My name is Fabio Novembre, at least that’s what people call me, and I am usually nude because I like to let them dress me up in one guise or another, which I can doff or don as the need arises. Haute couture of the worst sort of gossip and the best sort of culture. And I can tell you that in my sculpturally Adamitic state I really don’t care, I just let them play: it’s exercise for budding fashion designers and seamstresses. What I try to do is to wear all these definitions with style, an impeccable sinner, making metaphysical gossip into a cultural manifesto.
In prose I define myself thus:
Since 1966, I’ve responded to those who call me Fabio Novembre.
Since 1992, I’ve responded to those who also call me “architectâ€.
I cut out spaces in the vacuum by blowing air bubbles, and I make gifts of sharpened pins so as to insure I never put on airs.
My lungs are imbued with the scent of places that I’ve breathed, and when I hyperventilate it’s only so I can remain in apnea for awhile.
As though I were pollen, I let myself go with the wind, convinced I’m able to seduce everything that surrounds me.
I want to breathe till I choke.
I want to love till I die.
