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The main message contained in one of the four responses to “Poema Collectivo: Revolution” sent from Poland, and communicated in both Polish and German, reads: “Collective Poem Subject: Revolution = Rubbish!” In addition to rubbish, there is shit in it too. It ends with (in German): “I shit on the revolution!”, to which the Polish counterpart phrase says even more bluntly: “You stupid dicks!!!”. The outrage is explained slightly more politely in the bilingual middle section: “Live at least one year in Poland or the Soviet Union, please, and then we can talk about, and make, the revolution”.
The artist actually uses “please” there, and the formal language in both German and Polish (Erleben Sie bitte / Proszę przeżyć), indicates that his excessive resentment is not a purely spontaneous, emotionally motivated response. In fact, in the part of the world where he was responding from, the term “revolution” was at the time completely appropriated by the communist revolution, and to many did not mean anything else than a hollow ideological cover for the totalitarian measures pursued by the supposedly democratic-socialist government. To a Polish artist active in the early 1980s, who had probably spent most of his adult life in the USSR-dependent People’s Republic of Poland, the very idea of making art on the topic of revolution must have sounded ridiculously outrageous. There, art about revolution denoted the props and decorations produced for all the farcical anniversary galas regularly held at offices and schools, and official state-organized street manifestations, that all citizens were forced to participate in, where the slogans of the communist revolution were continuously repeated, but devoid of meaning. Other than, in fact, being the signifiers of oppression. This was the appropriated and bureaucratized “revolution” that the majority of the Polish art world wanted to keep away from since the break from the socialist realism in the mid-1950s.
It looks to me that to Zbigniew Jeż (I don’t know the artist, and I keep wondering if this can be this person?) some Mexican artists asking him to comment on the topic of revolution through the means of mail art must be either oblivious (“rubbish”) or be the - all too ignorant in their playful artistic practice - “stupid (silly) dicks”, who in fact have no idea of what they’re talking about.
The main message contained in one of the four responses to “Poema Collectivo: Revolution” sent from Poland, and communicated in both Polish and German, reads: “Collective Poem Subject: Revolution = Rubbish!” In addition to rubbish, there is shit...
In the GDR, Mail Art was had a special importance. It opened a door to the world and was against state restriction and political pressure.
Mail Art is postal communication through art. It is still very lively and open to everyone. Mail Art emerged in times of the Cold War and was very important to some Eastern Europeans. At least, a large part of our mailings passed the Iron Curtain, which gave us the opportunity to communicate worldwide. For Mail Artists in Eastern Germany to play with Mail Art was a serious thing, because with their provocative political postcards they attacked the regime of the former German Democratic Republic (GDR) that answered with political criminal law. Any “illegal establishing contacts” with the West and any critique of the state could have been seriously punished. The Ministry for State Security (Staatssicherheit, MfS or Stasi) controlled the mail of the whole country. Mail Artists Rainer Luck and Jürgen Gottschalk had been sent to prison for over two years in 1984. Friedrich Winnes nearly had to face the same fate for his subversive Mail Art in 1980.
Around 1971 Robert Rehfeldt (1931 - 1993), the first and most well-known Mail Artist in the GDR, got some addresses from behind the Iron Curtain via Klaus Groh or Polish artists that he had been friends with. He did his first Mail Art project in Warsaw in 1975. From 1976 on, Mail Art was shown even in the GDR, initially illegally in Erfurt, later on legally at the Berlin gallery Arkade in 1978. However, the gallery was then closed in 1980 and its director got fired. More and more independent minds in Eastern Europe participated in international Mail Art projects. This was mainly because the leadership of the socialist countries could be easily provoked with easily done postcard collages and in this subversive manner, a little freedom of opinion could be achieved. Mail Art got its greatest political-aesthetic explosiveness in time of the policy of détente from 1974 to 1989. Especially in East Germany it was highly significant as for many interested in art it was the only window to the world. So mail became the medium for international communication that could be used to overcome not only style, genre, language and culture but also state boundaries. It might today appear as naive to imagine a potential friend behind every address. At that time it was an immensely nice thought that had been suspect to the GDR regime.
