Pizzeria Fine Arts

We are not a pizzeria. And not even a fine art. But we make pizzas. Margherita. Capricciosa. Napoli. Sausage and mushrooms. And they are also good. The ingredients are also of the highest quality. Acrylic. Oil. Virgin cloth. In all this unmanly bastardization of Italian spirit, something genuine must certainly be saved. We decided to pay no attention to find the best, to provide what exists, perhaps, only on the moon. A few days in the oven, after a good gathering of ingredients, a pinch, just what you need, of alleged originality and the gourmet stereotype is served.

In the dough, which we insist on defining as uncontaminated, there are truly a myriad of pressed slags. Sketched and dim avant-garde, small groups of small geniuses of the financial increase, intruders and petty thieves just cheap. Now flour, water and salt are nothing more than an uncontrolled badly mixed mash. In which there are stubborn illusions and miseries of mediocre painters and artistuncles (even!). Where the prosaic and stale taste of a perched and ankylosed Italy resides; a reproduction of itself lying. And then that same pizza, fruit badly safeguarded, is indigestible. Just like the painter with the brushes soiled for this purpose.

Or the mimicist who hides himself. We are the Pizzeria Belle Arti. Neither pizza nor fine arts. Anyone who consumes our pizza, without eliminating or de-qualifying it, without marking it with fire or garbage, accepts, silently but decisively, the condition of art. Not only that, digesting it will try to go further. Maybe if not good or enjoyable it is at least medicamentous. Isn't it a meal that saves art? What presumption it would be! It is an admission of blame, which you, greedy eater, are already carrying out.