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ArtistNeo-Baroque oil painting, allegorical scene of a man who lets music speak when words are not enough. In a vast, warmly lit Baroque music room at dusk, a Mediterranean man in his forties with an athletic, toned physique and very short, almost shaved dark hair stands with his feet without shoes on the worn marble floor. He wears an elegant, slightly open shirt of deep petrol blue with a teal undertone, Pantone Caribbean Sea, its fine silk catching soft reflections, sleeves rolled to the forearms, and tailored trousers of dark midnight navy, almost black. He leans slightly forward and, with both hands, gently offers a pair of elegant headphones of polished brass, walnut wood and dark leather to the woman in front of him; his head is slightly bowed, his gaze shy but warm, a faint, hopeful smile on his lips, the gesture of someone sharing the most intimate thing he has. Facing him stands a Mediterranean woman in her thirties with a short asymmetrical layered pixie cut of very wavy, snow white hair, from which rise two soft, organic white cat ears, natural and furry, turned attentively toward the headphones; behind her sways a thick, fluffy white cat tail with wavy fur, curling gently with curiosity. Her feet are without shoes on the marble, and she wears an elegant summer evening gown of flowing champagne and pale rose silk, with delicate thin straps and a light, airy skirt that catches the evening breeze. She reaches out with one hand to take the headphones, her head tilted slightly, her eyes soft and curious, lips parted in a tender, intrigued half-smile. Scattered all over the floor around them lie dozens of failed attempts at love letters: sheets of parchment covered in crossed-out lines and ink blots, some torn, many crumpled into small balls, a quill and an overturned inkwell among them. Beside them, on a carved lectern bathed in light, rests a single open parchment with a finished letter written in flowing gold calligraphy, the right words finally found. Next to the lectern, on an ornate stand, rests a seven-string bass viola da gamba inspired by Jordi Savall's late seventeenth-century English instrument: a deep golden-brown varnished body with sloping shoulders, fine purfling and inlaid ornamental decoration, gut frets tied around the neck, and a finely carved head in place of a scroll, its bow laid across it. In the background, on marble pedestals, stand the busts of Johann Sebastian Bach and Antonio Vivaldi, and on the wall hangs a gilded framed portrait of the Catalan master gambist Jordi Savall holding his viol. A tall arched window opens onto a twilight landscape of rugged Mediterranean hills and ancient oak groves under a sky turning from deep blue to gold. Dramatic Caravaggesque chiaroscuro: a warm golden side light from the window sculpts their faces, his petrol blue shirt, her white hair, ears and tail, and the varnished wood of the viol, while the corners dissolve into deep umber and indigo shadow. Rich, theatrical brushwork with thick, layered impasto in the hair, fur, silk, parchment and gilded details, and delicate glazing on the faces, giving the painting a tactile, sculptural quality that blends Baroque opulence with a contemporary, romantic sensibility. In the lower right corner, a small, elegant calligraphic signature reading "Milo 306º 2026 CE".
Where words fall silent, music speaks the rest.
This is an autobiographical dream. I am shy and introverted, and when something truly matters, words abandon me. I reach for them and find only clumsy, smaller versions of what I feel. The floor of this room is covered with them: love letters started again and again, crossed out, blotted, crumpled into small paper balls. Every one of them was sincere. None of them was enough.
What I cannot say, I have always found in music. For me it is not an escape or a decoration of life; every period of my life has its own soundtrack, and certain pieces hold emotions, people and places more faithfully than any memory. Music is the place where an emotion takes shape before I know how to name it. That is why, in this dream, I do not offer a letter. I offer a pair of headphones: the most intimate gift I know how to give, a way of saying "listen, this is what I feel."
The woman with snow white hair, white cat ears and a soft white tail is the allegorical figure of Pulce, my cat, who shared so many years of my life with me. I chose her to represent the beloved because I truly loved her. It was not romantic love, but the love one feels for a member of the family, and when she died I mourned her as such. Pulce was deaf, so we built a language of our own, made of gestures, glances, touch and presence. She learned to recognize my gestures one by one, and I learned to read hers. I could never count the hours she spent patiently grooming my nose, her own quiet way of saying what neither of us needed to put into words. She understood me without words and without music, and that is perhaps the deepest form of listening I have ever known.
Then, after the music, the right words finally come. On the lectern, in the light, rests a single letter written in gold. This is how it often works for me: music opens the way, and only afterward do I find the words that were hiding behind it.
Around us stand the guardians of that language. The viola da gamba is inspired by the instrument of Jordi Savall, the master who, more than anyone, brought the voice of the viol back from centuries of silence and taught a whole generation to love early music. His portrait watches from the wall. The busts of Johann Sebastian Bach and Antonio Vivaldi remind me where so much of my emotional vocabulary comes from: the counterpoint that turns complexity into order, and the fire that turns order into passion.
So if I am quiet, listen closer. I am probably trying to tell you something, in the only language I have never had to translate.