The Operational Act “Enemy“
The Staatssicherheit saw the Mail Artist as an “enemy”. And that was the name it gave the operational act against four active Mail Artists from Dresden. What caused the observation was the pacifistic project “International Contact with Mail Art in the Spirit of Peaceful Coexistence”, that Birger Jesch exhibited in January 1981 at the Dresden Weinbergskirche. Together with Jürgen Gottschalk he had been the only GDR artist that dared to participate in the project “Solidarity with Solidarnosc” of gallery owner Jürgen Schweinebraden, who had been expatriated from the GDR in 1980. In the final report of the operational act “Enemy” the Staatssicherheit stated satisfied that Jürgen Gottschalk was called to account by criminal law. He was condemned to two years and two month imprisonment after § 220 (“public vilification”) of GDR criminal code. Furthermore they succeeded in making Mail Artists Martina und Steffen Giersch, Birger Jesch, Jürgen Gottschalk and Joachim Stange “insecure and pushing them back in their activities as far as possible”. In the final report it is also said, that “via a similar approach of the MfS to the contact partners in the GDR the ministry has found out, that, from the viewpoint of operational action, the problem of Mail Art has to be no more main focus and is loosing effectivity. The persons treated by the operational act had to face the fact that Mail Art is no instrument to attack the social circumstances in the GDR in any way.” By that the Stasi was wrong. Right in the years from 1984 on Mail Art turned into a GDR-wide movement with lots of exhibitions and subversive actions especially in co-operation with the churchly peace- and democracy groups. Joachim Stange, for example, called for a project “Never again Dresden and Hiroshima 1945” in 1984 and “Tolerance” in 1986. When he, in 1985, did a postcard in reaction to the scarce news coverage of the summit between US president Ronald Reagan and Soviet secretary general Mikhail Gorbachev in Geneve, saying “In Genf nur Senf” (“Nothing but mustard in Geneve”, using the pun in German) a fine was imposed on him and he had to pay a month‘s salary. Other Mail Artists faced similar punishments.
Strange events at “Location 12”
With extraordinary efforts the SED state tried to avoid the circulation of improper thoughts via mail. The “Section M” of the Staatssicherheit had more than 2.000 employees, only for mail control. Every day about ten percent of all letters were opened, that means about 90.000 items. Each of the 15 mail-administrating centres, one in every district of the GDR, had a secret anteroom of the Stasi (code name “Location 12”), that employees of the postal service had no access to. Here, all cards and letters were checked and noticeable mail was sorted out. There had been lists of senders and receivers that had to be observed. The mail that had been kept, was carried to conspiratory places by Stasi people that disguised themselves as employees of the postal service. From this place the mail was carried in civil cars to the regional ad-ministration office of the MfS and to the “Section M”, that used steam tables to open the letters. All directors of the mail-administrating centres co-operated closely with the Staatssicherheit, some as “officers in special missions”. When a letter could not be opened without damages the Stasi simply kept it. Such mail was than found when one sighted the Stasi-files at the Office of the Federal Commissioner Preserving the Records of the Ministry for State Security of the GDR. To cheat the monitoring state some Mail Artists sent some of their mail as certified mail - with 40 Pfennig pretty cheap at that time. This did not avoid the mail from being “lost”, but the postal service of the GDR paid up to 40 East Mark for lost certified mail. Via an order for investigation the Stasi officers were disposed to admit that there was mail censorship. One day Birger Jesch was told that he could not claim for compensation as his mail was “against the maxims of the socialistic moral because of its outer appearance”. He had changed a postcard from Karl-Marx-Stadt to Karl-May-Stadt, thereby making fun of the ideology of the GDR. In the Karl Marx year of 1983 the publication of the books of Karl May was finally allowed again. Furthermore Jesch was told that his card was “handed to the state institution to be examined”. Here the mean trick of the Stasi mail censorship showed up: The Stasi instructed the directors of the main postal offices to speak out as eye of the law in backdated letters - in fact no noticeable cards and letters were handed out to the Stasi by the postal service because the people of the MfS always saw them first.
