to move from here to there on a burning path, ad so on. If you passed the trial you were a new adult person, and you were ready to bump into the world. But in our so called civilised little world when can we declare we are finally grownup? We could assert that this is just an arbitrary boundary: the Passage is life itself in its entirety, and if among ancients and contemporary tribes myths and legends instructed them about the rites of passage, to contemporary Man myth is increasingly a private matter. Our symbols come out from our daily life and they are the psychoanalytic roots of our personal behaviour (if you believe in this kind of stuff); religious sharing has been replaced with personal contents sharing on the social networks. Private Life become contemporary epic. Or adults just don’t exist, at least among us.