Night bouquet

It is a tiny Swiss village of 400 inhabitants, nestled in a valley in the canton of Grisons, surrounded by Alpine peaks. Stampa, that is its name, has disappeared into history, swallowed up by the surrounding communes to form Bregaglia. Here, people speak Italian, German and Romansh. But Stampa also has its own light.

Because here, the Giacometti family shone brightly. There is the father, Giovanni, a mountain farmer, but also a painter and sculptor. There are his four sons, Augusto, Alberto, Diago, Bruno. One will become a painter, the other a sculptor, the third a designer and the last architect. A constellation of creators with singular destinies. In 1917, when Augusto painted his starry sky, the forty-year-old had just found his gesture, that of color. Settled in Zurich (Switzerland), each summer, the artist happily returned to Stampa. There, he rediscovered his childhood habits and the paths that climb between the trees. What could be more beautiful than this clear Alpine pass to observe, at night, lying in the damp grass, the disturbing spectacle of the stars that is offered to you? While the war rages, far away, below, on the land of men, the abysmal silence of the night sky makes everything small. Augusto paints the silent rustling of the Milky Way with the art of one who takes the time to look. Red points, on the side of this nebula. And green, in this stellar cloud. Huge white stars bloom in this blue field that quivers in the twinkle of its icy creatures. A bouquet to illuminate our own nights. A wonder to return to the day.