The baby, that was not allowed to be “labor activist”
Friedrich Winnes (1949 - 2005) had been “dealt with” by the Stasi since 1977. In his Stasi files an act is documented that nearly lead to his imprisonment. The “Section M” found a letter to the Polish Mail Artist Tomasz Schulz from September 28th, 1980, including two collages. One showing his new born daughter with the medal “labor activist” on her breast. At that time the martial law had not come into effect in the neighboring country Poland and the very fast growing influence of the independent union “Solidarnosc“ made the leadership of the GDR nervous. Sending a picture of the baby with the medal was enough for the Stasi to see “an element of offense according to § 220 StGB as fulfilled”. This paragraph said that spreading “symbols, that can be used to affect state or public law and order, disturb the socialistic co-existence or dis-respect the state and civil order” can be punished with up to three years in prison. From the files one can see that Friedrich Winnes was not arrested only because of the Stasi acting sloppy. Still he was not allowed to enter Poland for three years, but thereof no one has ever told him.
The first Mail Art project I took part was “Relations” by Walter Goes in 1985. I met him at the Max-Uhlig-exhibition, a painter from Dresden I liked at that time, at the Orangerie Putbus and he sent me the invitation. The documentation includes 50 addresses and began to write to everybody on this list, so I became a Mail Artist. One year later I made my first project “Animals as which do you feel yourself and others”. It was a psychological question. In these years I had to interrupt my medical studies for three years for political reasons. I went to Berlin and was in contact with Robert Rehfeldt. In 1986 I was a participant at the “First Decentral worldwide Mail Art Congress” at Robert’s studio and there I met many Mail Artist from the GDR personally.
Dr. Lutz Wohlrab, Mail Artist himself, started the online Mail Artists‘ Index. There you can find biographies of the artists mentioned above and many others. Furthermore he, together with Friedrich Winnes, edited the standard work “Mail Art Szene DDR 1975 - 1990” published by Haude & Spener (Berlin 1994). He works as psychoanalyst in his own doctor‘s practice in 13086 Berlin, Langhansstr. 64 a.
The Mail Artists’ Index can be reached via:
Included among the some three hundred fifty contributions to the Poema Colectivo: Revolución (Collective Poem: Revolution) are two works by Venezuelan artists, Dámaso Ogaz (1924–1990) and Carlos Zerpa (1950– ). Though members of different generations—Ogaz was three years away from his sixtieth birthday; Zerpa had recently turned thirty—both men have since become celebrated pioneers of the development of conceptualism in Venezuela. Both maintained a playfully irreverent yet committed stance against artistic (and ideological) conservatism, an interest in anti-commercial art practices, and a desire to push beyond the strictures imposed by fervent nationalism.
By 1981 Ogaz had established himself as an idiosyncratic yet influential member of the Venezuelan artistic vanguard, though he was very much an international figure. Born Victor Manuel Sánchez-Ogaz in Santiago, Chile, he did not settle permanently in Caracas until 1967, when he joined the radical artistic collective El Techo de la Ballena (The Roof of the Whale) at the invitation of Carlos Contramaestre, one of the group’s founders. An informal, politically radical circle of artists, poets, and critics, El Techo realized some of the first and most notorious public interventions in the country’s history, treating the spectacle of scandal as a proto-conceptualist tactic in and of itself. As a member of the group, and continuing beyond its dissolution in 1968, Ogaz experimented with unconventional techniques such as collage, photocopies, and postcards that eluded the circuits of the art market as they initiated new, transnational networks. These practices were unprecedented in Venezuela, such that the critic Juan Calzadilla called Ogaz “a sort of martyr of the seventies…transgeneric but without an audience, an experimentalist in the lineage of Tzara and Picabia, but unsociable, solitary…”
Ogaz’s participation in the Poema Colectivo project questions such an assessment, but he does stand alone among Venezuelans, native or adopted. Perhaps more so than any other artist affiliated with El Techo, Ogaz draws from the archaizing imagery and strategies of physical rupture characteristic of Dada and Surrealism. His work abounds with the collisions of fragmented bodies and textual dislocations: the titles of his mailed C(art)As break open the Spanish carta (letter) to insert the English art, polyglot hybrids of written and visual communication. Similarly, he edited a journal devoted to mail art, Cisoria Arte, which derived its name from a Spanglish neologism for “scissors” that also references the fifteenth-century treatise “Arte Cisoria” by Enrique de Villena.
That idea of cutting or slicing is thematized in Ogaz’s contribution to the Poema Colectivo. Invited to take up the topic of revolution, Ogaz cuts in half what appears to be a newspaper headline—“La Revolución Ya Está en Plena Marcha” (The Revolution is Already Underway)—and counterposes the two fragments with a duplicated diagram of a figure, perhaps a fetus, held within a container and labeled with the artist’s initials. Splitting and doubling, actions that destabilize the integrity of the art object itself, seem to be Ogaz’s proposals for “marginal resistance,” even if revolutions can be so easily cleaved.
