It’s Saturday, and I board a train bound for Rovereto. It’s not the first time I’ve walked its streets—in the past, I was a guest of the Arcadia Bookshop—but this time I’m here to take part in a comic book festival. The city is buzzing with events; I’m told there’s a significant overlap of happenings, though it’s not always like this. The atmosphere is perfect: warm, but not too hot, and the sun is shining high in the sky. Rovereto is Depero‘s city—it should be a kingdom of images.
I head to the “Girolamo Tartarotti” Civic Library, where Duccio Dogheria is waiting for me. He guides me through Alter Comix, the exhibition he curated, dedicated to Piermario Ciani. It’s a deeply moving exhibition for me: many of the people I knew and who are featured there are no longer with us—Bad Trip, Ale Pop, Matteo Guarnaccia , and Piermario Ciani himself… A world I passed through, though I was younger then. A universe of Italian underground art that is slowly fading away, leaving behind a deep sense of emptiness.
Rovereto Comics is held in the sculpture park of the MART. I’m introduced by librarian Nicoletta Silvestri and wander among the stands, even though it’s late and most of them are already closing. I run into two of my former students from the Academy of Fine Arts in Bologna, Giovanni Morghen and Michele Poli, and I also see Ale Martoz again—a comic artist I first met years ago in Ravenna, back when I used to organize events dedicated to comics. Today, he’s an established author, always full of energy. He shows me the project he’s part of: a collective of authors called Trincea Ibiza, created with the aim of remaining independent from the publishing market—an interesting initiative.
In the evening, I head to the room they’ve reserved for me, located above the famous Bontadi coffee roastery, so well-known it even has a museum dedicated to its history. The apartment is so spacious, it’s almost easy to get lost in it. The reason I’m in Rovereto is the talk I’m scheduled to give the following morning, on the main stage of the Rovereto Comics festival.
It’s a festival dedicated to classic comics: a large central stage, stands with young authors, a few bookstores, and several comic art schools. There are even people training with swords, and children taking part in workshops. The atmosphere is relaxed and cheerful. And yet, I’m here to speak about topics that are far more complex—light-years away from this carefree mood. In these peaceful settings, I often find myself thinking of the places where none of this is possible. Where even children die of hunger, where you can be targeted and killed like in a video game—mercilessly.
I focus, step onto the stage, and begin to speak. I’m interviewed by Nicoletta Silvestri from the library—she’s visibly moved. At first, only a few people are listening, but little by little, some begin to gather from the nearby stands. They stop, drawn by the words they hear: helping others, peace, drawing, community, Amnesty, journalism, sharing…
Words matter. And in this moment in history, people feel the need to hear them—to be together, to not feel alone. Understanding becomes essential. It’s not easy to face, day after day, the terrible news coming from Palestine, Ukraine, Sudan.
You try to remain indifferent, but reality is always there, ready to remind you that you can’t. What can be done?
Through drawing, I try to fix the world. Even a gathering like this, in a small provincial town, far from the big cities and their problems, can have meaning. It can make a difference. It can support the local community—so full of fear, yet so eager for openness and care toward others.
I step down from the stage: I’m met with sincere handshakes, warm smiles, and knowing glances. I feel like I’m doing the right thing.
The Libroteka bookstore hosts me for a book signing. I autograph copies of Zodiac, Libia, Patrick Zaky, Human Rights Portraits, and even an old copy of Diario di un qualunquista, a book I hadn’t seen in years.
Before catching my train, I stop by the Library one more time to look at the drawings in the exhibition. From somewhere, it feels like old friends are watching me with pride. They did a wonderful job back when I was just a kid.
