The building was called Casino, Casino Medici, a second beach house of Medici, home of '600 enormous that her grandfather had bought in the '20s by Baron Hindenburg. Inside painting collection, including a number of Tiepolo and Flemish, which he copied from an amateur making them larger: still life of pears, for example, became huge, colossal fruit pop that almost came out of the picture.
It 'was his grandfather gave him the pencil of succession, like a scepter.
And Sandro, scared, he had to copy the classics, Rubens, Pollaiuolo, Tiepolo. Thus began the adventure of painting Martini. The mother speaks little of his father, navigator and director of Ansaldo shipyards, as well. But my grandfather, my grandfather is something else, is always present.
And the magic pencil has become the first in a brush, then a pen to write poems and memories, then a collage, then huge kites, then pictures of flight, expulsion.
Martini has always escaped after 16 years. It 'easy to say, to find himself, or to forget someone.
Florence Academy in Rome called by poet Antonio Dolphins, Milan. Among the first works, bas-reliefs for the architect Franco Albini, then the happy meeting with Franco Russoli, then superintendent in Brera, unforgettable man.
"You're too good martini," he said, "you can do everything."
There were also the teachers to be studied: Burri, Rothko, Pollock and another great friend, Tancredi, then tragically disappeared into the Tiber.
Poor attendance at the critical exception Vittorio Fagone, and painters, friendships with architects and photographers. Worldliness nothing.
Small, slim, with his fisherman's vest, Sandro walk right, without any concern for anyone, is sure of his ability. Even a cook, where art persists. Or a sculptor, then stopped because she was fed up.
In '77 another flight to the United States, first in New York, then the Pacific coast, where she began teaching two months a year. And the first installations, huge kites flying to the sky, large canvases that cover the places they adorn them alive. One, still remembered, 83 in the lounge of the cries on the Milan Stock: for one month the agents yelled their prices under the large canvas, stretched across the room.
Between a painting and collage, installation and relining, Sandro writes. Of himself, of what goes on in his head.
It 'hard to follow in his mental speed, again for leaks. Are almost the scenes from film, which unfolds, back on themselves, they repeat. They are monologues, stories, memories, theses and shiny as the life that flows meet Picasso, Tàpies, Fountain, Capote, Proust, Baudelaire, quotes that run, withering observations, a culture that is not water.
Martini is a writer savage, without order, a real writer who follows only instinct, loving but lonely, sure of his pride of a creator.
We move from Berkeley to Milan, from the Mexican Revolution to the smells of paint, the smell of rancid oil.
Life, however, every day. Perhaps Sandro would cover a large kite in many colors black ocean, so immense, that separates him from San Francisco. Cover to show that the world is small, can be reduced under installation. And if they can escape when you want.