Zerpa, the younger of the two artists, also responded with a scenario that involves physical separation but more directly confronts the specter of Venezuelan (religious) tradition. Pairing a Catholic holy card with a secular analogue in the form of a popular playing card, Zerpa imagines the violent decapitation of Christ in heaven. The image is exemplary of his interest in humorous inversions of Catholic iconography, religious rituals, and popular kitsch, but like many of his compatriots Zerpa was primarily interested in performance as a mode of conceptualist critique. The same year he contributed to the Poema Colectivo, he took part in the now canonical festival Acciones frente a la plaza (Actions in Front of the Square) in Caracas, and he would subsequently work with the No grupo artists in Mexico.
Zerpa’s sacrilegious vision of a murdered Christ directly confronts, and seeks to defeat, the traditions and conventions that weigh so heavily upon Venezuelan culture. If El Techo sought to challenge the imbricated paradigms of kinetic art and developmentalist economic policy, Zerpa and other artists of the 1980s are part of the same conceptualist genealogy. Imbuing mail art and popular objects with sharp, anti-clerical satire, Zerpa suggests that the “Revolución” desired by the Poema Colectivo must constitute a sweeping away, a decapitation, of the dominant order. What exactly may replace that order is left undefined—the shattered text that Ogaz identifies as “mail art” suggests that, for the time being, perhaps the explosion of existing structures may be enough.
Included among the some three hundred fifty contributions to the Poema Colectivo: Revolución (Collective Poem: Revolution) are two works by Venezuelan artists, Dámaso Ogaz (1924–1990) and Carlos Zerpa (1950– ). Though members of different...
As mail art often engages the communication system that enables it, making palpable the conflicts imbedded within its circuitry, Poema Colectivo: Revolución (1981)—particularly the blank space at the center of the mailer—recalls a popular narrative about the origins of the modern post from the mid-19th century along with the system’s ideological underpinnings. In this story, Rowland Hill, who was a prominent British businessman, schoolmaster, and social reformer, envisions the Universal Penny Post after witnessing a woman of humble means turn away a letter sent to her by her brother because she could not afford the shilling it cost to receive it. Insisting on paying the postage despite the woman’s objections, Hill was astounded to learn that his efforts had been in vain because the letter inside was blank, acting as a signal of its sender’s wellbeing rather than a more detailed report. Like a 19th century version of an On Kawara postcard, the message was simply “I GOT UP” and "I AM STILL ALIVE." Hill, however, saw this manipulation of the post as a travesty and a missed opportunity. As one version of the story recounts: “Most people would have remembered this incident as a curious story to tell: but Mr. Hill was a mind which wakened up at once to a sense of the significance of the fact. There must be something wrong in a system which drove a brother and sister to cheating, in order to gratify their desire to hear of one another’s welfare” (Harriet Martineau , quoted in Thomas, Postal Pleasures, 21).
Having his mind awakened by the blank page that awaited inscription, Hill began to advocate for affordable pre-paid postage on the grounds that it would both encourage popular literacy and be good business for the British Empire. With the institution of the first postage stamps that cost only a penny (introduced first in Great Britain in 1840, with other nations across the globe following shortly thereafter), working class men and women of all races and ethnicities could afford to send letters, and through their participation the government could generate funds to expand its network of postal roads, railways, and post offices. Furthermore, with the “Universal Penny Post” citizens and non-citizens alike could afford to send letters, thereby making them part of a citizenry of the postal system, even if they were not citizens proper. The agency that the post afforded, however, was also understood as restricted by one’s assimilation into a system that could track, monitor, and regulate their communications. The post, therefore, was not only seen as an extension of subjectivity, but also a displacement of it. In the mid-to-late 19th century imagination, communication therefore came to be understood as entirely intermediated and regulated by a vast state apparatus, rather than a direct, limited, and intimate affair. The Universal Penny Post, in other words, marked an epistemological shift from an epistolary epoch to a postal one, in which correspondence could no longer be seen as an intimate communing of sender and receiver. Although the Post Office, as an instrument of Empire, compelled citizens to imagine themselves in the image of the sovereign through the licking and sticking of stamps that they adhered to their communications, the users of the postal system undermined this utopian image of collective sovereignty and cohesion as they found excitement in distance, delay, and misdelivered messages that skewed the trajectory of communication, or revealed how skewed all communicative trajectories already are.
In the Rowland Hill origin story of the modern post, the intermixed and intermediated aspects of postal usage, however, are suppressed in favor of an image of universal unification through an imperial system. Hill, the savior of the “vast multitude of the lower orders,” delivers humanity from the “terrible blank of enforced silence” through the widespread availability of uniform stamps (Martineau 425-6). Further reinforcing the universalist rhetoric of imperial enfranchisement, we later learn that the story of the blank letter had been falsely attributed to Hill and in fact belonged to the poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge, which in the minds of mid-19th century British citizenry reinforced a link between the postman and the poet as mouthpieces of “universal sympathies” and conduit of emotion “common to all” (Isobel Armstrong, Victorian Scrutinies, 8-10; Thomas, Postal Pleasures, 22.) Pushing against the universal feeling and common connection that characterize the imperial fiction of the modern post are the diverse and divergent perspectives that constitute what Salman Rushdie called the “empire writing back.” These are the voices of people writing from the various far-flung locals in which they stand, contesting the obliteration of distance and disparity put forth by national, imperial, and commercial entities that claim universal citizenship through communication systems.
In Poema Colectivo: Revolución, there exists a tension between the utopian sentiment of universality, inclusivity, and open exchange of the modern postal system, and the heterogeneity, ambiguity, and misalignments of postal usage—between these “sheets of paper with blank squares in the center” and this “mosaic on the complex and considerably contradictory theme of revolution.” Participants in the project also appear to have picked up on this conflict. As Magdalena Moskalewicz points out in her post, the artist Zbigniew Jeż, living in the USSR-dependent People’s Republic of Poland in 1981, expressed antagonism toward Collectivo III”s theme of “revolution,” calling it “rubbish” propagated by “stupid dicks,” because in his experience the term had become little more than “a hollow ideological cover for the totalitarian measures pursued by the supposedly democratic-socialist government.” In another contribution, the Brazilian mail artist, Diogenes G. Metidieri chose to leave blank space almost entirely empty, except for a few smudges of red ink from the pen that he used to underline the word “revolution” and sign his name. Living under an authoritarian military dictatorship brought on by a US-sponsored coup d’état, called “The Brazilian Revolution” by its perpetrators, perhaps Metidieri, like his Jeż, was weary of the term and found little value in espousing its significance. Possibly fatigued by the blood shed under the banner of “revolution” or concerned that speaking out might elicit censorship or physical harm, Metidieri chose to leave the page largely blank. Along with these two contributions, we find numerous others that offer (perhaps less reluctantly) various personally and politically inflected definitions of revolution, while still others seem to have nothing at all to do with the proposed theme. The submissions are so varied and contradictory that they “give anything but a unified take on the meaning of revolution,” as Gilbert and Marcin describe in their introduction to the project. Rather than the utopian vision of common sentiment, they offer an image of what Foucault has called “heterotopia” or social spaces that are “capable of juxtaposing in a single real place several spaces, several sites that are in themselves incompatible” (Michel Foucault, “Of Other Spaces” , 25).
Within the heterotopian mosaic of Poema Colectivo: Revolución, how then does the “blank square” figure? In contrast, as a metaphor of the communal ideal of the universal post, equal on all sides and open to everyone? As the fiction of a blank slate proffered by revolution? As the poetic subject inscribing and inscribed by universal sentiment? In the call to participation, contributors are asked to take in to account that the “poetic message also plays a significant role in transforming reality.” But how does the form and format of Poema Colectivo: Revolución frame the relation between poetry and transformation? Perhaps the answer exists in the misalignment of its central signifier—in the not quite square dimensions of the blank square—that reveals the skewed nature of communication itself. By calling it a “blank square,” a slantwise correspondence can be drawn between Poema Colectivo: Revolución and the history of modern art, particularly Malevich’s Suprematist compositions Black Square (1915) and White on White (1918), which are tied to both the aesthetic revolution of abstraction and the politics of the Russian Revolution. While Malevich’s Black Square is often framed as an origin point for histories of abstraction and the new Soviet state (like Rowland Hill’s blank letter heralding a new postal age), it is also the means by which the ideal of forward progression and universal communing become unraveled. As Boris Groys has pointed out in a recent article on Malevich entitled “Becoming Revolution,” the Black Square was revolutionary not because it critiqued the status quo or gestured forward to a more perfect society, but because it accepted and embodied the radical forces of destruction. Malevich’s work, Groys states, articulates a “dialectics of imperfection,” which disallows the teleological proposition of perfecting the individual soul through enlightenment or the material world through technology. This dialectic accepts the finitude of our bodies (prone to change, sickness, and death), thereby showing humanity a perspective on the “infinite horizon of human and transhuman material existence.” Just as the imperfect outlines of Malevich’s square destabilize its precise borders, opening up a sense of infinite space and human connection, the imperfect alignment of contributions to Poema Colectivo: Revolución are marked by their material traversal of distance and displacement. Structured by absence, this collective poem posted by hundreds of participants from around the world, speaks to humanity’s inability to achieve universal connection and coherence, and by relinquishing utopia, strives to communicate with others.
As mail art often engages the communication system that enables it, making palpable the conflicts imbedded within its circuitry, Poema Colectivo: Revolución (1981)—particularly the blank space at the center of the mailer—recalls a popular...
Tomáš Haleš, Minisalon entry.
There are two contributions to Poema Colectivo by Artists from former Czechoslovakia. The first piece was made by Jan Antonín Pacák (1941-2007), illustrator and a drummer of popular rock band Olympic. He was not directly connected to local progressive art community and fully concentrated on commisions from the field of graphic design and illustration.
The second one is by Tomáš Haleš (1955). Motive of open net or bars have clearly political connpotation. The work also includes four names of artists active in the region of Northern Moravia, where Haleš was from. I have no closer information on graphic artist Inge Popelková and artist, teacher and activist Radana Parmová. Petr Ševčík was mail artist and poet, not active today. Eduard Ovčáček (1933) is an important figure of Czech lettrist and structural art. What may be more important in this context is a fact, that Ovčáček signed Charta 77, an anti-governement petition in Czechoslovakia. Tomáš Haleš signed it as well and was forced to leave the country in 1986 (He lives in Vienna now). Thus the list of names may refer to friends or figures of respect that were persecuted in that time. Now it gets interesting: Haleš, Ovčáček and Ševčík took all part in Minisalon, a mail art project initiated in Czechoslovakia in 1984. Its principle was close to Poema Colectivo Revolucion. Its organizer Joska Skalnik send some 400 empty wooden boxes of dimensions 15 x 15 x 15 cm to different artists off official art circles. It was up to them to fill the box and send it back. I can only speculate if there was an inspiration from Mexico or is it just a coincidence. Attached see Minisalon entries by Haleš and Ovčáček.
Eduard Ovčáček, Minisalon entry.
There are two contributions to Poema Colectivo by Artists from former Czechoslovakia. The first piece was made by Jan Antonín Pacák (1941-2007), illustrator and a drummer of popular rock band Olympic. He was not...
in the deep heart of Turin MiroModo is coming to life. MiroModo is an atelier, a free space where decoration, painting, calligraphy, books and words – either written, painted, engraved, or told – will live together. However, above all, it is an “open project”: didactics, labs, factory, experimentation, seminars… MiroModo is a place where different disciplines will converge and complete one another, a crossing spot where people, ideas, art, crafts, will merge and come to a synergy to possibly originate new expressive languages. You are warmly invited to join our trip, participating in a collective exhibition of “Mail Art”, being the central event of the MiroModo seat inauguration.
Please send us your postal envelope by end of April, 2015, to the mail address of the atelier:
MiroModo Via Bligny, 9 10122 Torino ITALY
The envelopes can be crafted with any desired technique: calligraphy, drawing, collage, painting, brushing, or any other way will best suits your mood. We are waiting for you for the MiroModo venue inauguration event and the exhibition vernissage. You will receive our invitation largely ahead of time.
Please fill in and sign the attached acquittance form, and send it in the envelope, providing us the following information:
Name Surname Address E-mail address, website and/or phone number(s) Used technique (if you like to)
Thanks to your collaboration, MiroModo will be a newborn with the distinctive character we have envisioned for it: plural, international, open to all the people who practice these activities - like we do - with passion, dedication and commitment.
Please accept a free hug, to all and each of you. Elena & Sara Pellicoro, Torino